Time of the Assassins (6 page)

'I've got half the New York police force in the corridor and bodyguards in every adjoining room,' Mobuto cut in sharply. 'I feel like a prisoner.'
'It's important that you always have at least one bodyguard in the room with you at all times,' Whitlock countered.
'Even when I'm sleeping?'
'Even when you're sleeping,' Whitlock shot back. 'These assassins are obviously prepared to sacrifice
r
their own lives to kill you. That means they'll go to any lengths to get you.'
'What exactly are you implying?'
'What I'm saying is that even in this room you're not safe. They could come through the window - '
'We're thirty floors up, for God sake,' Mobuto cut in then chuckled softly to himself. 'I think you're being a little melodramatic.'
'No, sir, he's not,' Kolchinsky said sternly. 'C.W.'s right. You must always have at least one bodyguard with you at all times. Tonight proved that.'
Mobuto sat down opposite them and sighed deeply. 'Very well. You are the experts.'
Whitlock got to his feet. 'Which room's Brett in?'
Mobuto pointed to his left. 'He's next door.'
Whitlock left the suite and knocked on the adjoining door. He grabbed Brett the moment he opened the door and slammed him up against the wall. 'You're supposed to be next door, not sitting here on your arse watching a ball game.'
Brett broke free from Whitlock's grip and stared angrily at him. 'The President told me to go. What the hell was I supposed to do?'
'You were supposed to explain to him that it's your job to stay with him. You don't tell him his job and he doesn't tell you yours. You're supposed to be a professional. Start acting like one.'
Brett glared furiously at Whitlock then slipped on his shoulder holster and scooped up his jacket before leaving the room. Whitlock followed him into Mobuto's suite. Brett pulled up a chair and sat discreetly in the corner.
'The President's just received a telephone call from Zimbala,' Kolchinsky said. 'His brother's been kidnapped.'
'What happened?' Whitlock replied, looking at Mobuto.
'He went to meet an informer. An hour later the newspaper's deputy editor received an anonymous call to say that Remy had been abducted by Ngune's men. That's all the caller would say.' Mobuto glanced at Whitlock. 'I presume you have been briefed about the Ngune breakout?'
'Yes, sir, I have,' Whitlock replied. 'Has Ngune got the backing to attempt a coup d'etat?
'He's got men and money,' Mobuto answered matter-of-factly. 'The men are his ex-Security Policemen. The money comes from the wealthy Moslem community in the south of the country. Many of them built up vast fortunes under my father's regime, illegal fortunes, I hasten to add. They know that if I do bring a new democratic freedom to my country then it'll mean the confiscation of those fortunes. And as you know, greed knows no bounds. They'll go to any lengths to reinstate a dictatorship that will protect them, just as my father's regime did for forty-five years. I'm the one obstacle in their way. The people look to me as a new Messiah. I won't let them down.'
'One thing puzzles me,' Whitlock said at length. 'Your father repealed the law making you his natural successor once he realized you'd never follow in his footsteps. So how did you manage to wrestle power from the government after his death?'
'My father was the government. He made the
decisions, he passed the laws. His ministers were just yes-men, puppets. So, when he died, the puppets had no-one to pull their strings anymore. They panicked. And I used that panic to my benefit. But I had to act fast. Ngune was my biggest threat. He was the one man my father trusted, really trusted. Fortunately for the country, the police and the Security Police had never got on. And with the police and most of the armed forces behind me, I was able to stop Ngune from seizing power. Unfortunately I underestimated the strength of his support. But I'm determined not to cut short my visit here. That would just play straight into his hands. It would make the people think / was panicking. And that could lose me support.' Mobuto got to his feet and moved to the sideboard to pour himself a bourbon. 'Well, gentlemen, if you'll excuse me, I've got some work to finish before I go to bed.'
'Of course,' Kolchinsky said, getting to his feet.
Whitlock crossed to where Brett was sitting. 'Don't let him out of your sight,' he said softly.
'I won't,' Brett replied tersely.
Whitlock said good night to Mobuto then followed Kolchinsky out into the corridor. 'I wish we could have used our own people to babysit Mobuto. I'd have felt a lot happier.'
Kolchinsky nodded grimly. 'I know what you mean. But we're stuck with Bailey's men, I'm afraid. There's nothing I can do about it.'
'I know,' Whitlock replied and pushed the button for the lift.
'I'm going to drop by the hospital to update the Colonel on today's developments. Fancy coming?'
Whitlock shrugged. 'Why not? Carmen won't be home yet. She works late Tuesdays.' He looked at his watch. 'But aren't visiting hours over?'
'The Secretary-General had a word with the hospital's administrator who reluctantly agreed to make an exception in the Colonel's case and waive the normal visiting hours. It was one of the conditions the Colonel laid down if he was to remain in hospital.'
Whitlock shot Kolchinsky a knowing look then ushered him into the lift.
Kolchinsky drove the short distance to the Bellevue Hospital, conveniently situated less than two miles away from both the hotel and the United Nations building. The receptionist directed them to a private ward on the third floor.
Kolchinsky knocked lightly.
'Come in,' Philpott called out.
Kolchinsky opened the door and entered. Philpott was sitting up in bed, his face hidden behind a copy of the New York Times.
'Just put them by the bed. I'll take them later,' Philpott muttered gruffly from behind the newspaper.
'It's me, Malcolm,' Kolchinsky announced.
Philpott lowered the newspaper and gave them a wry smile. 'I'm sorry, I thought it was another of those damn nurses. They've been coming and going all day.' He glanced at Whitlock. 'I see he managed to drag you along as well.'
Whitlock smiled and pulled up a chair. 'How are you feeling, sir?'
'A little weak, but otherwise fine.'
Kolchinsky sat down on the second chair and handed Philpott a brown packet. 'It's from the deli on 44th Street.'
Philpott opened the packet and looked inside. 'Grapes! I was hoping it might have been some tobacco. The doctor confiscated mine.' He put the packet on the bedside table and picked up his empty pipe. 'I'm dying for a smoke. C.W. -'
'I'm not fetching you any tobacco,' Whitlock cut in quickly. 'Get better first, then you can smoke your pipe again.'
'I am better. I should have discharged myself this morning.' Philpott gave a resigned sigh. 'Any news of Mike?'
Kolchinsky explained the day's events, culminating in the attempted assassination of Jamel Mobuto.
'Good God,' Philpott muttered when Kolchinsky had finished talking. He looked at Whitlock. 'Are you alright?'
'I cut my leg when I fell off the motorbike. It's nothing serious. But my suit's a total write-off. It'll break my tailor's heart.'
'At least you're alright. Any news on the assassin and his accomplice?'
'Nothing yet,' Kolchinsky replied. 'They weren't carrying any ID but they're almost certainly Zimbalan. Probably ex-Security policemen. I've had their photographs and prints faxed through to the police in Habane. Hopefully they'll have come up with something by tomorrow.'
'And what was that you said earlier about Bernard. He's CIA?'
Kolchinsky nodded then opened the attache case. He handed his photostat copy of Bailey's file to Philpott. 'It's all in there. I'll leave it with you tonight. It certainly makes interesting reading.'
'I bet it does,' Philpott hissed. 'Be careful of Bailey, Sergei. Tell him as little as possible. And don't trust him an inch.'
'I think we all realized that when we met him,' Kolchinsky said, glancing at Whitlock.
'And as for those two bullet-catchers...' Whitlock trailed off with a shake of his head.
'What about them?' Philpott asked.
'Let's just say I wouldn't want them protecting me,' Whitlock replied. 'As I said to Sergei back at the hotel, I only wish we could have used our own people to babysit Mobuto. I'd have slept better.'
'I did try, C.W.,' Philpott said with an apologetic shrug. 'I wanted to bring in Strike Force Seven as his personal bodyguard team. That would have left you free to work with Sabrina in Beirut. But the President wanted this to be a joint operation and Bailey managed to convince him to use CIA men as bodyguards. There was nothing I could do. At least the President saw enough sense to agree to my request to put you in charge of the unit. I know you won't let me down, C.W. Just keep an eye on Bailey's goons. If President Mobuto had been killed tonight we'd have been crucified.'
'We've still got three days to go, sir. They're sure to try again.'
'You can count on it. And what happened to this warning Bernard was supposed to have passed on to Bailey?'
'I spoke to Bailey after the attempt on the President's life,' Kolchinsky said. 'He claims Bernard never contacted him. His theory is that the two men were either freelance or else they decided to try and kill the President by themselves without telling the others.'
'It just doesn't ring true, does it?' Whitlock said.
'Of course it doesn't,' Philpott snapped tersely. 'But we're dealing with Bailey, remember?'
Kolchinsky nodded then rubbed his eyes wearily. 'Well, there's nothing more we can do tonight. And I'm shattered. It's been some day.'
Whitlock got to his feet. 'Only three to go. Can you drop me off at the apartment on your way home, Sergei? If I get the subway I'll probably fall asleep and end up at Washington Heights.'
Kolchinsky patted Whitlock's shoulder. 'Of course. Come on.'
Philpott watched them leave then stared at the folder Kolchinsky had left with him. He knew Bailey was up to something, but what? The thought lingered as he opened the folder and started to read its contents.

FOUR

Sabrina paused outside the door, knocked, and entered. The man behind the desk was in his early forties with a dark, swarthy complexion and a thick black moustache which arched over the corners of his mouth. He looked up from the document he was reading and his eyes lingered on her body before he sat back and raised his eyebrows quizzically, waiting for her to speak.
'Are you Captain Farouk?' she asked.
'That's what it says,' he replied in faultless English, gesturing to the nameplate on his desk.
'If you read Arabic,' Sabrina replied with a smile. 'I spoke to you earlier on the phone - '
'Ah, yes,' Farouk cut in and glanced down at the notepad in front of him. 'Miss Cassidy, not so?'
'Sabrina Cassidy,' she replied, using the name on her UN AGO passport.
'Please, won't you sit down, Miss Cassidy?' Farouk said, indicating the wooden chair in front of his desk.
'Thank you,' she said and sat down.
'Is this your first time in Beirut?'
'Yes,' she replied truthfully. 'I didn't know where to begin looking for Mike so I called the police and they put me on to you. They said you were in charge of the
investigation.' She feigned nervousness by fidgeting with the handbag in her lap. 'But what investigation? What's happened?'
Farouk raised his hand to silence her. 'There's a warrant out for the arrest of Michael Green.'
The name on one of the passports Graham had drawn from UN AGO stores in New York. She sat forward. 'On what charge?'
'Murder.'
She slumped back in the chair. 'Oh, my God. Murder? I don't believe it. Sure, Mike's a bit of a rebel but he'd never kill anybody.'
Farouk uncapped his pen and pulled the notepad towards him. 'I'd like to ask you a few questions, Miss Cassidy?'
'Yes, of course,' she replied, continuing to feign nervousness. 'Anything.'
'You said on the phone that he'd called you in New York. What exactly did he say?'
'All he said was that he was in trouble and that he needed some money to get out of the country. Then the line went dead.'
'Do you know why he was here?'
'The first I knew he was in Beirut was when he rang me.' She sighed deeply. 'Mike's a loner. It's not the first time he's gone off by himself.'
'And he owns a company in New York?' Farouk said, consulting his notes again.
'Whitaker Haulage,' she added. 'He's the boss.'
'Yes, I know. We found some business cards in his hotel room.' Farouk tapped thoughtfully on the notepad. 'And his fellow directors don't mind him just
going off by himself without letting them know where he is? What if something were to happen to the company?'
'They're used to his erratic behaviour by now. And anyway, he pays their salaries. What can they say?'
'Did he have any friends that you knew of in Beirut?'
She shook her head. 'None that he ever mentioned.'
'Russell Laidlaw?'
She pretended to think for a moment. Then she shook her head again. 'No, I can't say the name means anything to me. Is that the man who was murdered?'
'No,' Farouk replied. 'He was the last person to see your boyfriend here in Beirut. He used to be in the Special Forces in America, the Delta unit.'
'Are you suggesting that Mike was once a member of Delta?' She shook her head in disbelief. 'I don't believe it. Not for one minute.'
'I'm not suggesting anything, Miss Cassidy. It's just strange that Laidlaw was with Delta and the murdered man, Barak, was an informer for Delta here in Beirut. Delta seems to be the common denominator, doesn't it?'
'Haven't you asked this man Laidlaw about Mike?'
'He claims to have met him for the first time at the Windorah; it's a bar frequented mainly by foreigners. The owner's borne out his story. So I'm back to square one.'
'Can't you ask Delta?'
'I already have. They say no Michael Green has ever been with them. And it took a lot of persuasion for them to just admit that.'
'How do you know Mike was involved? Did someone see him?'
'His fingerprints were on the murder weapon. I checked with Interpol and they confirmed they were his prints.'
'Interpol?' she replied with surprise. 'You mean he had a criminal record?'
'No, but the New York police had his prints on file.'
The N YPD had Graham's fingerprints on file. They had all U N A C O operatives' fingerprints on file. It was a precaution in case any of them were injured, or killed, and weren't carrying any formal identification. But Michael Green? Then it hit her. Why hadn't she thought of it when Kolchinsky briefed them? UN AGO must have given the NYPD permission to release the prints under Graham's assumed name. But why? It made no sense. They had set up their own operative. She wanted some answers and she was determined to get them when she next spoke to Kolchinsky.
'Is something wrong, Miss Cassidy?' Farouk said, noticing her frown.
She cursed herself silently for letting her guard drop. 'Sorry, I was just surprised that the New York police had his fingerprints on file. I never realized he had a criminal record.'
'He was once convicted of a drink-driving offence.'
'I didn't know that,' she said then sat forward, her eyes burrowing into Farouk. 'I still don't believe Mike killed this man. It's not in his character.'
'Well, unless he turns himself in we have to assume that he is the killer. And the longer he remains on the run, the worse it will become for him.'
'I think he's being held against his will somewhere,' she said.
'Perhaps he's already fled the country. InterpoPs been alerted.'
'How could he have fled the country without any money?' She shook her head. 'No, it all points to him being held against his will somewhere. Mike never travels without cash and credit cards. So why call me unless he had lost them? Or had them stolen?'
'You really believe he's innocent, don't you?'
'Yes, I do.' She got to her feet. 'Is there anything I can do to help him?'
'It's a police matter now, Miss Cassidy.' Farouk capped his pen and pointed it at her. 'If he should contact you, tell him to call me. It would be in his best interests.'
'I doubt he will call me,' she said with a dejected shrug. 'He doesn't even know I'm here.'
Farouk got to his feet and came round the desk to shake her hand. 'Thank you for your time,.Miss Cassidy.'
She nodded and walked to the door.
'Oh, Miss Cassidy?' Farouk waited until she turned to look at him. 'If you're caught trying to help him escape you'll be charged with aiding and abetting a wanted criminal. Bear it in mind.'
'Sure,' she replied and closed the door behind her.
Laidlaw had been detained by the police only hours after Barak's murder and although they had interrogated him at regular intervals every four hours, trying to break him down, he had managed to stick to his
story. He had met Graham, or Green as he had referred to him throughout the interrogation, for the first time at the Windorah. They had talked for a while then he had given Green a lift back to his hotel. He had never seen him again after that. He knew no-one had seen him at Barak's house otherwise he'd have been charged straight away.
He had been finally released after thirty-six hours. He had tried to sleep when he got home but to no avail. The voice haunted him: the voice of the policeman, Farouk. But he had never seen Farouk's face. He had asked the questions at every interrogation but always from behind the sanctuary of a powerful table lamp. Why hadn't he shown his face? Laidlaw had racked his brains over and over but he couldn't place the name. So why had he been so secretive? Laidlaw knew he could be overreacting from lack of sleep - it could have been a plan to try and break him down: a voice, no face. But still it troubled him. Who was Farouk?
He punched the pillow angrily. Forget Farouk. Just get some sleep. But he couldn't. That monotonous, grinding voice was in his head and he couldn't get rid of it. He kicked the sheet off and swung his legs onto the floor. Pushing the hair from his face he looked at the bedside clock. It had been five hours since he'd got home, and he hadn't slept in that time. All because of that damn voice. He stifled a yawn then stood up and went into the kitchen. He opened the freezer and helped himself to a cold beer and the last of the chicken drumsticks from the packet he had bought earlier in the week. He tossed the empty packet onto the overflowing bin in the corner of the room and sat
down at the table. Just as he was about to open the beer the doorbell rang. He shook his head in despair then got to his feet and went to open the door.
'Russell Laidlaw?'
'That's right,' Laidlaw muttered. 'You're not a reporter, are you?'
'My name's Sabrina Cassidy, I'm a friend of Mike's.'
'Mike?'
'Mike Graham,' Sabrina retorted with a hint of irritation in her voice. 'We need to talk.'
'Look, come back later. I'm absolutely exhausted. I've been in police custody for the last thirty-six hours. And it's all thanks to your friend Mike.'
'I think he's in trouble,' she said. 'Please, we need to talk.'
Laidlaw rubbed his eyes wearily then pulled open the door. 'What the hell. I couldn't sleep anyway.'
'Thanks,' she said and stepped inside.
'You'll have to forgive the mess,' Laidlaw said, closing the door. 'I'm not very domesticated.'
She followed him into the kitchen and sat down in the chair offered to her.
'You want a beer?' he asked.
'Coffee, if you've got it.'
'Somewhere,' he replied and switched the kettle on before rummaging through the drawers. He found the coffee jar and put a heaped spoonful into the only clean mug he could find. 'You say you're a friend of Mike's. You work with him?'
'That's right,' she replied.
Laidlaw opened the beer and drank a mouthful.
'And you're out here to find him? Well, I wish you luck.'
'You saw him, didn't you?'
'I met him, yes-at the Windorah; it's a bar in town. We talked a bit then I gave him a lift back to his hotel. I never saw him after that.'
Sabrina exhaled deeply. 'How can I convince you I'm on the level?'
. Laidlaw filled the cup with hot water then placed it on the table in front of her. He put the milk bottle beside the cup. 'Help yourself. Look, Miss Cassidy, I met your friend -'
'Spare me the act,' she cut in angrily. 'You served in Delta together. It was on an operation in Libya that his family was kidnapped by Arab terrorists to try and force him to countermand the order to attack. The two men behind the kidnapping were Salim Al-Makesh and Jean-Jacques Bernard. Al-Makesh was killed by the Israelis. Bernard was thought to have been killed in a car-bomb attack a year and a half ago. Mike obviously found out Bernard was alive and came out here to get him. You were his contact. That's all we know. I've been sent here to find out what really happened and get him back to the States.'
Laidlaw pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down. 'Carrie gave Mike a watch as a Christmas present. What make was it?'
'Piaget. Gold-plated. And it was a birthday present. Satisfied?'
Laidlaw nodded. 'Satisfied. Who's this "we" you mentioned?'
'I can't tell you, I'm afraid.'
'Undercover work in other words?'
'Something like that,' she replied.
'Are you his partner?'
She nodded. 'Did you tip him off about Bernard?'
'Yeah. I saw Bernard outside the American University Hospital. I knew Mike would want to know.'
'And where did this Barak fit into the picture?'
'Barak had been a Delta contact for years. If anybody could find Bernard, then he could. Until Mike put a bullet in his back.'
'Mike didn't kill him, you know that,' she retorted sharply.
'All I know is that when I reached the house Barak was dead. Then I saw Barak's car being driven away at high speed. And Mike had gone. Put two and two together.'
'It has to be a set-up. Why kill the one man capable of leading him to Bernard? It makes no sense.'
'I wasn't there when he went into the house. He insisted on that. I don't know what they discussed.'
'Only Mike knows that. That's why we have to find him.'
'Not "we". You can count me out. I put myself on the line for him once already and look where it got me: thirty-six hours in jail; Interrogations every four hours. No, Miss Cassidy, if you want to find Mike, you find him by yourself.'
'I don't know my way around Beirut.'
'So get a guide. There's plenty of them. And they don't cost much.'
'If it's money - '
'Don't insult me, Miss Cassidy,' Laidlaw snapped sharply.
She raised a hand in apology. 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I need your help, Mr Laidlaw. And so does Mike. If the police get to him first, he'll be put away for life.'
'And what if he did kill Barak? What if he is guilty? You're going to help a killer flee justice.'
'I don't know how well you know Mike. I think I know him pretty well. He's a damn good professional and he wouldn't jeopardize his career by putting a bullet in the back of some two-bit informer.'
'Mike's changed,' Laidlaw answered, staring at the beer can he was turning on the table. 'I noticed that the moment we met. He used to be the most stable guy I ever knew. Nothing ever riled him. But that was before he lost his family. Now he's bitter, unpredictable: I'd even say psychotic. I don't go along with your assessment, Miss Cassidy. I think he was more than capable of shooting Barak in the back. Especially if you consider he was on the trail of the man he believes had his family abducted and almost certainly murdered. No, I don't want any more to do with Mike. He's trouble.'
Sabrina pushed her chair back and stood up, her eyes blazing. 'At least Mike hasn't run away from his past. What about you? Hiding away in this squalor, trying to forget what happened in Honduras.' She noticed the surprise in his eyes. 'Oh, I know all about you, Mr Laidlaw. I read your file on the plane. I know why you left Delta. I don't think you're in any position to pass judgement on someone like Mike.'
'Just get out,' Laidlaw hissed between clenched teeth.
'My pleasure,' she retorted then walked to the door where she paused to look back at him. 'And don't forget, you were the one who contacted Mike in the first place. It's thanks to you that he's in this mess right now. Think about that when you open your next beer.'
Laidlaw sunk his face into his hands. A moment later the front door slammed shut. He suddenly grabbed the beer can and hurled it against the wall then upturned the table, sending it crashing against the cooker. He checked himself as he was about to kick the chair out of the way then walked slowly to the bedroom and slumped onto the bed. He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. Within minutes he was asleep. It proved to be a disturbed, restless sleep.
'You look like death,' Dave Jenkins said when Laidlaw arrived at the Windorah that evening.