Dead Halt

Chapter Two

“This is it, mate,” the driver said, bringing the taxi to a stop. “The Crescent Hotel.”

C.W. Whitlock peered through the rain-streaked window at the building. The paint was peeling off the whitewashed walls and the neon sign above the revolving door proclaimed the hotel’s name in garish colors.

“You sure you got the right place?” the driver asked, eyeing Whitlock’s expensive Armani suit.

“Quite sure,” Whitlock replied with a quick smile as he paid the fare.

The driver shrugged. Whitlock picked up his attaché case and climbed out into the rain, slamming the door behind him and hurrying across to the hotel entrance. Once inside the foyer he brushed the raindrops off his jacket and crossed to the reception desk. It was deserted. A middle-aged woman sat at the switchboard in the back office. She gave him a nod of acknowledgment and went back to her telephone conversation.

Whitlock placed his attaché case on the threadbare carpet at his feet and drummed his fingers impatiently on the wooden counter. He was a forty-four-year-old Kenyan with a light complexion and sharp features which were tempered by the neatly trimmed moustache he had worn since his early twenties. He had been educated in England and after graduating from Oxford had returned to Kenya where he had served in the army and the Intelligence Corps before joining UNACO as one of its first recruits.

UNACO, which had its headquarters at the United Nations Building in New York, had a total of two hundred and nine permanent staff worldwide, thirty of whom were crack field operatives who had been siphoned off from the military, police and intelligence services around the world. Each of the ten teams was designated by the prefix “Strike Force” and its intensive training included unarmed combat and the use of all known firearms. Whitlock had been the team leader of Strike Force Three since its inception but when the UNACO Director, Malcolm Philpott, had recently been forced into early retirement due to ill-health, his deputy, Sergei Kolchinsky, had been appointed the new Director, and Whitlock had accepted the post vacated by Kolchinsky. Whitlock had only taken the position to appease his wife, Carmen, who, fearing for his safety, had wanted him out of the field. It had helped to bridge the rift that had once threatened to break up their marriage. Deep down he still longed to return to the field, but he was far too professional to let his feelings interfere with his work …

“Can I help you?” the woman finally called out from the switchboard, her hand over the mouthpiece. “Mr. Swain’s room number please.”

She consulted a clipboard in front of her. “Twenty-six,” she announced, then went back to her telephone conversation.

Whitlock exhaled deeply and rapped loudly on the counter to catch her attention again. “If it’s not too much trouble, could you tell me which floor that’s on?”

“Second,” came the nonchalant reply.

Whitlock eyed the old lift with some trepidation and decided to use the stairs instead. He found the room and knocked sharply on the door, which opened immediately.

“Hello, C.W. Come on in,” the man said, beckoning Whitlock into the room.

Dave Swain was the team leader of Strike Force Seven. A tall, burly man in his late thirties, he was a former presidential bodyguard who had spent ten years with the FBI’s Secret Service before Philpott had recruited him. The other two members of the team were Alain Mosser, a tough-talking Frenchman, also in his late thirties, who had spent several years with the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire before joining UNACO two years ago, and thirty-one-year-old Jason Geddis, UNACO’s latest recruit, who had served with the Canadian Security Intelligence Service for eight years. He had only been with UNACO for four months. All three men were dressed in scruffy jeans and sweatshirts.

“When did you get in to London?” Swain asked.

“About an hour ago,” Whitlock replied. “I checked into my hotel then came straight over here.”

“Well, thanks for bringing the rain with you, C.W.,” Geddis said with a grin as he stood up to shake Whitlock’s hand.

“Always happy to oblige,” Whitlock said, then turned to Mosser. “Alain, comment vas-tu?”

“A lot better if I didn’t have to kick my heels in this damn pigsty,” Mosser snorted.

“Why did you pick this place?” Whitlock asked Swain.

“We’ve blended in better being in a dump like this,” Swain answered.

“One Frenchman. Two Americans. Yes, we really blend in well around here,” Mosser added, shaking his head. “I will be glad to be out of here.”

“One Frenchman, one American and one Canadian,” Geddis corrected him.

“Ah, what is the difference?”

“It’s like someone calling you a Swiss or a Belgian,” Geddis told him.

“I hate to break up this geography lesson, but could we get down to business?” Whitlock cut in sharply. “What did you get from your informer?”

“We haven’t seen him yet,” Swain replied. “He cried off an hour before we were scheduled to rendezvous with him at Hyde Park this morning.”

Whitlock sat down slowly in the chair behind him. “I put my neck on the block when I told Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist squad to arrest Sean Farrell when he arrived back from the continent. I assured them that we would get enough evidence to put him away for life. That’s what you told me. Now what am I supposed to tell them? Let him go? Let a known IRA cell commander walk so that he can return to Europe to continue his campaign of terror against more British servicemen and their families?”

“We’re meeting him later tonight,” Swain said defensively. “Midnight at a multi-story car park in Hammersmith.”

“And what if he cries off again?” Whitlock demanded. “It’s not as if it’s the first time this has happened. I thought you said you had his complete trust?”

“We do,” Geddis said quickly. “We’ve been on this case for the last three months, C.W. We aren’t about to let Farrell walk now. Not after all the work we’ve put into it. Our informer will come good, you mark my words.”

Whitlock sighed deeply. “I hope you’re right, Jason. UNACO’s got a lot riding on this one. Not least our reputation. We’re in a transitional period now that Colonel Philpott’s gone, and that means we’re being scrutinized by the other intelligence agencies around the world. They all want to see how we’ll perform with a new team at the helm. Let’s not give them any ammunition to use against us at some later stage.”

“Don’t worry, C.W., he’ll be there tonight,” Swain said. “And you’ll have your evidence by the morning.”

“Why did he put it off this morning?” Whitlock asked.

“He claims he thought he saw one of Farrell’s team watching his flat last night,” Swain told him. “But when he went outside the man was gone.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Geddis said. “He’s totally above suspicion as far as the IRA are concerned. He’s one of their top contacts here in London.”

Whitlock looked at his watch. “You’ve still got six hours to kill before you meet him. Have you eaten yet?”

“We were going to grab a bite later at McDonald’s,” Geddis said.

“The food here is terrible,” Mosser added, pulling a face. “We have been eating nothing but pizzas and hamburgers ever since we got here.”

“Come over and eat with me tonight,” Whitlock said, getting to his feet. “We’ll put it down to expenses.”

“You’re on,” Swain said with a grin. “Where are you staying?”

“The Churchill on Portman Square.”

“Very nice,” Swain said, whistling softly.

“Being on the management side does have its compensations,” Whitlock said, then paused as he reached the door. “What if your informer wants to get hold of you tonight?”

“I carry a beeper,” Swain said. “He can have me paged if I’m not here.”

“OK, let’s say seven-thirty in my room. We’ll order up from room service. That way we can talk freely.” Whitlock opened the door then looked back at them. “Oh, and gentlemen, tidy yourselves up before you come over tonight. I don’t have to tell you how important it is to blend in, do I?”

It was twelve forty-five by the time they reached the multi-story car park in Hammersmith. The rain had stopped earlier in the evening and as the clouds continued to drift northward, a brisk southeasterly wind had sprung up across the capital. Geddis brought the hired Ford to a halt in front of the boom gate. He paid for a ticket and the boom gate opened automatically. As arranged earlier with their informer, he drove to the underground level, pulled up in the space closest to the lift and switched off the engine. Swain, who was in the passenger seat, unbuckled his safety belt and got out of the car. He looked around slowly, surprised by how well lit it was compared to car parks in New York. There they stole the cars and the light fittings. He took a pack of Marlboro from his pocket and lit one.

“Quiet, huh?” Mosser said behind him.

“That’s obviously why he chose the place,” Swain replied, proffering the cigarettes to Mosser, who took one and lit it.

“Better make sure though,” Mosser said.

The two men moved off in different directions to carry out a quick, but thorough, search of the basement area. Satisfied they were alone, they returned to where Geddis was now leaning against the side of the car.

Swain looked at his watch. Eleven fifty-six. “OK, time to take up your positions. Jason, I want you to keep the engine running in case we need to get out of here in a hurry.”

Geddis nodded then climbed back behind the wheel and started the car. All three men were armed. Unlike many of the other intelligence agencies, UNACO didn’t insist that their field operatives use one particular type of handgun. The choice of weapon was left entirely up to the individual. Swain carried a 10mm Colt Delta Elite, a variant of the old Colt M1911 that he had used in the Security Service; Mosser the French 9mm PA15 automatic and Geddis a Beretta 92, the most popular handgun amongst UNACO field operatives. Mosser took up a position beside a pillar where he could observe both the lift and the door which led onto the stairs. Swain crossed to the wall at the side of the door and took a last drag on his cigarette before dropping it onto the ground and crushing it underfoot. He could see Mosser and the car from where he stood but was out of sight of the door, the lift and the ramp leading up to the exit. He looked at his watch again. Eleven fifty-eight.

Mosser stubbed out his cigarette then loosened his tie and unfastened the top button of his shirt. He hated wearing suits but Swain had insisted they dress smartly to humor Whitlock. The meal had been delicious. Swain, as usual, had ordered a porterhouse steak. Mosser had realized within weeks of joining Strike Force Seven just how fanatical Swain was about his red meat. The two men had become firm friends from the start and, unlike most of the other Strike Force teams, they enjoyed socializing outside work, which usually meant barbecues at the Swains’ house on Long Island. Swain’s wife and two teenage daughters treated him like family. It had all helped to soften the blow of his bitter divorce only months before he had come to America. Joining UNACO had been the best move he had ever made and he couldn’t imagine life again outside the organization …

The door opened fractionally and Mosser instinctively touched his holstered automatic. For a moment nothing happened then a face peered cautiously around the edge of the door. Mosser exhaled deeply and let his hand drop to his side. The man who emerged from behind the door was in his early thirties with a thin, sallow face and long black hair that hung down untidily onto his shoulders. He was wearing a brown bomber jacket and faded jeans torn at the knees. Gerard McGuire had been Sean Farrell’s London contact for the past four years and a UNACO informer for half that time. When Swain recruited him McGuire had laid down one proviso – he would only deal with Swain. It had proved an awkward arrangement in the past when other teams had needed information on IRA activities on the British mainland but McGuire steadfastly refused to compromise his situation. He trusted Swain. Nobody else. It had often meant pulling Swain off an assignment and flying him to London to meet with McGuire. But his information had proved so invaluable in the past that both Philpott and Kolchinsky had been willing to play it by McGuire’s rules. It had been a small price to pay.

McGuire closed the door silently behind him and glanced furtively in the direction of the car. Geddis, his hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, raised a finger to acknowledge him. McGuire ignored him and looked questioningly at Mosser who led him over to where Swain was standing out of sight behind a wall. Mosser then left the two men to talk. He took up a position close to the lift and although he could still see the two men he could only hear snatches of the conversation.

Suddenly there was a roar of acceleration as a white Rover Montego screeched into view and sped toward them, its lights on full. Swain watched in horror as a silenced Uzi snaked out from the back window and cut Mosser down. Geddis immediately slammed the Ford into reverse.

“Get in,” Swain yelled, grabbing McGuire’s arm to bundle him into the backseat.

McGuire broke free and fled toward the door. Swain sprinted after him. Geddis got off a shot at the Rover before a burst from the Uzi punctured the windscreen. Two of the bullets took him in the head and the Beretta slipped from his fingers as he slumped forward onto the steering wheel. The Ford careered backward out of control. McGuire flung open the door and a row of bullets peppered the wall inches away from him. He stumbled and fell through the doorway. Swain heard the car behind him and was still turning around when it smashed into the door, ripping it off its hinges, crushing him between the door and the wall.

The driver of the Rover dimmed his lights as two masked figures got out of the car. The taller one, who was over six feet tall, was still clutching the Uzi when he ran across to the Ford and switched off the engine.

“You go after McGuire,” the tall one shouted out to his colleague in a strong Irish accent. “I’ll make sure these three are dead.”

The driver of the Rover, who was also wearing a balaclava, spun the car around and sped back toward the ramp, still hoping to cut McGuire off before he reached the street.

There was a “ping” sound and a laughing couple emerged from the lift. The woman screamed in terror when she saw the man swing the Uzi toward them.

“No!” his colleague shouted, pushing the barrel downward. It was a female voice. “Come on, let’s go.”

The two of them ran up the stairs, the woman pulling the balaclava off her head as they went. Fiona Gallagher was an attractive twenty-six-year-old with pale blue eyes and short, spiky blonde hair and a petite figure, which was disguised under the baggy clothes. As they reached the door leading out into the street her companion also removed his balaclava. Liam Kerrigan was in his late thirties with cropped black hair and the face of an ex-boxer. He reached for the handle but Fiona quickly pushed her palm against the door and gestured angrily to the Uzi in his hand. He slid it discreetly under his jacket and they stepped out into the street. The Rover was already parked outside the door. Hugh Mullen had also discarded his balaclava. He was two years Fiona’s senior with curly brown hair and wore wire-rimmed glasses.

“He’s gone,” Mullen said. “He could have disappeared up any of these side streets. You want to look for him?”

“No, we’ve got to get out of here,” Fiona said, shaking her head. “We left a couple of witnesses down there. It won’t be long before they call the police.”

“You should have let me kill them,” Kerrigan snapped.

“We don’t kill innocent by-standers,” she retorted, then got in beside Mullen.

Kerrigan climbed into the back and slammed the door shut. He glowered at her but said nothing. Mullen engaged gears and drove away, careful to keep within the speed limit. There would be another chance to get McGuire. And he already knew how they could track him down …

Sergei Kolchinsky had just entered his flat when the telephone rang. It was Whitlock. Kolchinsky listened, pale and frowning, as Whitlock told him about the ambush in London two hours earlier. Swain had been killed instantly. Geddis had died in the ambulance. Mosser was in intensive care at the Charing Cross Hospital, his condition serious. The doctor who had operated on Mosser had told Whitlock that even if he did make a full recovery, it would be very unlikely that he would ever be able to walk again. UNACO had lost field operatives in the past but never an entire Strike Force team. Both men knew it would certainly renew calls amongst its critics to have the organization disbanded. There were those governments who had felt for some time that UNACO was little more than a group of vigilantes working outside the law. And the grumbling disquiet had certainly intensified since Philpott’s departure. Kolchinsky had barely settled into his new post and he was already facing the most serious problem of his professional career.

Kolchinsky was an overweight, fifty-two-year-old Russian with a doleful face and thinning black hair. He was a brilliant tactician whose meteoric rise through the ranks of the KGB had been abruptly curtailed when he had dared to speak out against the inhuman methods used by the KGB to interrogate prisoners. He had spent the next twelve years as a military attaché in a succession of Soviet embassies in the West before returning to a desk job at the Lubianka. When Philpott’s deputy, a former KGB operative, was sent back to Russia in disgrace for spying, Kolchinsky’s name was one of those put forward as a suitable replacement. He was Philpott’s first, and only, choice. Kolchinsky had been Philpott’s deputy for three years before his promotion to UNACO Director. But at that moment Kolchinsky would gladly have exchanged the mundane desk job at the Lubianka for what he knew was going to be a very rough ride over the next few weeks …

“I’ll need you back here as soon as possible, C.W.,” Kolchinsky said, reaching for his cigarettes on the coffee table in front of him. “As you can imagine, I’m going to be tied up in an endless succession of meetings with the various ambassadors once they’ve been briefed by their governments.”

“I guessed as much,” Whitlock replied. “I’ve already booked myself on a flight to JFK at eleven tomorrow morning, British time. That means I’ll be back in New York for breakfast.”

“Good. I doubt I’ll even get into the office tomorrow. I should think most of the day will be spent going over the events with the Secretary-General. Can you send a fax through to headquarters giving as much info as possible on what actually happened over there tonight? At least then I’ll have something to work from when I meet with the Secretary-General.”

“I’ll get on to it straight away,” Whitlock replied. “Which team are you going to bring in to replace Strike Force Seven?”

“There is only one team I’d trust to handle something as delicate as this,” Kolchinsky said, lighting his cigarette. “Your old team. Strike Force Three.”

“Yes, I’d have gone for Mike and Sabrina as well. But what about Fabio Paluzzi? He hasn’t actually worked on an assignment with them yet.”

“Fabio’s a good man. He proved that during his transitional period with Strike Force Five. He’ll be all right.”

“It’ll be some baptism of fire for him,” Whitlock said at length.

“He’s got to start somewhere,” Kolchinsky replied, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was almost eight-thirty. “I’ll ring the duty officer at headquarters and tell him to put the three of them on a Code Red standby. What time do you want to brief them in the morning?”

“Make it nine-thirty to be on the safe side.”

“Fine. Nine-thirty.”

“Are you going to break the news to the families?”

“It’s part of the job,” Kolchinsky replied grimly.

“I’ll ring Ann Swain as soon as I’ve spoken to the duty officer. Jason wasn’t married, was he?”

“No, engaged. His fiancée lives somewhere in Alberta, I think.”

“I’ll get the details from the duty officer. Well, I’ll see you when I see you. I think that’s the best way to put it.”

“Good night, Sergei.”

Kolchinsky replaced the receiver and poured himself a stiff bourbon before dialing the number for the duty officer at UNACO headquarters.

“I don’t know,” Fabio Paluzzi said after a moment’s thought. “What do you think?”

“I don’t believe this,” Claudine Paluzzi retorted, looking despairingly at her husband. “Fabio, which of the two colors do you prefer? The cream or the pale blue?”

Paluzzi looked at the two diagonal streaks of paint his wife had applied to the wall then shrugged. “You know I’m no good with color schemes.”

“Forget about color schemes. All I want to know is which of the colors you prefer.”

“The pale blue, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“The pale blue. Definitely. Satisfied?”

She sighed deeply but said nothing. He went into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and helped himself to a beer.

He was a thirty-six-year-old Italian with a stocky physique, cropped brown hair and a gaunt face which was offset by a wide mouth and square jaw. Like his father, he had joined the carabinieri on leaving school and spent several years with them before being recruited by the Nucleo Operativo Centrale di Sicurezza, Italy’s elite anti-terrorist squad. He was then twenty-seven years old. By the age of thirty-three he had reached the rank of major. He was the unit expert on the Red Brigades and had worked with UNACO on an operation in Italy which had first brought him to the attention of Malcolm Philpott. But it was only when Philpott discovered that Paluzzi was at loggerheads with his superior that he made a move to bring him to UNACO. It was a challenge Paluzzi readily accepted.

He had spent the first few months in New York in a small UNACO safe house with his wife and their ten-month-old son, Dario. They had spent much of their spare time searching for a place of their own, but nothing took their fancy. Then one of his UNACO colleagues had told him about the apartment on the lower East Side. It belonged to a friend who wanted to sell quickly. Claudine had loved it the moment she saw it. They had moved in three days earlier …

He moved to the door and looked at his wife, who was crouched on the bare wooden floorboards reading the instructions on the side of the paint tin. She was a former Air France stewardess, five years his junior, with a pretty face and long brown hair which was tied in a ponytail at the back of her head.

She looked up at him and her eyes automatically locked on to the bottle in his hand. “How many beers have you had tonight?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he retorted defensively.

“It’s your fourth, isn’t it?”

“So what?” he demanded.

“You never drank like this when we lived in Italy,” she said, getting to her feet.

“You never nagged like this when we lived in Italy,” he snapped back angrily.

His raised voice woke Dario.

“I’ll see to him,” Paluzzi said tersely.

“You’re not going near him in that mood,” she shot back and disappeared into the bedroom.

Four beers and she was acting like he was a hopeless alcoholic. When was the last time he had been drunk? His stag party two years ago. No, it wasn’t the beers. It went a lot deeper than that. He knew she was homesick. She’d never told him in so many words but it was obvious by the way she had been acting in the last month. He even wondered if she had really wanted to move into the apartment or whether she’d just used it as an excuse to get out of the small, cramped safe house where they had been at each other’s throats over every little thing. And now it was starting again …

A deep, thudding vibration suddenly reverberated through the floorboards. A stereo in one of the apartments down the hall. He waited for the noise to abate, assuming that the volume had been turned up accidentally. Nothing happened; indeed it was getting louder. Claudine appeared at the door, Dario cradled in her arms.

“It sounds like one of our neighbors is having a party,” Paluzzi said. “I think it’s time I went over and introduced myself.”

“Leave it, Fabio, it probably won’t go on for very long.”

“And if it does? What about Dario?”

“How hypocritical can you get? It’s all right for you to wake him up with your shouting but let someone else disturb him and you’re on the warpath.”

“He’s my son,” Paluzzi retorted.

She looked down at Dario. His eyes were closed. “He’s almost asleep now. I’ll close the bedroom door, he won’t hear a thing.”

Paluzzi put his beer down and walked to the front door. “I’ll sort it out, don’t worry.”

She knew it was pointless trying to stop him. He’d made up his mind to go, and that was it. “For God’s sake don’t get into a fight. We’ve only just moved in, remember?”

Paluzzi slipped out into the corridor, closing the door quietly behind him. The noise came from the apartment two doors down. He rapped sharply on the door. It opened and the smile faltered on the youth’s face when he saw it wasn’t one of his friends. Paluzzi could see a handful of teenagers already congregated inside the apartment. All wore jeans and studded black leather jackets with the names of their favorite heavy-metal bands printed on the back.

“What do you want?” the youth demanded.

“My wife and I have just moved in down the hall. Apartment Seventeen. We have a little boy, he’s not even a year old. The music woke him up. I’d be grateful if you’d turn it down so that we can get him back to sleep.”

“No, man, I ain’t turning it down,” the youth replied with a sneer. “This is America. It’s a free country. You can do what you want, when you want, and how you want. Capish?”

Paluzzi clenched his fists at his sides but wisely kept his emotions in check. He could take the youth apart with one hand tied behind his back. But that wasn’t the issue. Claudine was right. He couldn’t afford to get involved in a brawl. Not only would it reflect badly on their tenancy but it could also bring unnecessary attention on himself which, in turn, could jeopardize his position at UNACO. He had to be diplomatic.

“OK, here’s the deal. Either the music’s been turned down by the time I get back to my apartment or else I’m going to call the cops. I’ve got a feeling they might be interested in the contents of those skins you and those dummies in there are smoking. You could flush them down the john but it’s the smell that lingers, isn’t it? You just can’t get rid of it.” Paluzzi held up a finger as if he’d just had a sudden thought. “You could try telling the cops that this is America. It’s a free country. You can do what you want, when you want, and how you want. I’m sure they’d capish, don’t you?”

The music had been turned down before the youth had closed the door behind Paluzzi.

Claudine was waiting at the front door. “I’m impressed. Persuasion without violence. You’re definitely mellowing in your old age.”

“How’s Dario?”

“He seems to have settled again.”

Paluzzi retrieved his beer and was about to take a sip when he saw that Claudine was watching him. “OK, I won’t drink any more. You know, you’re getting more like your mother every day.”

The telephone rang and Claudine answered it. It was for her husband and she put the receiver down on the table without a word. He knew he shouldn’t have mentioned her mother. It was always a touchy subject. Paluzzi picked up the receiver. The duty officer asked him to identify himself by the ID number he’d been given when he joined UNACO. It was also the number on his personnel file which was kept under lock and key in the Director’s office. Paluzzi repeated the number.

“You’re on a Code Red,” the duty officer informed him. That meant he was officially on standby. “The briefing will be held at nine-thirty sharp in the Director’s office tomorrow morning.” The line went dead and Paluzzi replaced the receiver thoughtfully. It would be his first assignment with Mike Graham and Sabrina Carver since his transfer to Strike Force Three. Sure, he had worked with them in Italy when he was with the NOCS but that was different. Now they were his partners. He would have to slot into Whitlock’s old position. It would be difficult but he was confident he could do it …

Sabrina Carver hated blind dates. Especially when they turned out to be real jerks …

She had only agreed to make up the foursome because she knew how much it would mean to her close friend, Simone Forrest. Simone, a leading New York fashion model, had rung her the previous night to say that Steve Rutherford, the Canadian photographer she had met earlier that month on a shoot in Toronto, was in New York on a short visit. But there was a snag. His best friend, Doug Keeble, was with him. He wanted a partner for the evening and Simone had told him she knew just the person …

Sabrina had liked Rutherford straight away. He was just as Simone had described him. Polite, affable and strikingly handsome. She could well understand how Simone had fallen for him. So why did he have a friend like Doug Keeble? Admittedly, Keeble was also good-looking, but that was where the comparison with Rutherford ended. He was loud with a vulgar sense of humor and a bad case of wandering hands. She’d already given up counting the number of times she had had to prize his hand off her knee. She had even spoken to him discreetly about it but he had only laughed it off. Simone certainly owed her for this one. Then, after Rutherford had settled the bill, Simone announced that they were off to a nightclub. Sabrina knew Simone wanted to be alone with Rutherford. But she was damned if she was going to entertain Keeble for the rest of the evening …

“Where should we go now?” Keeble asked after Rutherford and Simone had left the restaurant. He slipped his hand over hers. “You know New York.”

Sabrina eased her hand out from under his. “We aren’t going anywhere. I’m going back to my apartment, I’ve got a busy day ahead of me tomorrow.”

“It’s still early. We can have a few drinks somewhere and take it from there.” He grinned. “I’ll see that you’re in bed in good time for your beauty sleep.”

Sabrina inhaled sharply. She was struggling to control her temper. If there was one thing she hated, it was being patronized. Especially by someone like Keeble. It was the same kind of chauvinism that she had encountered when she first arrived at UNACO from the FBI two years earlier. She supposed it was to have been expected as she had been the only female field operative in the organization: nonetheless she had found it irritating. But she had managed to overcome her critics with her gritty determination and her unswerving belief in her own ability. Those same critics now regarded her as their equal. Not that anyone outside UNACO, apart from her parents, knew that she was a member of Strike Force Three. As far as her friends were concerned, she was a translator at the United Nations. Secrecy was essential to the organization.

“Come on, let’s go,” Keeble said, reaching for her hand.

She pulled her hand away roughly from his and stood up, her eyes blazing. “I really don’t give a damn where you go. But one thing’s certain, it won’t be with me. Understood?”

She turned sharply on her heel and walked to the door. Every man in the restaurant watched her leave. She was a strikingly beautiful twenty-eight-year-old with shoulder-length blonde hair tinted with auburn highlights, and a near perfect figure accentuated by the contour-hugging velvet dress she was wearing. She emerged onto the street then paused to retrieve her car keys from her purse.

“Hey, wait up,” Keeble shouted breathlessly from behind her. “What the hell are you playing at?”

She looked around at him. “What does it look like? I’m going home.”

“And what about me? Steve’s got the car, you know.”

“So get a cab,” Sabrina retorted. “You want me to hail one for you?”

“What’s wrong with you?” Keeble demanded. “You get a free meal and this is how you show your appreciation. You embarrass me in the restaurant then storm out like some spoiled brat. I think you’d better get your priorities right.”

Sabrina stared at Keeble in disbelief. She opened her mouth to say something then abruptly changed her mind. What good would it do to try and reason with someone like him? The guy was still firmly entrenched in the Dark Ages. Better just to walk away.

“Don’t turn your back on me,” he snarled, grabbing her arm.

She broke his grip with ease but resisted the temptation to dump him on the sidewalk. It wouldn’t be difficult. Not with a black belt in karate. But he wasn’t worth it. Instead she levelled a finger of warning at him. “You touch me again and you’ll be spending the rest of the night in a police cell.”

“At least the company would be better,” Keeble snapped.

“In your case, you’d probably be right,” she retorted sarcastically as she walked to her champagne-colored Mercedes-Benz 500 SEC which was parked at the end of the street.

Keeble cursed angrily but he seemed to have given up on her at last and hailed a cab.

Sabrina watched as it disappeared into the traffic, then started up her car and drove back to her Manhattan apartment. The night porter looked up from the magazine he was reading to greet her as she entered the black and white tiled foyer. She smiled back at him then unlocked the door of her small flat which led directly into the sparsely furnished lounge. Kicking off her high-heeled shoes, she crossed to a shelf lined with an impressive collection of modern jazz compact discs, selected the latest Bob Berg, and fed it into the Wadia transport. She switched the kettle on in the kitchen then went to her bedroom to change out of her dress. She was about to take a gray tracksuit from the cupboard when the telephone rang. Well, at least it couldn’t be Doug Keeble. He didn’t have her number. She sat on the edge of the bed and was about to answer it when a thought struck her. What if he had asked Simone for her number? She wouldn’t have given it to him, would she? There was only one way to find out. She picked up the receiver.

“Miss Carver?” a male voice inquired.

“Speaking,” she replied.

“This is Llewelyn and Lee,” the man continued.

She gave a sigh of relief. “Llewelyn and Lee” was the name Philpott had devised as a cover for UNACO’s thirty unlisted telephone lines. The receptionist during the day, or duty officer at night, would only drop the pretense if the second party could identify themselves by means of either an ID number or a password. Sabrina gave him her ID number, and the duty officer repeated his message once more.

“I’ll be there,” Sabrina replied.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where Mr. Graham is, would you?” the duty officer asked after a moment’s pause. “I can’t seem to get hold of him on the phone and he’s not answering his beeper either.”

“I know where he’ll be,” she told him. “Leave it to me, I’ll pass the message on to him.”

“I’d appreciate that. Could you give me a ring once you’ve spoken to him so that I can log it in the diary?”

“Sure, I’ll do that. Oh, and don’t mention to Mr. Kolchinsky that you couldn’t get hold of him.”

“It’s regulations, Miss Carver. The Director specifically asked me to make a note of any operative not responding to a call.”

“Just this time,” she said softly. “I promise I’ll have a word with him about it. And if it does happen again, you can report him. Please.”

There was another pause. “I guess it’ll be OK so long as he gets the message.”

“He will. And thanks.”

“Sure,” the duty officer replied, then the line went dead.

Sabrina replaced the receiver then crossed to the cupboard again where she selected a pair of designer jeans and a baggy white T-shirt. She knew Graham would be at the Manion Hotel in Yorkville. He traveled down from his home in Vermont every Wednesday to put fresh flowers on the graves of his wife and son and stayed overnight at the Manion before returning home the following day. She tucked her jeans into a pair of brown ankle boots, grabbed the leather jacket from behind the door, and left the apartment.

“Excuse me, Mr. Mitchell, we’re running a bit low on bourbon.”

Peter Mitchell looked up from the chessboard and nodded to the barman. “OK, Leo, I’ll get some from the cellar.” His eyes flickered across to the man seated opposite him. “I won’t be a minute, Mike.”

Mike Graham shrugged. “Take as long as you want, Mitch. The coup de grace can wait.”

“Coup de grace?” Mitchell snorted. “It’s a temporary hiccup, nothing more.”

“Really?” Graham replied with a knowing smile.

Mitchell dismissed him with a wave of his hand then got to his feet and followed Leo to the bar. Graham took a sip of Perrier water and looked around him slowly. The bar was busy for a Wednesday night. He had been going to the Windmill Tavern for the past five years ever since he found out, quite by chance, that it was owned by Mitchell. The two men had become friends while serving in Vietnam together but had lost contact when Mitchell was injured in combat and flown back to the States for treatment. It was only when the two men had met up again that Graham discovered Mitchell had lost his right arm as a result of the injury.

Graham put the glass down then sat back to await Mitchell’s return. He was an athletically-built thirty-eight-year-old with a youthfully handsome face and tousled auburn hair which hung untidily over the collar of his shirt. He was a native New Yorker who, after graduating from UCLA with a degree in Political Science, had fulfilled his childhood dream by signing for the New York Giants as a rookie quarterback in the early seventies. A month later he was drafted into Vietnam where a shoulder injury put paid to a promising football career. He had liaised closely with the CIA in the last year of the war and was recruited by the elite Delta unit when he returned to the States.

Eleven years later he was promoted to leader of Squadron-B. His first mission was to take a unit into Libya and destroy a known terrorist base. They were about to close in on the base when news reached him that his wife, Carrie, and five-year-old son, Mikey, had been abducted by masked men outside their New York apartment. He was offered the chance to abort the mission but chose instead to give the order to advance. The base was destroyed but the two main targets, Salim Al-Makesh and Jean-Jacques Bernard, managed to escape. A nationwide hunt was mounted for his family but no trace of them was found. He was retired from Delta at his own request and the Delta Commander forwarded his dossier to UNACO as a possible field operative. Although the Secretary-General had turned him down on the strength of his psychiatric report, Philpott had personally overruled him.

Graham’s maverick tendencies had quickly put him at odds with his superiors and it had come to a head when he undertook an unauthorized mission to track down Bernard, the man he held responsible for the disappearance of his family. Although Bernard was subsequently killed, Graham found out that it was actually a senior CIA official who had ordered the kidnapping to give Bernard, who was working for him, time to escape. He also discovered where the bodies of Carrie and Mikey had been buried and, after the remains were exhumed, he had them reburied side by side in the grounds of the church where he and Carrie had been married. The Secretary-General had wanted Graham dismissed; Philpott had again overruled him. But it had been made perfectly clear to Graham that the next time he overstepped the mark he would be out. He knew it was a threat not to be taken lightly …

Mitchell returned to the table and sat down again. He studied the pieces then scratched his head thoughtfully. “You’re right, it doesn’t look good. Not good at all.”

“All you have to do is topple your king and hand me the twenty bucks we wagered on the game.”

“And go down without a fight?” Mitchell retorted. “You know me better than that, Mike.”

“I know you’re a tight-fisted son-of-a-bitch when it comes to handing over money,” Graham replied with a grin.

Mitchell made the move Graham had anticipated. The net was closing in on Mitchell. Graham put Mitchell’s king in check.

“That wasn’t very nice–” Mitchell trailed off and whistled softly to himself as he looked past Graham. “Now she is nice.”

Graham looked round and cursed softly under his breath. Sabrina was standing in the entrance, her hands dug into the pockets of her leather jacket, her eyes scanning the room for him. He turned back to Mitchell. “She’s a friend of mine.”

“I’m sorry, Mike, I didn’t know.”

“Forget it,” Graham replied. “Make your move.”

“Aren’t you going to signal to her? She’s obviously looking for you.”

“She’ll find me. Now make your move, Mitch.”

Sabrina finally saw Graham. He was sitting at a corner table with his back to her. She headed for the table. A hand suddenly grabbed her arm and spun her around.

“Looking for some action, baby?” the man asked without releasing the pressure on her arm.

“Would you mind letting go of my arm?” she said politely.

“Sit down,” he said, and indicated to one of the other two men at the table to pull up a chair for her.

Mitchell looked past Graham, his eyes narrowed anxiously. “Mike, trouble.”

Graham looked around irritably. Three men in their early twenties. Probably city kids. “She can look after herself,” he replied with a dismissive shrug then gestured to the board. “I’m still waiting for you to make your move, Mitch.”

“Mike, we can’t just leave her over there!” Mitchell said sharply. “It’s three against one.”

Graham grabbed Mitchell’s arm as he tried to get up. “I told you already, she can handle them. Now make your move, or forfeit the game.”

Sabrina pulled her arm free just as the chair was pushed roughly against the back of her legs. She managed to keep her balance but when she tried to get past the table the man got to his feet and blocked her way.

“What’s the hurry? Sit down and have a drink with us,” he said, indicating the chair.

“Would you let me through?” she said sharply. “I won’t ask you again.”

“I’m really scared,” the man said, grinning at his companions. “Sit down!”

He made the mistake of grabbing her wrist to try and force her down onto the chair. She jerked her arm toward her body, pushed her wrist up sharply against his thumb, forcing him to break his grip, then kicked him savagely on the knee. He cried out in pain and fell to the ground, clutching his knee in agony. One of his friends smashed a beer bottle on the edge of the table and sprang to his feet. Graham decided it had gone far enough. He got to his feet and crossed to where Sabrina was standing, her body tense as she waited for the man to lunge at her.

“It’s OK, Mike, I can handle this,” she said without taking her eyes off the broken bottle.

“I know that. But do they?” Graham looked at the two men. “She could take you both on with her eyes closed and still put you in hospital for the next six months. Think about that before you do anything stupid.”

The second man held up his hands. “Hey, I don’t want any part of this. I’m out of here. Joe, you coming?”

Joe’s eyes flickered between Graham and Sabrina, then he tossed aside the bottle and grabbed his jacket from behind the chair.

“And don’t forget to take your garbage with you,” Graham said, indicating the man who was still writhing on the floor.

The two men hauled their friend to his feet and half carried, half dragged him from the bar.

“OK, the floor show’s over,” Mitchell announced to the other customers.

A coin was fed into the jukebox and a Dire Straits track selected. Within seconds a certain normality had returned to the bar.

“Sabrina, this is Peter Mitchell,” Graham said, indicating Mitchell behind him. “We go back a long way.”

“I’m sorry about those three, they’re not the usual sort of clientele we get in here.”

“Yeah, they’re usually a lot worse,” Graham added.

“Speak for yourself,” Mitchell said good-humoredly. “What can I get you to drink, Sabrina? On the house. It’s the least I can do after what’s just happened.”

“Nothing, but thank you anyway.” She turned to Graham. “Can I have a word with you outside?”

Graham nodded then held out his hand toward Mitchell. “I’ll take that twenty bucks now.”

“The game’s not over,” Mitchell protested.

“It’s checkmate in two and you know it.” Graham snapped his fingers. “The money, Mitch.”

Mitchell took two ten-dollar notes from his pocket and handed them to Graham. “I intend to win it back, Mike. Be warned.”

“I’ll be in New York again next Wednesday. Same time, same place?”

“It’s a date.”

“See you, Mitch.”

Mitchell patted Graham on the arm and smiled at Sabrina. “Nice to have met you.”

“Likewise,” she replied then followed Graham from the bar.

“How did you know I’d be here?” Graham asked once they were in the street.

“I went to the Manion and the desk clerk told me where you were.”

“What’s wrong?”

“We’re on a Code Red standby.”

“When did this come through?”

“About half an hour ago,” Sabrina replied. “Not that you’d know that, of course. You’re up to your old tricks again, aren’t you?”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re not answering your beeper.”

“It never went off!” he shot back defensively.

“You’re talking to me, Mike. I know all your tricks by now. Where is it? At the hotel?”

“In here,” he retorted, patting his jacket pocket. But it wasn’t there. His brow furrowed quizzically as he checked his other pockets. It wasn’t in any of them.

“You haven’t got it on you. Now that is a surprise.”

“You can cut the sarcasm, Sabrina!”

“You’re supposed to be the team leader now that C.W.’s gone over to the management side. That means you should be setting the example, not regressing back to your old ways again.”

“I had it with me when I went to the cemetery this afternoon. It must still be in my suit pocket. I honestly thought I’d brought it with me. It was a genuine mistake.”

Sabrina exhaled deeply and touched Graham’s arm. “I’m sorry I went off at you like that. It’s just been one of those nights.”

“Sergei’s going to crucify me when he reads in the duty officer’s book that you had to come over here personally and tell me about the Code Red. That memo he circulated was very specific about field operatives carrying their beepers around with them at all times.”

“He won’t know I came out here,” Sabrina said. “I had a quiet word with the duty officer. He’s agreed not to mention it in the book.”

“Thanks, I owe you one.”

“Buy me a coffee and we’ll call it quits.”

“You’re on,” Graham agreed. “Do you have somewhere in mind?”

“As a matter of fact I do. And it has a live jazz band.”

“You’ve convinced me.”

“We can go in my car,” she said, taking the keys from her pocket.

“Where are you parked?”

“Not far from here.” She slipped her hand under his arm. “Come on, I’ll show you.”