Time of the Assassins

THIRTEEN

Bernard parked the car out of sight of the house then, taking the Desert Eagle automatic from the glove compartment, he climbed out and, keeping to the dirt road, moved cautiously towards the house.

His clothes still stank from the stench of the cell where he had spent part of his eight hours in custody. It had felt like an eternity. He had always known that the CIA would have him released, even after he had been officially charged with the murders of the two policemen at the flat in Murray Hill. Not only could they not afford to let him go on trial for fear of what he would say, they also couldn't afford to let the detailed account of his CIA activities reach the New York Times. Either way they would have been crucified publicly. And he would have had no qualms about shooting his mouth off if they had left him to the mercy of the courts. A lawyer had been sent down from Washington to brief him on his rights while in custody. And to tell him to keep his mouth shut. He was to refuse to answer any questions, no matter how much the police provoked him. And they certainly tried, but to no avail. He had taken his lawyer's advice and remained silent.

He had been in his cell when the lawyer brought the news that he was free to go. An unconditional release, or so the lawyer had called it. He was just glad to get out. He had seen Bailey outside the precinct house, but both had wisely ignored each other. Bailey had disappeared into the back of a black limousine which had been sent to take him directly to La Guardia Airport where a chartered plane had been waiting to fly him back to Washington. Rogers had also ignored Bernard and caught a taxi at the end of the street. Bernard had ducked through several back alleys then, satisfied he had shaken off any tail, hailed a taxi which took him to Grand Central Station. He had picked up a key from the information desk, which he had left there on the day he arrived in New York, and gone directly to the corresponding locker. Inside was a black holdall containing a change of clothing, a Desert Eagle automatic and a set of keys for a hired Ford which was parked in a garage close to the station, an emergency backup for just such a situation. Again, he had made sure he wasn't being followed, then gone to the garage and driven to the safe house.

He reached the edge of the clearing and crouched down behind a tree. The hall light was on in the house. Not that it surprised him: Brett would already have been briefed, probably by Rogers, about their release from custody. But what else had he been told? Bernard knew he was probably overreacting. Why would Bailey have him killed, knowing that the lawyer would then hand the document over to the New York Times? It made no sense. But he still felt uneasy. He couldn't put his finger on the reason, and that's what worried him.

He kept close to the trees as he made his way round to the back of the house. He paused in the shadows to wipe his sweating forehead. The house was two hundred yards away and he would have to break cover to get to it. He could see a light on in the kitchen but the curtains were drawn. He inched his way round the perimeter of the wood until he was able to see the flight of steps that led down to the cellar at the side of the house. But he couldn't see the window beside the wooden door at the foot of the steps. He had left the window off the latch, and if Brett had primed the alarm system, it would be his only way into the house — unless Brett had latched it after he had left for the Trade Center. There was only one way of finding out.

He broke cover and sprinted towards the house. The automatic sensing security floodlight above the kitchen door detected his movement and bathed the area in bright, piercing light. He was still ten yards away from the steps when the back door was flung open and he hurled himself to the ground as Brett sprayed the clearing with a fusillade from his silenced Uzi. He got off a couple of shots, forcing Brett to take cover, and used those precious seconds to reach the steps where he paused, gasping for breath. He made his way to the bottom of the steps, continually glancing over his shoulder for any sign of Brett. He tugged at the window. It was locked! Then he saw the shadow fall across the steps above him. Brett had him cornered. And he didn't have time to turn and fire. He launched himself at the door, hitting it squarely with his shoulder. The lock buckled under the impact of the blow and the door flew open. He tumbled headlong into the darkened room as Brett raked the steps with another burst of gunfire. He fell heavily on his shoulder and the automatic clattered noisily to the floor.

Brett, hearing the noise, hurried down the steps and swivelled round, the Uzi clenched tightly in both hands. He saw the movement out of the corner of his eye and was still turning when Bernard brought the side of the spade down onto his head. Brett cried out in pain as he as slammed against the wall. The Uzi fell to the floor. Bernard kicked it away then picked up his automatic and trained it on Brett who was on his knees, his hand clenched over his ear. The blood seeped through his fingers and ran down the side of his face, soaking the collar of his light blue shirt.

'Did Bailey tell you to kill me?'

Brett looked up slowly, his face twisted in pain. 'You were expendable, didn't you realize that?'

'Yes, that's why I covered myself by writing a detailed account of my CIA activities — '

'Which Bailey got from your lawyer friend a few days ago,' Brett cut in, allowing himself a faint smile of satisfaction. 'So when you didn't have a hold on the company any more, you became expendable.'

'How did he know who I'd given it to?' Bernard demanded.

'We're a big organization, Bernard. We have moles everywhere. We managed to track down your friend to Cairo after you'd told Bailey about the document. I believe he put up quite a struggle before he died.'

Brett made a desperate grab for the gun in Bernard's hand but Bernard sidestepped his clumsy lunge and shot him through the head. He closed the door, then propped the body against it to keep it shut.

He found a set of keys for the house in Brett's pocket then made his way across to a door that opened onto a flight of stairs which led up to the kitchen. The door at the top of the stairs was unlocked. He eased it open and stepped carefully into the kitchen. It was empty. He checked the rooms, apart from the bedroom where Rosie was being held. They, too, were empty. He moved to the bedroom and tried the handle. The door was locked. He cursed under his breath. He took the keys from his pocket, selected the one for the bedroom, then pressed himself against the wall as he unlocked the door. If Brett did have an accomplice in the bedroom, which he doubted, they would be sure to fire when the door was opened.

He pushed open the door and dived low through the doorway, fanning the room with the automatic. Rosie was slumped in the corner of the room, her hand still manacled to the radiator. He scrambled to his feet and hurried over to where she lay, genuine concern in his eyes. He checked her pulse. It was steady. An overturned mug lay on the floor beside her, the remains of the coffee having already formed a dark stain on the carpet. He lifted one of her eyelids. She had been drugged. He eased her onto her back, ensuring that she had some slack on her manacled wrist, then slipped a pillow under her head.

He looked at his watch. Twelve twenty a.m. How long before Brett's silence aroused suspicion? A couple of hours at the most. The chartered flight he'd arranged the previous day to take him to Cuba, where he would catch a connecting flight to the Lebanon, was only due to leave New York at five that morning. That left him with four-and-a-half hours to kill. He looked down at Rosie. She would be going with him, certainly as far as Cuba. Then she would be released, unharmed. He had no intention of killing her unless the authorities forced his hand. He doubted it would come to that. They would have to find him first. But for the moment she was exactly as he wanted her — unconscious. He still had some unfinished business to attend to before he left New York. That would take about an hour. Then he would come back for her and drive out to the field on the outskirts of the city to wait for the plane — and freedom. He smiled to himself then locked the bedroom door behind him and left the house. Brett's Audi Avant was parked in the driveway. He was momentarily tempted to use it then dismissed the thought and ran the three hundred yards to where the Ford was parked at the side of the dirt road. He started the engine, turned the car round, and headed back towards the highway.

It took Bernard twenty minutes to reach his destination. He parked the car in a sidestreet. Then, after slipping the automatic into the back of his trousers, he walked the short distance to the main street. He looked around slowly. It was almost deserted — a couple returning from a late show, a drunk slumped against a wall. He waited until a car had driven past before crossing to the row of shops on the other side of the street. The windows were all protected by wire mesh and each building had a powerful alarm system in operation. He made his way to a shop near the end of the block, a firm of estate agents. It was actually a dubok — a company fronting for an intelligence agency, in this case, U N A C O. And he had a duplicate set of keys for the reinforced back door. He had got them from Dave Forsythe. They had known each other since Forsythe's days as Bailey's electronic expert, and it was his knowledge from that time that had prompted them to put their heads together and come up with a way of making them both a lot of money. But Bernard's intentions were a lot more sinister than the merely financial, and Forsythe had no inkling of those intentions…

Bernard ducked up a narrow alley that ran parallel to the building and came out at the back of the shop. Although a security light illuminated the small courtyard, he knew there was nobody in the building. It was classified as a low-security risk. He took the two keys from his pocket and inserted them into the two locks, one at the top and one at the foot, of the metal door. An electronic circuit had been built into the two locks that would set off the alarm, both at the shop and at the command centre, if the keys weren't turned simultaneously. He wiped his hands on his shirt then positioned himself in such a way as to be able to turn the keys together. He counted to three then turned the keys. The alarm remained silent. He exhaled deeply then removed the keys and entered the shop, closing the door behind him. Forsythe had told him that the computer suite was in a soundproofed room underneath the building. And the only means of access was through the manager's office. Bernard moved along the corridor and paused in front of a frosted glass door. He unlocked it with the third key Forsythe had duplicated for him.

Once inside, he went straight to the manager's safe and opened it using the combination that Forsythe had given him the previous day. He removed the sonic transmitter from the safe and activated the door built into the wall behind the desk. As it slid open, a light came on revealing a flight of stairs. He made his way to the foot of the stairs and used the sonic transmitter to open a second door.

The small room was dominated by a row of computers that ran the length of the far wall. He crossed to one of the terminals, sat down, and accessed the system. Then, using the Modem telephone link, he dialled out a number that Forsythe had given to him. He replaced the receiver in its special cradle on the VDU and tapped his fingers impatiently on the table as he waited for the program he'd dialled to appear on the screen. It came up moments later. He had hacked into Bailey's home computer. Forsythe had set up the whole system in Bailey's study, including all the access codes. But, for security reasons, Bailey had changed all the codes as soon as he took charge of the system. All the codes, that is, except for the one Forsythe had programmed in for himself. It bypassed all existing codes and went to the very heart of the program, showing all the new access codes. Forsythe, who had set up several sensitive systems for the CIA over the years, had a secret code for each one of them. And none could be detected. Bailey had several sensitive files in his system, files that even Morgan Chilvers knew nothing about. And now Bernard could access all those files, copy them onto another disc, and sell them to the highest bidder. The CIA and the KGB would be the obvious customers, but he didn't care whom he sold them to, as long as the price was right. He would split the money fifty-fifty with Forsythe. Had he known that Forsythe had been sacked from his position at UN A CO, he could have negotiated a new deal. But that wasn't his style. Jean-Jacques Bernard wasn't a greedy man. He only needed the money to start a new life away from Beirut — a new face, a new identity. That was the deal he had made with Forsythe. But there was more to it than that, especially now that Bailey had sent his hatchet men after him.

Yes, there was certainly more to it than that. It was time for revenge.

Frances Bailey's eyes were red and puffy from hours of crying. But she had made sure she had sent her two teenage daughters over to her parents' house in Alexandria before she had shed the first of those tears. She had always been the perfect mother, and the perfect wife. Her friends had said that she would make an ideal First Lady when her husband was elected President of the United States of America. Their confidence in Robert Bailey, like her own, had never wavered. Now, within the space of a few hours, his career, and his future, lay in ruins. She was shattered. She was also bloody angry. It wasn't just his future that lay in ruins. What about their daughters? They would have to carry the stigma of their father's deceit with them for the rest of their lives. What right had he to blight their lives with his devious schemes? She knew Morgan Chilvers would do his utmost to keep her husband's arrest out of the papers, but it would already have circulated around Capitol Hill. And that's where it mattered as far as she was concerned. Samantha, the elder daughter, was already engaged to the son of a prominent Republican senator. What chance did they have now? And Kathleen had always wanted to become a political journalist on leaving school. And that meant mixing with politicians who would be the first to snigger behind her back at her father's misfortune. She had always idolized her husband. Now she hated him…

'Why?' she asked, looking up at her husband who stood by the window behind her.

'You wouldn't understand, Frances,' he replied softly.

'Try me!' she snapped, jerking her head round to look at him.

'Zimbala's in a strategic position in the centre of Africa. There are civil wars raging in all the neighbouring states. If we could have put our own man in power, we could have fed weapons into Zimbala which, in turn, could have been distributed amongst the anti-Communist forces in those neighbouring states. If we'd given them enough arms, it could have swung the wars in favour of those anti-Communist forces. We could have ham-' mered another nail into the coffin of world Communism.'

'Why couldn't you have tried to negotiate with Jamel Mobuto? He's a man of reason, a man of intelligence. That much was obvious from the way he came across on his visit to America.'

'Jamel Mobuto's loyalty is to Zimbala. He'll do deals with whoever's prepared to help him, and that includes Russia and China.'

'In other words, his loyalty is to his people, unlike your puppet Ngune. He was an animal, Robert. How many people were killed while he ran the Security Police?'

'Between them, Alphonse Mobuto and Tito Ngune kept Communism at bay in Zimbala for forty-five years. That's quite an achievement for a small African country.'

'They kept it at bay with torture and murder. How could you have stood by a man like that?'

'Because he stood by me,' Bailey replied, turning away from the window. 'Tito Ngune was one of the most loyal CIA operatives I've ever known.',

'Well, I hope you were proud of your man, Robert. And I always thought you were a person who believed in the ideology of democracy. It shows just how much I really knew you.' She got to her feet. 'I've already packed a suitcase. It's in the car. I'll be at my parents until I've found my feet. We're finished, Robert.'

Bailey didn't argue with her. He knew how futile that would be in her mood. He would call her in a few days, give her time to calm down.

'Aren't you even going to say anything?' she snapped scathingly.

'What's there to say? I said you wouldn't understand.'

'No, I guess I didn't.' She walked to the door then turned back to look at him. 'I feel sorry for you, Robert. You're a pathetic, bigoted little man. God help this country if you'd ever reached the White House. Well, at least something good's come out of this, hasn't it?'

Bailey winced as she slammed the door behind her. The front door closed, followed moments later by the sound of an engine revving into life. The tyres screeched as she spun the car round and headed towards the gate. He waited until the sound of the engine had faded into the distance then poured himself another bourbon before walking out into the corridor. His bodyguard, who was sitting discreetly at the end of the corridor, got to his feet. Bailey waved him away then climbed the stairs and crossed to the study door. He punched a code into the bellpush and the door slid open. He closed it behind him and sat down in front of the VDU.

Bailey thought about the meeting he had had with Morgan Chilvers in the morning. He would be asked to resign. Failing that, he'd be fired. Chilvers had always been good to him. He was a naive man when it came to some of the more clandestine operations carried out by CIA personnel in both Africa and Central America and Bailey was determined to destroy all those incriminating files before the auditors were sent in to analyse his system.

He switched on the computer and fed in his personal code. The words ACCESS DENIED flashed across the screen. He ran his hand through his hair and scratched the back of his head. Access denied? He stifled a yawn then shook his head. You're tired, Robert. Now concentrate this time. Feed in the right code this time. His fingers froze over the keyboard. He'd never made a mistake like that before. For a moment he wondered if somehow the access code had been tampered with by a professional hacker. He dismissed the thought. Why change the code? A hacker would be too busy reading the files. And even if the code had been altered, he could press the '9' button which would automatically cancel the whole program. That had been programmed into the system by Dave Forsythe. The man was an expert when it came to' computers. He cursed himself for his suspicion. You pressed a wrong key, for God sake. Try again, slowly this time.

He pressed each key carefully then immediately put his finger lightly on the '9', just in case he did need to use it. ACCESS DENIED. He pressed the '9' button. Nothing happened. The door sealed behind him and the ten-second countdown began flashing on the screen. He pressed the '9' frantically. Someone had overridden it. He kicked over the chair and ran to the door, banging furiously on it. But the whole room was soundproofed. Nobody could hear him. He looked round at the screen again, knowing he was going to die. The countdown finished and the word ACTIVATE began flashing across the screen.

A jet of nerve gas streamed from the nozzle of the canister built into the wall directly above the door. He stumbled away and fell to the floor. Saliva bubbled on his lips and he clawed desperately at his throat as he struggled to breathe. It felt as if his chest were about to burst. His breathing became increasingly ragged as his body twisted uncontrollably on the floor. The spasms ended with a final shudder then his head lolled to the side. His breathing stopped.

The message, which had appeared on the screen as Bailey lay dying on the floor, was still there the following morning when the body was discovered: TO BE TERMINATED AFTER THE ASSASSINATION OF JAMEL MOBUTO.