Time of the Assassins

ONE

It was dark by the time he reached his destination. He got out of the taxi, paid the driver, then wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He had forgotten how humid it could get in Beirut at that time of year. He waited until the taxi had driven off before crossing the road to the Windorah, a small bar run by Dave Jenkins, an Australian who had named it after his birthplace in Queensland. Well, he assumed Jenkins still ran it. He hadn't been back to Beirut in four years. He pushed open the door and went inside. Nothing had changed. The two large propeller fans still rotated slowly above the room, the prostitutes still mingled with the foreign journalists and Jenkins was still behind the counter. Their eyes met.

Jenkins shook his head in disbelief. 'Well, I'll be damned. Mike Graham. What the hell brings you back to Beirut?'

'Business,' Graham answered, his eyes flickering slowly around the room.

'Lookin' for somebody?'

'Yeah.'

'Russell Laidlaw?'

Graham turned back to Jenkins, his eyes narrowed. 'He told you I was coming?'

Jenkins shook his head. 'An educated guess, that's all. He's the only old friend of yours I know who comes in here every night. What time did he say he'd meet you?'

'Eight,' Graham replied, glancing at his watch. It was seven fifty.

'That's when he usually gets here. You want a beer while you wait?'

Although Graham rarely touched alcohol, he could do with a beer in the heat. 'If it's cold.'

'Comin' up,' Jenkins replied then bent down to open one of the fridges under the counter.

A prostitute caught Graham's eye but he shook his head before she could get off her bar stool. She gave him an indifferent look then turned her attention to another potential customer.

'One Budweiser, ice cold,' Jenkins said, placing the bottle and a glass in front of Graham. He held up a hand when Graham reached for his wallet. 'It's on me, Mike.'

'Thanks,' Graham said, forcing a quick smile.

'I was real sorry to hear about what happened to your family, Mike — '

'I'll be over there,' Graham cut in sharply and indicated an empty table in the corner of the room. 'Tell Russell when he gets here.'

'Sure,' Jenkins replied but Graham had already gone. He shrugged then turned his attention to a new customer at the other end of the counter.

Graham crossed to the table and sat down. He was thirty-eight years old with a youthfully handsome face, tousled auburn hair that hung untidily over the collar of his open-necked white shirt and a sturdy, muscular physique which he kept in shape with a daily five-kilometre run followed by a punishing workout in his own private gymnasium.

He had been with UN AGO for two years and, despite his maverick tendencies, he was widely regarded by his peers as the best field operative in the organization. It hadn't always been that way. He was the first to admit that he had been psychologically screwed-up when he joined them after eleven years with the elite American anti-terrorist squad, Delta — a state of mind that had come about as a result of his last Delta mission. The mission had been to penetrate a terrorist base in Libya and eliminate all personnel, which included Salim Al-Makesh, an advisor to the Black June, a movement founded by Abu Nidal in 1976 in protest at the involvement of Syria in the Lebanese civil war, and Jean-Jacques Bernard, a senior member of the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine. He was about to give the order to advance when news reached him that his wife and five-year-old son had been abducted by three masked men outside their apartment in New York. The men spoke Arabic, v It had been an attempt to force him to withdraw. He refused and although the base was destroyed, Al-Makesh and Bernard managed to escape. The FBI immediately launched a nation-wide hunt for his family but no trace of them was ever found.

A month later Al-Makesh was killed by Israeli commandos at his home in Damascus. Bernard went into hiding and was only heard of again when news reached the Israeli Mossad that he had been assassinated in a car-bomb attack in Beirut. The information had come from a reliable source and they had no reason to doubt it. Graham remained unconvinced. It had been too easy. Then, the previous day, he received a telephone call that vindicated his years of scepticism…

Laidlaw entered the bar, looked around slowly, then crossed to where Graham was sitting. Graham could hardly believe how much Laidlaw had changed since he had last seen him when they were both still with Delta. Laidlaw had always been the unit's fitness fanatic, pushing himself to the limit to keep his lean, muscular body in shape. And he had always been so meticulous about his appearance, almost to the point of vanity. Now he was overweight with a bloated, unshaven face and his unwashed brown hair fell untidily onto his hunched shoulders.

Graham rose to his feet and shook Laidlaw's extended hand. The grip was still firm. He indicated the chair opposite and sat down again.

'I'm just going to get myself a beer. I won't be a moment,' Laidlaw said, indicating the counter behind him.

Graham pushed his untouched bottle across the table. 'Have this one. I don't want it.'

Laidlaw picked up the bottle then pulled out the chair and sat down. 'You're looking well, Mike,' he said at length.

'You're not,' Graham replied bluntly. 'Christ, Russ, what the hell's happened to you?'

Laidlaw poured out his beer then sat back and exhaled deeply. 'It's a long story, Mike. I'll tell you about it sometime.' He drank a mouthful of beer then placed the glass on the table. 'How was the flight from New York?'

'Fine,' Graham replied brusquely then sat forward, his arms resting on the table. 'Have you found out any more about Bernard?'

Laidlaw shook his head. 'Nothing came of the enquiries I made this morning. I did see him, Mike. He's changed, though. The beard and long hair have gone. I had to take a long, hard look at him before I was sure. But it was him, I'd stake my life on it.'

'I wouldn't be here if I didn't believe you,' Graham replied softly. 'So what's our next move?'

'Barak.'

Graham frowned. 'Nazar Barak?'

Laidlaw nodded. 'He's the best informer Delta's ever had in Beirut. I still see him about. If anyone knows where Bernard is, then it'll be Barak.'

'Why didn't you speak to him this morning?'

Laidlaw drank another mouthful of beer. 'You try pinning him down at such short notice. He'll be at home tonight about nine. I have that from a reliable source.'

'I'm just amazed he's still around. I thought someone would have put a bullet in his back by now.'

'He knows too much. And it's all written down and stored away in some bank vault in the city.'

'You're joking,' Graham muttered.

'That's the story he's put around. I doubt it's true but it's certainly worked. Nobody's called his bluff.'

'Yet,' Graham added.

Laidlaw smiled wryly then drank the remainder of the beer. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth then stood up. 'If we get to the house early we can grab him when he arrives. It's the only way we'll get to talk to him tonight.'

Graham gave Jenkins a wave then followed Laidlaw out into the street.

Barak's house turned out to be a small bungalow in West Beirut, less than a mile away from the Mar Elias Camp. It was in darkness. Laidlaw drove past it and pulled up at the end of the dirt road. He switched off the engine then reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and lit the third one since leaving the Windorah. Graham climbed from the car and instinctively ducked as a mortar exploded in the distance. When he straightened up he saw Laidlaw looking at him across the roof of the car, a faint smile on his lips.

'You get used to it,' Laidlaw said, closing the door behind him.

'I don't know how you can live here,' Graham said then winced as another explosion rocked the night.

'It's become a part of me. I could never leave. You only see the negative side of Beirut on the news back home. There's a lot more to it than that…' Laidlaw trailed off when a car suddenly came into view at the other end of the dimly lit street.

Graham looked towards Laidlaw for confirmation that it was Barak. Laidlaw shielded his eyes against the glare of the headlights, trying to distinguish the make and colour of the car. A green Peugeot. He nodded then dropped his cigarette and ground it underfoot.

Barak parked in front of the house and climbed out of the car, locking the door behind him. He was a short, fat man in his early fifties with greasy black hair and thick pebble glasses. The passenger door opened and an ageing prostitute got out.

'Having a party, Barak?'

Barak swung round then let out a deep sigh when Laidlaw emerged from the shadows of an oak tree on the other side of the road. 'You startled me, Mr Laidlaw,' he said breathlessly in English and clamped his hand over his heart as if to emphasize the point. 'What are you doing here?'

'We need to talk.'

'We can talk tomorrow,' Barak replied then glanced lasciviously at the prostitute. 'I am busy tonight.'

'You were busy tonight,' Laidlaw corrected him. 'Get rid of her.'

A look of concern crossed Barak's face. 'I have already paid her for tonight.'

'You'll be reimbursed.'

The prostitute, who didn't speak English, demanded to know what was happening.

Barak managed to pacify her then turned back to Laidlaw. 'She will need money for a taxi back to the city.'

'Then give it to her,' Laidlaw said.

'Me?' Barak replied in horror. 'Why should I pay her?'

'I've told you, you'll be reimbursed,' Laidlaw snapped angrily. 'Now pay her and get her out of here.'

Barak pulled a roll of banknotes from his jacket pocket, reluctantly peeled off a couple and handed them to the prostitute. She snatched them from him, cursed angrily at them both, then strode off in search of a taxi.

Laidlaw waited until the prostitute was out of sight then nodded to Graham who had been standing by the tree. Barak's eyes widened in amazement as Graham approached them. He looked at Laidlaw, searching for an answer. Laidlaw said nothing.

'Still as tight as ever, Barak,' Graham said, indicating the notes in Barak's hand.

Barak instinctively stuffed them back into his pocket then rubbed his hands together nervously. 'What are you doing back in Beirut, Mr Graham?'

'Let's go inside,' Graham said, gesturing towards the house.

Barak led them up a narrow concrete path to the unpainted door and opened it. He beckoned them inside and immediately closed the door behind him. He showed them into the lounge and drew the threadbare curtains before switching on the light. The room was unpainted and the only furniture consisted of a lime green sofa, two wooden chairs and a three-legged coffee table which was propped up against the wall to prevent it from toppling over.

'This is very irregular,' Barak said at length. 'I never do business at my house. You know that, Mr Laidlaw. Why did you come here? If anyone saw you — '

'Nobody saw us,' Graham snapped.

Barak's eyes shifted from Laidlaw to Graham. 'Why are you here?'

'Bernard.'

Barak scratched his stubbled chin then sat on the edge of the sofa. 'Jean-Jacques Bernard?'

'Yeah.'

'But he is dead. He died — '

'I saw him outside the American University Hospital yesterday morning,' Laidlaw cut in quickly. 'He's changed his appearance but it was Bernard.'

'You must have been mistaken,' Barak replied, shaking his head. 'Bernard is dead.'

'If Russell says he saw Bernard yesterday then that's good enough for me,' Graham said sharply.

Barak removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. 'I knew Bernard well. Do you not think I would know if he was still alive, especially if he was living here in Beirut?'

'I didn't say he was living here,' Laidlaw replied. 'He could be here on business. But it was Bernard.'

Graham took an envelope from his pocket and tossed it onto the sofa. 'There's five-thousand dollars there, in cash. Find Bernard and I'll double it.'

Barak opened the envelope and fanned the banknotes with his finger. He looked across at Graham. 'Why do you want Bernard so badly?'

'That doesn't concern you. Find him and you'll get the rest of the money.'

'Where are you staying?' Barak asked Graham.

'You call me if you find out anything,' Laidlaw said. 'Any time, day or night.'

Barak nodded then pushed the envelope into his pocket. 'I still say you are wasting your time. Bernard is dead.'

'For his sake, I hope you're right,' Graham said softly then followed Laidlaw down the hallway and out into the night.

Barak waited until Laidlaw and Graham had driven off then got into his own car and drove straight to a white, Spanish-styled mansion on the outskirts of the city, overlooking the sea. He drew up in front of a pair of wrought-iron gates where he was immediately challenged by a bearded man wearing jeans and a faded black T-shirt. A kalashnikov AK-47 was slung over his shoulder.

'I must see Mr Devereux right away,' Barak announced through the open driver's window.

The guard eyed him contemptuously. 'Is Mr Devereux expecting you?'

'No, but it's urgent.'

The guard glanced in the direction of the house. 'Mr Devereux gave specific instructions not to be disturbed.'

Tell him it's Barak — '

'I know who you are,' the guard said with obvious disdain. 'Come back in the morning. Maybe then Mr Devereux will see you.'

'I must see him now!' Barak retorted.

The guard unslung the kalashnikov. 'I told you, Mr Devereux isn't to be disturbed tonight.'

Barak glared at the guard. 'Mr Devereux's life is in danger. If anything happens to him then I'll see to it that you're held personally responsible.'

The guard wavered. 'What danger?'

Til tell that to Mr Devereux, when I get to see him.'

The guard turned away from the car and spoke softly into a two-way radio. A minute later the gates were activated from somewhere inside the grounds.

The guard peered through the window at Barak. 'Follow the road to the courtyard. Someone will be waiting there to meet you.'

Barak put the Peugeot into gear and drove the hundred yards to the courtyard. He pulled up in front of the stone steps and got out of the car. Another guard frisked him expertly then led him up the steps into the house. Barak looked around the spacious hallway in awe. The three-tier Czech-oslovakian crystal chandelier was the only reminder of its once resplendent grandeur. He could imagine that the walls had once been lined with an array of expensive paintings or tapestries and the wooden floorboards covered with elegant, sculpted carpeting.

'The house once belonged to a Turkish prince when the Lebanon was still a part of the Ottoman Empire,' a man said, tying the belt of his white dressing-gown as he descended the stairs. He was a tall, handsome man in his late thirties with short black hair, which was already beginning to grey at the temples, and a neatly trimmed black moustache. A faint scar ran the length of his left cheek. He reached the foot of the stairs and looked around him slowly. 'Some would call it beautiful,' he said, still speaking Arabic. 'All I see is decadence.'

'I'm sorry to disturb you like this, Mr Devereux — '

The man held up a hand to silence Barak then turned to the guard beside him and dismissed him with a curt nod of the head. He waited until he had left then ushered Barak into a small study. 'I told you never to come here!'

'I had no choice,' Barak replied defensively. 'I had to speak to you in person.'

'What is it?'

Barak shifted uneasily on his feet. 'You've been recognized, Mr Bernard.'

Bernard dug his hands into the pockets of his dressing-gown and moved to the window where he stared across the lawn at the empty swimming pool. He finally turned back to Barak. 'Who recognized me?'

'An American, Russell Laidlaw.'

Bernard pondered the name then shook his head. 'I don't know him. Who is he? A journalist?'

Barak shook his head. 'He used to be with Delta. He lives here now. But he's not your problem. There was another man with him, Mike Graham. He offered me ten-thousand dollars to find you for him. This has got something to do with the murder of his family, hasn't it? Were you involved?'

Bernard ignored the questions. 'Where's he staying?'

'He didn't say. I'm to contact Laidlaw if I come up with anything.'

Bernard took a cigarette from the pack on the table and lit it. He exhaled thoughtfully then sat in the armchair in the corner of the room. 'Tell Graham you've made some enquiries and that you've come up with something. Arrange to meet him at your house later tonight.'

'My house?' Barak stammered. 'I don't want to get involved — '

'You're already involved,' Bernard cut in sharply. He smiled coldly. 'Don't worry, I won't kill Graham there. I can't have the police finding any clues at your house. You don't have the guile to talk your way out of it.'

Barak knew it would be futile to argue. 'What time?' he asked with a resigned sigh.

'Midnight. That gives me plenty of time to make the necessary arrangements. But don't call him until eleven thirty. That way it will look as if you've been asking around about me.'

Barak rubbed his hands together nervously. 'What about the extra five-thousand dollars Graham would have paid me?'

Bernard stubbed out the cigarette and got to his feet. 'Everything you do has to have a price, doesn't it?'

Barak stepped backwards, his eyes flickering between Bernard and the floor. 'I have to make a living…'

'You make more money than most people in this town,' Bernard snapped.

Barak swallowed nervously. 'I think I should go now. We can discuss the money another time.'

Bernard grabbed the front of Barak's shirt and slammed him up against the wall. 'You're paid a retainer every month to keep me informed on developments in and around Beirut. I don't know how you negotiate your other deals, nor do I want to, but you can be sure you're not going to get another cent out of me. Is that understood?'

Barak nodded his head vigorously and Bernard let go of his shirt. Barak dabbed his face with a dirty handkerchief, his eyes wide with fear.

'And don't even think about trying to double-cross me. You know what Hezbollah would do to you if anything were to happen to me?'

'I would never double-cross you, Mr Bernard — ' 'Devereux!' Bernard snapped angrily. 'How many times must I tell you? Jean-Jacques Bernard is dead. I'm now Alain Devereux.' 'I'm sorry, Mr Devereux. It's just force of habit.' Bernard gestured towards the door. 'Get out.' Barak left the room, leaving the door ajar in his haste to get out of the house.

Bernard took another cigarette from the packet and lit it. He had always known that Graham would find him again one day. It had been inevitable. But now he had the advantage, and he intended to use it…

'I still say I should go in with you,' Laidlaw urged after he had parked the car outside Barak's house.

Graham shook his head. 'We've been through this already. Barak gave specific instructions that I was to go in alone. I've got to play by his rules. He's my only chance of finding Bernard.'

'It could be a trap.'

'Don't you think that's crossed my mind? It's a chance I've got to take.'

Laidlaw sighed deeply then nodded.'O K, but if you haven't shown your face at the window in the first couple of minutes I'm coming in after you.'

'Deal,' Graham replied and got out of the car.

Laidlaw watched Graham until he had disappeared into the house then touched his bolstered Pzzo automatic as if to reassure himself. Not that he would use it. He couldn't. Not since that fateful mission in Honduras. He had tried several times at a local shooting range but he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. He knew it was psychological. It was why he had been forced to retire from Delta. But he couldn't tell Graham. How could he? Graham was depending on him. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, willing Graham to appear at the window. Where the hell was he?

The gunshot came from inside the house. Then silence. Laidlaw banged the steering wheel angrily with his fist. It had been a trap. Why hadn't Graham listened to him? He pushed open the door and scrambled out of the car, careful to keep out of sight of the house. He pulled the automatic from his holster but stopped short of curling his finger around the trigger. Sweating, he peered round the side of the car at the house. It was in darkness, just as it had been when they had been there earlier that evening. He would have to go round to the back. He ran, doubled-over, to the adjoining house. It, too, was in darkness. But that was to be expected. Staying alive in Beirut depended on ignoring trouble. He vaulted over the gate and hurried up the narrow driveway. An overgrown hedge divided the two properties. He found a hole in it and squeezed his way through. Barak's back door was barely ten yards away from where he was crouched. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and looked down at the automatic in his hand. But he still couldn't bring himself to touch the trigger. He cursed himself angrily. What happened if the gunman was still in the house? Could he defend himself? He was breathing heavily, but it had nothing to do with the run he had made from the car. It was fear. Delta had taught him that fear was all in the mind. It could be overcome. But that was when he could still pull a trigger.

He swallowed hard and ran to the back door, pressing himself against the wall beside it. He bit his lip as he tried to thread his finger through the trigger guard. It was almost as if an invisible hand were pressing his finger against the barrel. He couldn't do it. He gritted his teeth and tested the handle. The door was unlocked. He kicked it open and dived into the small kitchen, rolling to the safety of the old, battered fridge. He remained there for a few seconds then slowly got to his feet and moved to the door leading into the hallway. Again he pressed himself against the wall and peered cautiously into the hall. At first he couldn't see anything in the semi-darkness. But as his eyes grew accustomed to it he could make out a hand protruding from the open lounge doorway. He was about to swivel round into the hall when he heard the sound of a car starting up outside the house. He recognized the sound of the engine straight away. It was Barak's Peugeot.

He ducked into the first door down the hall. It turned out to be a bedroom. Hurrying to the window, he peered through a tear in the curtains just in time to see the Peugeot drive off, heading towards the city. There was only one person inside but he couldn't make out who it was. It could have been Barak. Or the killer. Unless Barak was the killer. He doubted that. Barak hated violence, especially if it involved guns.

He made his way carefully down the hall until he reached the lounge. Pressing himself against the wall he looked down at the body. It was Barak. He was lying face down, blood seeping from the bullet hole in his back. Laidlaw checked for a pulse. He was dead. Laidlaw stared at the body. There had only been one shot. So where was Graham?

He stood up slowly and entered the lounge. It was empty. He quickly checked the remaining rooms. They, too, were empty. He called out Graham's name but there was no reply. Graham had gone. And Barak was dead. It only left one possible explanation. Graham had been in the Peugeot. He had killed Barak. Laidlaw couldn't believe it. Why? Then a sudden thought flashed through his mind. What was it Graham had said back at the Windorah about Barak? For a moment he couldn't remember his exact words. Then they came to him.

'I thought someone would have put a bullet in his back by now…'

Laidlaw didn't care that Barak was dead. What did bother him was that Graham used him to get at Barak. That hurt, especially after all they had been through together.

He looked down at Barak's body again. One of the neighbours was sure to have made an anonymous call to the police, reporting the gunshot. And it would only be a matter of time before they came to investigate.

He left the way he had come. He couldn't get involved. There would be too much explaining to do.