Time of the Assassins

TWO

New York was swathed in sunlight. Temperatures were in the high seventies and with the absence of any wind it felt sticky and humid.

On the twenty-second floor of the United Nations building, overlooking the East River, Malcolm Philpott was also feeling the heat. A fifty-six-year-old Scot with gaunt features and fine wavy hair, he had been UN AGO Director since its inception in 1980. He reached for his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead again — a cold, clammy sweat that only seemed to have surfaced in the last half an hour. Was he going down with an infection? He wouldn't have been surprised. He was a workaholic and he knew his body was run down and in need of rest. But how could he rest with so much activity going on at UN AGO headquarters? Especially now with Mike Graham's maverick action in Beirut.

He pushed his handkerchief back into his pocket and looked across at his deputy, Sergei Kolchinsky, a Russian in his early fifties who had become an invaluable member of the team since joining UN AGO from the KGB four years earlier. He had a brilliant tactical mind and had helped to crack some of UN A CO's toughest assignments in the past.

Neither man had spoken for the last few minutes. Both were smoking, Philpott his pipe and Kolchinsky a cigarette. Three unopened files lay on Philpott's desk. Each had a name typed on its cover: Mike Graham; C.W. Whitlock; and Sabrina Carver. They made up one of the ten elite 'Strike Force' teams, all top field operatives who had been siphoned off from police, military and intelligence services around the world. They were able to request anything they wanted from their administrative colleagues which they felt could aid them on any given mission. Those requests used to have to go through either Philpott or Kolchinsky, but they had recently decided to waive the routine and allow the field operatives a free hand. Now both men regretted ever having made the decision.

They had discovered that Graham had drawn three false passports, in the names of Michael Green, Miles Grant and Mark Gordon, and used one of them to fly to Beirut. He had managed to get a Beretta from a contact in Beirut which was now in the hands of the local police. It had his fingerprints on it. It had been fired once — the bullet which had killed Barak. And now Graham was missing. He was a wanted man in the Lebanon and UNACO couldn't do anything publicly without endangering their own clandestine existence. That meant Graham was on his own. Certainly for the time being…

'Malcolm, are you feeling alright?' Kolchinsky asked, breaking the silence. 'You're looking very pale.'

'I'm fine,' Philpott replied tersely then reached for his cane and got to his feet. He moved to the window, walking with a pronounced limp on his left leg, the result of a shrapnel wound in the last days of the Korean War. He turned back to Kolchinsky, his eyes blazing. 'I can't believe he could have been that stupid. We've made plenty of enemies over the years, even politicians here at the UN, and this will provide them with the perfect ammunition for them to shoot UN AGO down in flames. We've got to find him before the Lebanese authorities do. If he goes on trial we may as well all start looking for other jobs. UN AGO will be crucified.'

Kolchinsky gave a resigned nod. 'What do you suggest?'

'We've got to bring C.W. and Sabrina in on the case as quickly as possible. But we can't do anything until I've spoken to Langley.'

'What have the CIA to do with this?' Kolchinsky asked with a frown.

'I'm as much in the dark as you are, Sergei. I got a call from their Deputy Director, Robert Bailey, this morning. He wouldn't go into details over the phone but he said it had something to do with Bernard. He's coming over later this morning to see me.'

'Do you want me to see to C.W. and Sabrina?'

'Yes, put them on a Code Red standby. I want them here by two at the latest — ' Philpott stopped abruptly as a crushing pain seared through his chest, radiating out to his neck, jaw and arms. His cane fell from his grasp and he sagged forward against the wall.

Kolchinsky leaped from his chair and grabbed Philpott before he could fall to the floor. Philpott clutched his chest in agony. It felt as if it were going to burst. The pain was unbearable. His eyes watered as the pain increased. He tried to speak but he couldn't get the words out. He thought he was about to die. At that moment he would have welcomed it, an escape from the agony burning through his chest.

Kolchinsky lowered him carefully to the floor then flicked on the intercom switch on the desk. 'Sarah, call an ambulance. And hurry. The Colonel's had a heart attack.'

He switched off the intercom before she could reply and hurried back to where Philpott lay. He remembered his first-aid training with the KGB — always keep the sufferer as warm and calm as possible. He took off his jacket and placed it over Philpott's chest.

'You're going to be alright, Malcolm. Sarah's calling for an ambulance.'

The pain had subsided to a tightness of the chest. He suddenly felt cold but he could also feel the sweat running down the sides of his face. He had known right away what had happened. His mother had suffered two heart attacks before the third one had killed her. He knew the symptoms. A coronary thrombosis, the doctor had called it. It was strange. He felt perfectly lucid yet he couldn't speak. The words wouldn't reach his lips.

Kolchinsky noticed Philpott trying to speak and squeezed his arm reassuringly. 'Don't try and say anything, Malcolm. You're going to be alright.'

The door slid open and Sarah Thomas, Philpott's secretary, hurried across to where Kolchinsky was crouched. 'The ambulance is on its way. It should be here in about ten minutes.'

'Have you told security it's on its way?'

She nodded. 'Can I do anything to help?' she whispered.

Kolchinsky shook his head. 'The worst's over. He's going to be alright, don't worry.' He turned towards her. 'Get hold of Sabrina and C.W. Tell them I want them here by two this afternoon.'

Sarah returned to the outer office. Her hands were shaking when she picked up the receiver and dialled the number of Sabrina's flat.

Sabrina wasn't in her flat. She was taking in the boutiques on Fifth Avenue. It was her second-favourite pastime. Her favourite was listening to jazz, either live at one of her regular haunts, Ali's Alley or the Village Vanguard, or sitting at home with the headphones on, listening to the likes of David Sanborn or the Yellowjackets. Sanborn was her idol and she tried to get to as many of his live gigs as possible when he was playing in New York. Jazz had become a way of life for her.

She was dressed casually in a pair of faded Levi jeans, brown ankle boots and a baggy white T-shirt. Her shoulder-length blond hair was hidden underneath a New York Yankees baseball cap, a present from Mike Graham. She was a stunning twenty-eight-year-old with a near perfect figure, which she kept in shape with regular aerobics classes, and she had a friendly, outgoing disposition. She had given up counting the number of marriage proposals she had turned down over the years. Her independence was too important to her. Moreover, any serious relationship could well jeopardize her position with UN A CO. As far as her friends were concerned, she was a translator at the United Nations. None of them knew that she had been with the FBI for two years, where she had specialized in the use of firearms, before joining UN AGO three years ago. She was still the only female field operative in the organization but her gutsy determination and self-confidence had won over her male colleagues who now regarded her as an equal. She could think of no greater compliment.

She paused in front of Barnes and Noble and pretended to look at the book display in the window. She was sure she was being followed. Not that she had seen anyone. It was just an instinct that came with the job. She waited a few moments then turned into East 48th Street, still pretending to look in the shop windows as she walked. She didn't increase her pace — it would only alert her pursuer. But who was it? She was more than capable of defending herself if the need arose, but what if her pursuer was someone who had recognized her from a previous UN A C O assignment, someone out to blow her cover? That did frighten her.

She stopped again, this time in the doorway of a delicatessen, and reached into her bag for her sunglasses. She slid them on. Now she could use the shop windows to look behind her without arousing any suspicions. A movement caught her eye as she stepped back out onto the pavement but before she could react a black youth shot past her on rollerskates, snatching the bag out of her hand. He dodged between the startled shoppers, none of whom made any attempt to stop him. She immediately sprinted after him. He glanced over his shoulder and grinned at her, knowing she couldn't catch up with him, but when he looked round he found himself heading straight for a display of fresh produce outside a delicatessen. He swerved sharply to the left but his leg hit the edge of the wooden stand and he fell heavily to the ground, spilling an assortment of fruit across the pavement. He scrambled to his feet and looked round nervously at Sabrina who was closing in fast on him. He set off again, his face now twisted in pain, and flung the bag to an accomplice in an alley twenty yards further on.

Sabrina ignored the fleeing youth on the rollerskates and went in pursuit of his accomplice. She followed him through a network of alleyways until he mistakenly darted into a cul-de-sac. He realized his mistake too late and when he turned back to the entrance Sabrina was already there, blocking his escape. She was breathing heavily, her hands on her hips. She met the youth's eyes. He was a Puerto Rican, no older than twenty, with long, greasy black hair and a red headband. He pulled a switchblade from his pocket and opened it inches from his leg.

'You want some?' he asked, the switchblade extended menacingly towards her.

'I don't want any trouble,' she said calmly then held out her hand towards him. 'Give me the bag and that will be the end of it.'

The youth laughed then spat on the ground. 'You want the bag, you come and get it.'

Sabrina shrugged and moved towards the youth. He dropped the bag then, tightening his grip on the switchblade, he waited until she was in range before lunging at her, the blade slashing the air inches from her face. Pity to cut such a pretty face but she'd asked for it. He grinned as he came at her again.

She waited until he stabbed at her then, using her left forearm to block his wrist, she followed up by slamming the heel of her right hand against his chin and kneeing him in the groin. He cried out in agony and stumbled back against the wall. The switchblade fell from his hand as he sagged to the ground, whimpering softly, his hands clutched between his legs. She picked up the bag, checked inside to see that everything was still there, and was about to confiscate the switchblade when she heard the sound of a police siren in the distance. She couldn't be involved in a police investigation. The way in which she had dispatched her attacker would certainly make news.

She ducked into the adjoining alley. The siren was getting closer. She ran to the end of the alley and was about to scale the ten-foot wire fence when the bleeper attached to her belt suddenly shrilled into life. It was UN AGO headquarters. Of all the times for them to call, she thought irritably. She switched it off then clambered over the fence, landing nimbly on her toes, and walked down another alley which brought her out onto Madison Avenue.

She called headquarters from a phone booth, spoke briefly to Sarah, then hurried to the curb to signal a taxi to take her back to her flat.

'Afternoon, Francois.'

The maitre d'hotel looked up from his reservation book and smiled warmly. 'Ah, good afternoon, Mr Whitlock. You are looking well.'

'I am, thank you. Has my wife arrived yet?'

'Not yet,' Franqois replied.

Til be in the bar. Tell her when she arrives.'

'Of course,' came the cordial reply.

Whitlock had been going to Le Chantilly restaurant on East 57th Street since he had first arrived in New York in 1980. It was where he had taken a vivacious Puerto Rican paediatrician, Carmen Rodriguez, on their first date. A year later to the day he had proposed to her at the same table. They had been married now for seven years.

He hoisted himself onto one of the bar stools and nodded in greeting to the barman who was busy serving another customer. The barman smiled back and told Whitlock he would be with him shortly. Whitlock was a forty-four-year-old Kenyan with sharp, angular features softened by the neatly trimmed black moustache he had worn since leaving university in his early twenties. He was photophobic and always wore a pair of tinted glasses to protect his eyes. He had been educated in England and after graduating from Oxford had returned to Kenya where he served with the Intelligence Corps for ten years before being recruited to UN AGO as one of its first field operatives. He was now the only survivor of the original team.

'What can I get you to drink, Mr Whitlock?' the barman asked, leaning his hands on the counter in front of Whitlock.

'The usual, Rick,' Whitlock replied.

The barman nodded, took a bottle of beer from the fridge and opened it. He poured the beer into a glass and placed it on a coaster in front of Whitlock.

'How are things in the world of politics, Mr Whitlock?' he asked, referring to Whitlock's cover as a member of the Kenyan embassy at the United Nations. Carmen was the only person outside UN AGO who knew about the deception.

'The usual, Rick.'

The barman, sensing Whitlock wasn't in a talkative mood, left him alone. Whitlock took a sip of beer then glanced over his shoulder at the entrance. Still no sign of Carmen. He turned the glass slowly on the coaster as he thought about her. Their marriage had nearly ended a few months back. Well, that was when it had all come to a head. But it had been simmering for a couple of years before that. It all stemmed from her desire for him to leave UN A CO. She was frightened for his safety. But he had been adamant: he was staying. She had finally walked out on him and it had only been the intervention of Philpott that had brought them back together again. He had told them that Whitlock would be promoted to Deputy Director when he retired at the end of the year. Kolchinsky would take over as Director. Then, after a year, Kolchinsky would step down and Whitlock would take his place. Other than the four of them, and the Secretary-General, tire only other person who knew about it was Jacques Rust, head of UN AGO European operation, based in Zurich. Carmen had then thrown her full support behind him, knowing he would be out of the field by the end of the year. Whitlock knew he would miss working in the field, especially with Mike and Sabrina, but he also knew it would be a small price to pay to keep his marriage intact. And that meant everything to him…

'C.W.?'

Whitlock looked round sharply, startled by the voice behind him. He grinned ruefully at his wife then kissed her lightly on the lips. 'How long have you been standing there?'

'A few seconds,' she replied, allowing him to help her onto the adjacent bar stool.

'I'm sorry, I was miles away.'

'So I noticed.' She ordered a spritzer then turned back to him, her face solemn. 'I've got some bad news. Rosie was arrested last night.'

Whitlock stared at her in horror. Rosie was the teenage daughter of Carmen's sister, Rachel, and her German husband, Eddie Kruger.

The barman placed the spritzer in front of her. She waited until he was out of earshot before continuing. 'She was caught buying drugs in Times Square. I don't know what it was, Rachel didn't say.'

Whitlock sighed deeply and shook his head sadly. 'I suppose I shouldn't be that surprised.'

'And what exactly is that supposed to mean?' she demanded.

'Come off it, Carmen, you know damn well what I'm talking about. They've hardly been the best parents in the world, have they? Rachel had that affair with her boss and Eddie's drinking has been getting steadily worse these last couple of years — '

'She had that affair as an escape from Eddie's drinking,' Carmen cut in quickly.

'That's irrelevant. Look at it from Rosie's perspective. Can't you see? This is her way of escaping from them.'

'Will you talk to her?'

He shook his head. 'No; it's up to Eddie and Rachel to talk to her.'

'Rachel asked if you would.'

'Where's Eddie?'

'He went to an all-night poker game last night. She hasn't seen him since.'

'Some father,' Whitlock muttered.

'Talk to her, C.W. You're the only person she's ever listened to in the past.'

'I'm not using UN AGO to pull any strings, Carmen. Let's get that straight right from the start.'

'Just talk to her,' she replied softly. 'Please.'

'O K,' he replied at length. 'Where is she?'

'At home. Rachel put up the bail — '

The bleeper clipped to Whitlock's belt suddenly activated and he was quick to silence it. He shot Carmen a despairing look. 'This is all I need right now. I have to answer it, Carmen.'

'I know,' she replied and squeezed his hand gently.

'I will talk to her, I promise you. But when I don't know. It all depends on what's come up,' he said, patting the bleeper.

'Would you like to use this phone, Mr Whitlock?' the barman asked, having heard the bleeper from the other side of the bar.

'No, but thanks anyway, Rick,' Whitlock replied then turned back to Carmen. 'I've suddenly lost my appetite.'

'I lost mine when I heard about Rosie,' Carmen replied.

'Come on then, let's go.'

Sarah Thomas had been Philpott's secretary for the last five years. Her sparsely furnished office on the twenty-second floor of the United Nations building was an antechamber to the UNACO headquarters. The wall opposite the door, constructed of rows of teak slats, contained two seamless sliding doors, invisible to the naked eye, which could only be activated by miniature sonic transmitters. The door to the right led into the UNACO Command Centre, a soundproofed room where teams of analysts worked around the clock to monitor the fluctuating developments in world affairs. The door to the left led into Philpott's private office.

Kolchinsky sat behind Philpott's desk, his eyes riveted on Whitlock and Sabrina. He had just broken the news to them about Philpott.

'Will he be alright?' Sabrina asked anxiously, breaking the sudden silence.

'I spoke to the doctor before I left the hospital. He's optimistic that the Colonel will make a complete recovery. They're keeping him in hospital for another few days to carry out more tests.'

'Unless he discharges himself first,' Whitlock said and eyed Kolchinsky knowingly. 'He'll want to be back at work as soon as possible. You know the Colonel.'

'I've already been in touch with the Secretary-General. He's going to see the Colonel tonight to tell him to take a month's leave after he's been discharged from hospital.'

'I wish him luck,' Whitlock said. 'You know just how stubborn the Colonel can be when he wants to get his own way.'

'I don't think he'll put up much resistance this time,' Kolchinsky replied then paused to light a cigarette. 'He's been overworking and he knows it. The next attack could be fatal.'

They lapsed into silence again.

Whitlock got to his feet and crossed to the dispenser against the wall. 'Coffee anyone?'

They both shook their heads.

'Where's Mike?' Whitlock asked, pouring himself a coffee.

'That's a good question,' Kolchinsky replied gruffly. 'The last I heard was that he's on the run from the authorities in Beirut.'

'What?' Sabrina asked in astonishment.

'Beirut?' Whitlock said, pausing in front of the desk to look down at Kolchinsky. 'Is he on assignment?'

'No, he is not,' Kolchinsky boomed angrily, stressing each word in turn. 'He's gone after Bernard.'

'Jean-Jacques Bernard?' Sabrina said, her eyes flickering between Kolchinsky and Whitlock. 'He's dead, isn't he?'

'Sit down, C.W.,' Kolchinsky said, waving towards the black leather sofa where Sabrina was sitting. 'I'll tell you what I know so far. And believe me, it isn't much.'

Kolchinsky waited until Whitlock was seated before opening the file on the desk in front of him and outlining the sketchy details Philpott had received from their UNACO contact in Beirut earlier that morning.

'Mike would never have shot this Barak in the back,' Sabrina said once Kolchinsky had finished. 'That's cold-blooded murder. He's been set up — '

'Spare the lecture, Sabrina,' Kolchinsky cut in sharply. He placed the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray before looking at her again. 'Look, I hear what you're saying. And if it's any consolation, I don't think he shot Barak either. But we can't be sure until we find him. And we have to find him, quickly.'

'What if the person who murdered Barak killed Mike as well?' Whitlock said and immediately noticed the look of horror on Sabrina's face. He turned to her. 'It's a possibility we have to face.'

'Why set Michael up to take the rap then kill him? If the killer wanted Michael dead, why not shoot him at Barak's house?'

Kolchinsky shook his head. 'No, if Michael was set up then it's obvious the killer wants him alive.'

'What about Laidlaw?' Sabrina asked. 'Have any of our people contacted him?'

'We can't risk it,' Kolchinsky replied. 'The police know he met Michael last night. They don't have any evidence linking him to the murder but you can be sure they'll be watching his every move. That's where you come in.'

'How?'

'You're going over there as Michael's girlfriend.

And it's imperative that you play it all above board. Contact the police once you arrive to let them know you're looking for him. That way you'll be able to see Laidlaw without arousing their suspicions. I'm not saying you'll find out anything, but you have to start somewhere.'

'Where do I come in?' Whitlock asked.

'You'll find out soon enough,' Kolchinsky replied then pressed the intercom button on the desk. 'Sarah, ask Mr Bailey to come through.'

Kolchinsky used a miniature transmitter to activate the door. Moments later Sarah appeared, followed by a man in a pale grey suit. He was in his early fifties with wavy black hair and a craggy face which was scarred around the cheeks and mouth from teenage acne. He smiled quickly at Sarah when she withdrew and closed the door behind her.

Kolchinsky came round from behind the desk and the two men shook hands. He introduced Whitlock and Sabrina to Bailey who then sat down on the second black leather sofa and took a cigar from his pocket. He unwrapped the cellophane then looked across at Kolchinsky. 'I was shocked to hear about Colonel Philpott. How is he?'

'He's expected to make a full recovery,' Kolchinsky replied.

'That is good news. Please send him my regards when you next see him. We may not have always seen eye to eye in the past but I have great respect for him nevertheless.' Bailey lit the cigar and exhaled the smoke towards the ceiling. 'Have you had a chance to look through the dossier I sent you this morning?'

'I've read it,' Kolchinsky said, unable to keep the disdain from his voice.

'And have you briefed your operatives?' Bailey asked, indicating Whitlock and Sabrina on the adjacent sofa.

'They've only just got here. We've been talking about the events in Beirut.'

'That's understandable,' Bailey said with the hint of a smile. 'It's quite a mess he's got you into, isn't it?'

'You let us worry about that, Mr Bailey,' Kolchinsky replied icily. Til let you explain the gist of the dossier to C.W. and Sabrina. After all, it is your dirty work.'

Bailey got to his feet and moved to the window. He puffed thoughtfully on the cigar then turned back to face Whitlock and Sabrina. 'What I'm about to tell you can never be repeated outside these four walls. It's one of the CIA's most closely guarded secrets and I intend to keep it that way. Any indiscretion on your part — '

'There will be no indiscretion on their part,' Kolchinsky cut in angrily, his eyes blazing.

Bailey shrugged, not altogether convinced by Kolchinsky's outburst. But he let it pass. 'It would never have needed to come out if Graham hadn't rushed off to Beirut to find Bernard.' He paused to draw on the cigar, still loath to reveal what he had come to say. When he spoke it was in a barely audible voice as if he feared that his words would carry beyond the four walls. 'Jean-Jacques Bernard works for me.'

'Bernard's CIA?' Whitlock said in astonishment.

Bailey nodded.

'Was he working for you when Mike's family were kidnapped?" Sabrina demanded.

'Yes,' Bailey answered then held up his hand to silence Sabrina before she could speak again. 'But the kidnapping had nothing to do with him. It was carried out on the orders of Salim Al-Makesh to give himself time to flee the terrorist base before Delta destroyed it.'

'And now Al-Makesh is dead. How convenient.'

'You can drop the sarcasm, Sabrina,' Kolchinsky said sharply, pointing a finger of warning at her.

She opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, then slumped back angrily on the sofa and folded her arms across her chest.

'Why was Mike never told about this?' Whitlock asked, his eyes riveted on Bailey. 'He's been through hell these past two years trying to come to terms with the loss of his family. Had he known the truth it might have made his loss that bit more bearable.'

'Bernard told us what happened and as he and Al-Makesh were the only two survivors of the attack we couldn't say anything without endangering his cover.'

'You bastard,' Sabrina snarled.

Bailey inhaled sharply and glanced at Kolchinsky, fully expecting him to reprimand her again. Kolchinsky said nothing.

'What did happen to them?' Whitlock asked, breaking the tense silence.

'I don't know the details,' Bailey replied with a shrug. 'But I do know they were killed in retaliation for the attack on the base camp. That's all Bernard could find out from Al-Makesh.'

Whitlock bit his lip pensively then looked across at Kolchinsky. 'When I asked you earlier where I fitted into the assignment you said that I'd find out soon enough. There's more to this than just finding Mike before he gets to Bernard, isn't there?'

'Yes,' Kolchinsky replied bluntly then took another cigarette from the packet on the desk and lit it. He indicated towards Bailey. 'I'll let you explain.', 'Very well,' Bailey said. 'Have either of you ever heard of Zimbala?'

'Sure,' Whitlock answered. 'It's a small country in central Africa. Borders Chad and Niger.'

'You're unusually well informed,' Bailey said with thinly veiled sarcasm.

'I am African,' Whitlock rejoined. 'Born in Kenya, but educated in England. That's where I learned about Zimbala.'

'Then you'll also know that Zimbala has been a one-party state since it was granted independence by the French forty-five years ago.'

'A dictatorship run by Alphonse Mobuto,' Sabrina said.

'Until his death last month,' Bailey said.

'That I didn't know,' Whitlock said.

'Me neither,' Sabrina added.

'It's hardly surprising. His death received very limited coverage outside Zimbala.'.

'Who's running the country now?' Whitlock asked.

'His eldest son, Jamel. He's due to arrive in New York tonight for an official three-day visit.'

'So where does Bernard fit into this?' Sabrina asked exasperatedly.

'I'm coming to that. It's Jamel Mobuto's intention to bring democracy to Zimbala. That's caused a lot of resentment within certain sections of the country, especially amongst the rich who would stand to lose a great deal if Mobuto has his way. A team of four assassins, made up from the now disbanded Security Police, have vowed to kill Mobuto while he's here in America. It's a threat we've taken very seriously. I told Bernard to infiltrate the team so that he can keep us posted on their movements. He approached them with an offer to train them. Naturally they accepted, knowing how invaluable his expertise would be to them. They now trust him implicitly. He'll tip us off when he knows where and when the hit is due to take place so that it can be stopped in time. That's why Graham has to be found. If he gets to Bernard before we know the details of the hit it'll leave us totally in the dark. And if Mobuto was killed on American soil it would prove a severe embarrassment not only to us but to the President as well. After all, it's not as if we haven't been forewarned.'

'And I'm to babysit Mobuto?' Whitlock concluded.

Bailey nodded. 'You'll work with two of my men. He's bringing half-a-dozen bodyguards with him but they're all amateurs, made up of officers from the Zimbalan army. If anything does happen, it'll be up to the three of you to deal with it.'

'You'll be in charge,' Kolchinsky said, looking at Whitlock.

'The three of them will be in charge,' Bailey corrected him.

'C.W. will be in overall charge,' Kolchinsky re-

torted. 'It's important to have one leader. I've read the files on your men. They may be the best bullet catchers you've got but they don't have C.W.'s experience. And if you want to take the matter further I suggest you call the President. The Secretary-General spoke to him earlier today and he agreed that C.W. should be in charge.'

Til tell my men,' Bailey said tersely.

Til be in touch so that we can arrange for C.W. to meet your men before Mobuto arrives tonight,' Kolchinsky said then picked up the transmitter on the desk and activated the door.

Bailey left the room and Kolchinsky closed the door behind him.

'What a slimeball,' Sabrina said, staring at the closed door.

Kolchinsky smiled. 'He could have been sitting here instead of me.'

'What do you mean?' she asked.

'You never knew my predecessor, Gronskin, did you?'

She shook her head. 'He was before my time.'

'Well, when he was deported back to Russia for spying the CIA suggested Bailey as a possible replacement to take over as the Colonel's number two. The KGB put my name forward. The Secretary-General initially wanted Bailey, which I suppose was understandable under the circumstances, but the Colonel threatened to resign if Bailey got the job. As Bailey said, the two of them never saw eye to eye. It would have been catastrophic if Bailey had come here. So I got the job instead.'

'I never knew that,' Whitlock said.

'I'm sure glad the Colonel put his foot down,' Sabrina said, glancing at the door again.

Whitlock stood up and dug his hands into his pockets. He crossed to the far wall then turned to look at Kolchinsky. 'I was at university with Jamel Mobuto.'

'Why didn't you say something when Bailey was here?'

'Because we didn't get on,' Whitlock replied.

'Why not?' Kolchinsky asked.

Whitlock sighed deeply then returned to the sofa and sat down. 'He'd never set foot outside Zimbala before he came to Oxford. It must have been a bit of a culture shock for him. But instead of trying to adapt to the British way of life he rebelled against it and reverted to his African heritage. He wore African clothes, his room was an African shrine and he made no attempt to befriend any of the British students. He became a pariah although he did have an avid following amongst some of the more radical left-wing students who regarded him as something of a guru.'

'Was he a Communist?' Kolchinsky asked.

'No, strangely enough. He was just very pro-African and Africa's particular way of life. He had a younger brother who went to Oxford as well and he did become a Communist. But that was after I'd gone. I don't know anything about him.'

'His name's Remy,' Kolchinsky said and tapped the dossier on the desk. 'It's all in here. You'll both get copies of it.'

'You still haven't said why you and Mobuto didn't get on,' Sabrina said,

'I was born in Kenya but educated in England. To him, I was little more than a traitor. I'd sold out my race. And let's face it, I am more British than I am Kenyan. That's what he couldn't accept. So we just kept out of each other's way.'

'Why did he stay if he hated it so much?' Sabrina asked.

'Because his father had sent him. If he'd gone back to Zimbala it would have brought disgrace on the family. Africans take failure far more seriously than you do here in the West.' Whitlock dismissed the subject with a curt flick of his hand. 'Anyway, that was a long time ago. I certainly don't hold any grudges now.'

'Let's hope Mobuto feels the same way,' Kolchinsky said.

'Does he know I'm going to be babysitting him when he gets to New York?'

Kolchinsky nodded. 'Bailey's already briefed him on the telephone but he won't know you're in charge of the operation until he gets here. You'll have to break that to him yourself.'

'I look forward to it,' Whitlock said with a faint smile.

Kolchinsky handed them each a dossier which contained details of their particular assignment (to be destroyed after reading) and, in Sabrina's case, an airline ticket, maps of Beirut, written confirmation of her hotel booking, the name of her contact and a sum of money in Lebanese pounds.

She glanced at her watch and immediately got to her feet. 'My flight leaves at four thirty this afternoon,' she said. 'I'd better get going. Send the Colonel my best wishes when you see him again, Sergei.'

'I will,' Kolchinsky replied and activated the door for her. 'And Sabrina?'

She paused in the doorway to look round at him.

'Bring Michael back before he gets himself into any more trouble.'

She nodded grimly then left the room.

Kolchinsky closed the door again. 'The Colonel might not be coming back. The Secretary-General's waiting for the doctor's report before coming to a decision.'

'He was due to retire at the end of the year anyway. Perhaps it's for the best if he did take an early retirement.'

'Try telling that to the Colonel. It's not as if he's taking voluntary retirement. It's been forced on him by his doctor. So you can be sure he'll want to see out his time here, if only to prove a point to his doctor.'

'And possibly kill himself in the process.'

Kolchinsky reached for his cigarettes and lit one. 'That's why the Secretary-General's delaying his decision. He'll give the Colonel every chance to prove that he's fit enough to return to work.'

'And if not, I'll leave Strike Force Three and join you here.'

'You don't sound very enthusiastic about it,' Kolchinsky said.

'I'm not. Stuck behind a desk all day isn't my idea of fun, Sergei.' Whitlock picked up the dossier. 'Let me out, will you?'

'The Colonel said you were over the moon when he broke the news to you.'

'How did you expect me to react? Carmen was there.' Whitlock walked to the door and looked back at Kolchinsky. 'Don't worry, I won't let anyone down. Especially not her.'