Time of the Assassins

THREE

Remy Mobuto had always lived in his brother's shadow. He had known from an early age that Jamel, as the older brother, would take over as leader of Zimbala once their father died. That had never bothered him. He had never had any aspirations to enter politics. When he followed Jamel to Oxford he immediately joined the Communist Party, more as an act of rebellion than anything else. His father's response was not only to stop sending him money but also to bar him from returning to Zimbala until he renounced his Socialist beliefs. He refused to comply and left Oxford after the first year to join the Guardian where he remained for seven years before taking up a post as an investigative journalist with a left-wing French newspaper. By then he had become an outspoken critic of the numerous dictators in Africa, especially his father. His father disowned him publicly and said he would never be allowed back to Zimbala in his lifetime.

He returned for his father's funeral, the first time he'd been back to Zimbala in seventeen years, and Jamel was able to persuade him to stay on as the new editor of the country's leading daily newspaper, La Voix.

Remy had only been in charge for a month and already he had a major scoop on his hands. It concerned the plot to overthrow his brother and form a new dictatorship; but he had discovered another side to the story, a sinister angle that would make international headlines if it were ever made public. But before he could do that, or tell Jamel, he needed proof to back up those allegations. And he was about to get it…

He drove down the main street of Habane, the capital of Zimbala, and turned into the basement carpark where he had arranged to meet his informant. There were only a couple of cars there at that time of the evening. He glanced at his watch. Eight fifty-seven. He had told his informant to meet him at nine o'clock. He pulled into the pre-arranged space, climbed out of the car, then took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and lit one.

He looked around him slowly. The silence was eerie. He took a long drag on the cigarette and looked at his watch again. Eight fifty-eight. He cursed his anxiety. There was no reason for it. But still the uncertainty lingered. He looked round again, this time taking more notice of his surroundings. Then he saw it: his informant's car, a blue Fiat. It was parked next to the wall and almost hidden from view by the red Studebaker beside it. He exhaled sharply and managed a faint smile. Typical of his informant to take such precautions.

He ground his cigarette underfoot and walked slowly towards the Fiat. He could see his informant behind the wheel. Why hadn't he shown himself?

Mobuto dismissed the question; at least he was there. He reached the Fiat and leaned over to peer through the driver's window. The man's throat had been cut from ear to ear, soaking his shirt and trousers in blood. Mobuto recoiled in horror, stumbling back painfully into the Studebaker's wing mirror. He felt his stomach heave and he retched against the wall. He remained doubled over for several seconds before slowly straightening up and wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Then he heard a sound behind him. He turned, his eyes wide with fear. Two men stood behind the Studebaker. Both were dressed in blue overalls. One had blood on his sleeve. The killer? He was about to speak when he noticed a movement out of the corner of his eye. He was still turning when the cosh struck him behind the ear.

Then nothing.

Zimbala's main prison, La Tambier, was less than ten minutes' drive from the centre of Habane. It took its name from the district in which it was located. It had been built when Alphonse Mobuto first came to power and quickly became known throughout the country as La Boucherie, the Butcher's Shop, because of the number of anti-government dissidents who were tortured then murdered there by the feared and hated Security Police. Jamel Mobuto's first two decrees on taking office had been to free all political prisoners being held there and the immediate dismantling of the Security Police. Now, ironically, its most notorious prisoner was Le Boucher, Tito Ngune, the head of the

Security Police for the last twenty-three years. There had been cries for his public execution but Jamel Mobuto had made it quite clear that Ngune would be tried and, if found guilty, sentenced to life imprisonment. He refused to continue the legacy of executions which had been symptomatic of his father's regime.

Ngune lay on the single mattress in the corner of his cell. He was a stocky fifty-eight-year-old with grey hair and a small goatee beard which looked as if it had been stuck on to his chin with glue. His face and body were a mass of bruises after he had been attacked at his home by a forty-strong mob who were preparing to lynch him in the remains of his once beautiful garden when the military had arrived and bundled him into the back of a police van and brought him to La Tambier.

He sat up gingerly and looked slowly around the cell. All those years of unswerving loyalty to Alphonse Mobuto and this was all it had brought him. Mobuto had always had one weakness, his family. Although he publicly renounced Remy and repealed the law making Jamel his natural successor, he had always refused to allow Ngune's men to touch them. But, unknown to Mobuto, Ngune had tried on three different occasions to have Jamel killed. Each attempt had ended in failure. He certainly had guts, Ngune had to give him that. Anyone else who had dared to criticize either Mobuto or his Government was immediately arrested and taken to La Tambier or to the now abandoned Branco prison in Kondese, the second-largest city situated in the south of the country. None of them ever left.

A jackhammer started up somewhere beyond the prison walls. It had become a familiar sound over the last couple of days. At first it had been an irritation but now he had grown strangely accustomed to it — a break from the monotonous silence that filled the prison. He had wondered what they were doing out there. Digging up the road? Or tearing down part of the prison? It was certainly feasible under Jamel Mobuto's new liberal leadership. Not that it mattered. It was all academic to him now. But it still interested him, if only to put his mind at rest. He reminded himself to ask one of the guards when they brought him his next meal…

Michael Sibele had known for the last two days why the gang of workmen was busy outside the main gates: repairing a burst mains pipe. He had been the guard on duty at the gate for the last week. It was his last day. Tomorrow he would return to his duties inside the prison — with mixed feelings. He had enjoyed the workmen's company but he would also be grateful to get away from the noise of the machines, especially the incessant throbbing of the jackhammers. The workmen had offered him ear plugs but his commanding officer had forbidden him to wear them. So he just had to put up with the noise. Well, only a few hours to go…

One of the workmen broke away from the group and approached him. Sibele knew him only as Johnny. His real name was Thomas Massenga, once Ngune's right-hand man, who had been on the run since Jamel Mobuto came to power. It was only when he got closer that Sibele saw the blood on the sleeve of his blue overall. Massenga pulled a

Mini-Uzi from inside his overall and shot Sibele at point-blank range.

The bulldozer which had stood dormant for the past two days coughed into life and rumbled towards the prison gates. Two guards, who had been alerted by the gunfire, ran towards the gates. Both were armed with FN FAL semi-automatic rifles. Massenga shot them before they could fire at the bulldozer. It smashed through the gates, tearing them off their hinges as though they were made of plastic. Massenga gestured to the other six men who immediately followed him into the prison compound, each carrying a Mini-Uzi.

The skeleton staff were no match for Massenga and his team of ex-Security policemen. The fighting was over within a minute and they were able to make their way down to the cells. The two guards outside Ngune's cell threw down their weapons when challenged by Massenga. They had no option. Massenga took the keys from one of them and unlocked Ngune's cell door. He hurried over to where Ngune lay and crouched anxiously beside him, horrified at the sight of Ngune's discoloured, swollen face. Immediately he ordered two of his men to carry Ngune then locked the two terrified guards in an adjoining cell. Discarding the keys, he then led the way back to the front of the prison. He glanced at his watch. They had made good time. Although the telephone wires had been cut minutes before the assault he knew the authorities would still have been alerted and were almost certainly on their way to the prison at that very moment.

A black van reversed through the shattered remains of the main gate and the back doors were thrown open. Ngune was helped into the back of the van and placed gently on a palliasse with his head resting on a pillow. Massenga closed the doors then climbed into the cab beside the driver who engaged the gears and pulled out into the road.

The plan was to change vehicles on the outskirts of Habane then continue on to Kondese where hundreds of men, mostly ex-Security policemen loyal to Ngune, were waiting to launch a crushing offensive against Jamel Mobuto's inept, and disorganized, government troops, many of whom had only joined up when the new regime was instated. And with a team of assassins awaiting Jamel Mobuto's arrival in America, it would only be a question of days before Tito Ngune was inaugurated as the new President of Zimbala.

It was a plan that couldn't fail.

The New York Police Department, which was responsible for security at John F. Kennedy Airport, had drafted in fifty men for the arrival of Jamel Mobuto's delegation in America. Fifteen snipers, each with Mi6 rifles (and infra-red night scopes), were positioned at strategic points overlooking the runway while another fifteen, in plainclothes, mingled freely with the crowds inside the terminal building itself. A section of runway had been cordoned off that afternoon by the remaining twenty policemen who had strict orders not to allow anyone through without an official pass. The authorities were determined not to take any chances, not with so much at stake. Whitlock had driven to the airport a couple of hours before the delegation was due to arrive to ensure that all the security measures had been put into operation. He had been satisfied with the arrangements. He glanced at his watch. The two hours were almost up and, according to air-traffic control, the presidential plane would land on schedule.

He looked around. To his left were three NYPD police cars, parked bumper to bumper, and behind them a human chain of police officers, all armed with handguns and rifles. To his right were the four black limousines that would be used to transport the Zimbalan delegation around New York. The opaque dark windows, like the chassis, were bulletproof, and each of the drivers could activate a row of razor-sharp spikes secreted on the undercarriage if any attempt was made to overturn the car. Every eventuality had to be covered.

The official welcoming party had congregated in front of the limousines, talking amongst themselves. The Zimbalan mission was headed by their newly appointed ambassador to the UN and the White House's Chief of Protocol was the official representative from the American administration.

Whitlock's eyes flickered to the two sombre-suited men standing apart from the others, Paul Brett and Jack Rogers. Bailey's men. Both had been presidential bodyguards with the Reagan administration but neither of them had ever had to draw his gun in anger. Whitlock had spent most of the afternoon with them and he'd come away with the distinct impression that they held him in little regard. Although they never said it, he knew their bitterness stemmed from the fact that he would be in charge of the operation. They would be taking orders from someone outside the CIA. Brett suddenly glanced across at him. His face remained expressionless. Rogers said something and they both laughed. Whitlock stared back at Brett. The hell he'd be intimidated by one of Bailey's flunkeys. Brett looked away.

Whitlock suddenly noticed that a member of the Zimbalan mission had been watching them. She was an attractive, light-skinned African in her late twenties in a blue suit and white blouse. The translator. The official languages of Zimbala were Swahili and French; and several of the Zimbalan delegates didn't speak English. He smiled at her. She smiled back then looked away quickly as if she had been caught doing something wrong. He suddenly thought of Rosie. He'd been so busy that afternoon that he'd completely forgotten to call her. He felt a sense of guilt but at the same time knew he could never have spoken to her anyway. He made a mental note to call her and arrange a time to meet, away from her parents.

Someone called out, breaking his train of thought. The presidential plane was making its final descent. He immediately ordered the policemen to take up their designated positions on the runway then crossed to where Brett and Rogers were standing. They glanced at him but said nothing.

The white Gulfstream One executed a perfect landing but it was only when it taxied towards them that Whitlock saw the blue, red and white Zimbalan flag painted on the side of the fuselage with the words 'Air Zimbala' above it in black lettering. It was obvious that the plane had been repainted before its journey and Whitlock suddenly wondered if it had been done to erase the memories of the previous regime. He let the thought pass as the plane came to a halt less than twenty yards away from the limousines. The hatch opened and a set of steps was driven up to it. The Chief of Protocol led the way to the foot of the steps, waiting for Mobuto to appear. The first man to emerge had to duck through the opening. Whitlock judged him to be at least six foot six. He looked around him slowly then disappeared back inside the aircraft. He reappeared a moment later and Whitlock immediately recognized Mobuto when he emerged behind the bodyguard. He was a tall, handsome man who had an air of confidence about him. He was dressed in an expensive grey Dior suit and wore dark glasses. It was hard to believe he was forty-two years old. He looked ten years younger. He removed the glasses on reaching the tarmac and he shook the Chief of Protocol's extended hand. Rogers and Brett immediately flanked him at the foot of the steps and walked with him as he shook hands with each member of the Zimbalan mission in turn. His grip lingered on the translator's hand and he smiled faintly at her before turning back to the Chief of Protocol who was standing behind him. It was then that he noticed Whitlock standing discreetly in the background. He told Brett and Rogers to hold back then crossed to where Whitlock stood and held out a hand of greeting.

'It's been a long time, Clarence,' Mobuto said in his faultless English.

Whitlock bit back his anger. He had never forgiven his parents for christening him Clarence Wilkins.

'Over twenty years,' Whitlock replied, gripping the extended hand. 'You look well, Jamel.'

Mobuto inhaled sharply and glanced at the massive bodyguard who was hovering in the background. He turned back to Whitlock. 'You call me President Mobuto in front of my people!'

'And you call me C.W. in front of mine,' Whitlock retorted, holding Mobuto's stare.

Mobuto smiled coldly. 'You haven't changed a bit. Still as insolent as ever.'

'And you're still as arrogant as ever.' Whitlock looked past Mobuto and gestured for Brett and Rogers to approach them. He introduced them to Mobuto then went on to explain that one of them would always be at his side for the duration of his visit.

'And you?' Mobuto asked once Whitlock had finished speaking.

'I'm in charge of security. Brett and Rogers report directly to me. As do your bodyguards.'

'Very well,' Mobuto replied after a moment's thought then moved away with the Chief of Protocol, heading towards one of the limousines.

'Brett, you're taking first shift, aren't you?'

Brett nodded.

'Rogers, you'll relieve him tomorrow at seven a.m.'

'Fine,' was all Rogers said.

Whitlock dismissed Rogers then he and Brett hurried after Mobuto. Brett went to the lead limousine and climbed in beside the driver. Whitlock caught up with

Mobuto but remained discreetly in the background while he finished talking to the Chief of Protocol. Mobuto spoke briefly to the Zimbalan ambassador in Swahili then beckoned the tall bodyguard towards him. He introduced him to Whitlock as Masala, his personal bodyguard, then told Masala that he and the other three Zimbalan bodyguards were to liaise directly with Whitlock.

'President Mobuto and I will be in the second car,' Whitlock said to Masala. 'You ride up front in the third. Spread your men amongst the other two cars.'

Masala nodded then went off to carry out Whit-lock's instructions.

Mobuto climbed into the back of the limousine. The Zimbalan ambassador got in beside him and the driver closed the door behind them. Whitlock got into the passenger seat and the driver immediately started the engine.

Whitlock looked round at Mobuto. 'I'm going to seal off the back of the car with a sheet of soundproof glass. Not only is it bulletproof but it will also give you privacy to speak to the ambassador. There's a private telephone in the compartment in front of you if you need to make any outside calls. And if you need us, just dial zero.'

Mobuto nodded.

Whitlock activated the switch on the dashboard and the glass slid into place, sealing off the back and front seats of the car. He sat back and exhaled deeply. The driver glanced at him but sensed that Whitlock wasn't in the mood to talk. He switched on the radio, found a music station and followed the first limousine out of the airport onto the Grand Central Parkway, heading towards Manhattan.

The convoy, led by a police car and two police motorcycles, made its way through Long Island City, across the Queensboro Bridge into Manhattan then down First Avenue to the United Nations Plaza, the hotel where the Zimbalan delegation would stay for the duration of their three-day visit to New York. It was situated close to the United Nations headquarters as well as being only three blocks away from the African American Institute which Mobuto had requested to see at some point during his visit. And with Mobuto due to address the United Nations' General Assembly, the locale couldn't have been better.

The convoy drew to a halt in front of the hotel; Whitlock jumped out of the limousine and looked around him slowly. The press, who had been alerted by an anonymous call to Reuters the previous day by one of the assassins, were out in force, waiting and hoping to get an exclusive of an assassination, or at least an attempted assassination, for the morning papers. Whitlock shouted at the two policemen on the motorcycles to get the photographers back a few feet to give Mobuto a chance to get out of the limousine. They immediately set about the task of pushing the jostling photographers away from the limousine. Brett and Masala flanked the back door and the other three bodyguards took up positions on the other side of the car, facing the photographers. Satisfied, Whitlock nodded to Masala who opened the back door. Mobuto climbed out slowly and turned to wave at the waiting photographers. Flashbulbs popped incessantly and Whitlock found himself struggling to focus on the sea of cameras, his eyes darting about in search of anything untoward.

Suddenly one of the Zimbalan bodyguards shouted a warning and lunged at the photographers. Whitlock knocked Mobuto to the ground in the split-second before a bullet smashed into the wall behind them. The photographers scattered in panic as the bodyguard made a grab for the gunman. A second shot rang out and the bodyguard stumbled back, clutching his stomach. The other two Zimbalan bodyguards immediately drew their snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .385 and sprinted after the fleeing gunman.

The getaway driver, in a blue Ford, laid down a burst of suppressing fire, forcing the bodyguards to dive for cover. By the time they had got to their feet the gunman had jumped through the open passenger door and the wheels shrieked in protest as the car sped away from the hotel.

Whitlock mounted one of the police motorcycles, kick-started it, then slewed it violently in an ungainly one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and took off after the getaway car. He unhooked the radio and called for backup, giving a description of the car and its registration number. The Ford swung sharply into East 34th Street, mounted the kerb, and narrowly missed a couple of teenagers waiting to cross the road. The driver managed to regain control and turned into Second Avenue.

Suddenly he felt the car beginning to skid and in his panic trod on the brakes. The wheels locked and the car careered across the road, clipping the side of an oncoming Greyhound bus. The car overturned and ploughed into the side of a stationary delivery van. The driver was dead, his chest crushed by the steering wheel.

The gunman managed to unbuckle his safety belt and struggled to push open the passenger door. Eager hands reached out to help him as he eased himself out of the car. He wiped the blood from a gash on his forehead then waved the Walther?5 threateningly at the growing crowd of onlookers. They immediately stepped back, anxious not to alarm him.

He fired blindly at Whitlock as he turned into Second Avenue. Whitlock lost control of the motorcycle and fell heavily onto the road. The gunman looked around him wildly and the crowd parted as he darted up a narrow alleyway. Whitlock pulled himself to his feet and winced as a sharp pain shot through his left leg. He looked down at it. His trousers were ripped and the blood seeped down his leg from the gash inches above his knee. It hurt like hell but he was damned if he was going to let the gunman escape. He drew his Browning Mkz and went after the gunman. Ignoring the pain that shot through his leg with every step, he reached the end of the alleyway. It forked off in two directions. And the gunman was nowhere to be seen. He cursed softly, knowing he'd lost him.

A bullet cracked inches above his head and he flung himself behind a row of metal dustbins, the Browning clenched tightly in his hand. The shot had come from the left fork. He couldn't see the gunman but at least he knew where he was. He could wait. The gunman fired again but the bullet was well off target. He was panicking; and panic invariably leads to mistakes. He suddenly darted out from behind a metal ladder and Whitlock aimed at his legs. He needed him alive.

A police car emerged from the other alleyway and screeched to a halt ten yards in front of Whitlock, blocking his shot. Whitlock cursed angrily and got to his feet. The policeman got out of the car, his Colt Python drawn. He shouted to Whitlock to drop his weapon. Whitlock tried to explain but the policeman's grip tightened on the revolver and he repeated the order. Whitlock snarled angrily and tossed the Browning onto the ground.

The policeman kicked it away and gestured for Whitlock to approach the police car. 'I want ten fingers on the hood. Do it!'

'I'm working with you guys, for Christ's sake!' Whitlock snarled in exasperation.

'Sure, now put those fingers on the hood.'

'My name's Whitlock, check with your superior. I'm head of the Zimbalan President's security team.'

The policeman waited until Whitlock had put his hands on the police car then used his foot to spread his legs. 'I was told to apprehend an armed black suspect in this alley. I don't see another one, do you?'

'That's because you've let him get away,' Whitlock snarled but the policeman snapped at him to face the front when he tried to look round.

The policeman frisked him then reached for his handcuffs. Whitlock, sensing his moment, swung round and felled him with one punch. He tossed the Colt Python onto the front seat then locked the keys inside the police car. Retrieving his Browning he hurried over to where he had last seen the gunman. He had gone. Then he heard a noise, a metal bin being knocked over. He followed the sound and was just in time to see the gunman climbing a wire fence at the end of an adjoining alleyway. Whitlock purposely fired wide. It had the desired effect — the gunman tumbled over the top of the fence, landing painfully on his back. Whitlock scrambled to his feet but by the time he reached the fence the gunman had already crossed the twenty-yard clearing and disappeared into a derelict warehouse. Whitlock clambered over the fence and landed nimbly on his feet. He straightened up then noticed the gunman's Walther?5 lying at the edge of the clearing. He must have lost it when he fell to the ground. Whitlock doubted he would have another gun but he still approached the warehouse with professional caution.

He reached the open doors and peered in. It took his eyes a few seconds to get accustomed to the gloom then he darted inside and ducked down behind a rusty skip close to the door. He looked around slowly then carefully scanned the catwalk that criss-crossed the warehouse above him. No sign of the gunman. He slipped out from behind the skip and moved slowly across the concrete floor, the Browning gripped tightly in his hand, his eyes continually darting about him. He reached the other side of the cavernous room and paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Where the hell was he?

A shower of dust sprinkled his face but before he could react the gunman leaped onto him from a ledge on the wall. They both fell heavily to the ground and the Browning went spinning from Whitlock's hand. The man lashed out with a rusted chain but Whitlock managed to roll clear before it struck the ground where he had been lying. Whitlock kicked out at the man, catching him on the leg so that he overbalanced and fell against the wall. The chain clattered noisily to the ground. Whitlock sprung to his feet and caught him on the side of the head with a stinging haymaker then followed up with two brutal body punches that dropped him to his knees. The man clutched his stomach in agony then noticed the fallen Browning out of the corner of his eye. He grabbed it and turned on Whitlock who managed to deflect it before he fired. They struggled for possession of the gun. It slipped from the gunman's hand, landing at his feet. Whitlock shoved him back onto a tarpaulin in the corner of the warehouse and scooped up the Browning. He levelled it at the gunman then let his hand drop to his side. The man had been impaled on the rusted spikes of a security gate that had been discarded underneath the tarpaulin.

Whitlock swallowed back the bile in his throat and crossed to where the gunman lay, his shirt soaked in blood. He felt for a pulse then, letting the gunman's arm drop, he bolstered the Browning before walking back slowly towards the doors. As he reached them he heard the first of the police sirens in the distance. He dusted off a box and sat down to wait for them.

Kolchinsky was waiting in the foyer when Whitlock got back to the hotel. 'How's the leg?' were Kolchinsky's first words.

'O K,' Whitlock replied with a grim smile. 'It didn't need stitches. But I got a tetanus jab as a precaution. Thank for clearing everything for me with the N YP D. I had visions of being stuck in a cell all night.'

Kolchinsky patted Whitlock on the shoulder. 'Come on, Mobuto's waiting to see you.'

'How is he?'

'Remarkably well under the circumstances,' Kolchinsky replied as they walked to the lift. 'You wouldn't believe someone had just tried to kill him. He's acting like it never happened.'

'Acting being the operative word,' Whitlock retorted as the lift door parted.

'You really don't like him, do you?'

'As a person, no. But he's obviously genuine about bringing democracy to Zimbala. And that makes all this worthwhile.'

They rode the lift to the thirtieth floor and were immediately challenged by a uniformed policeman as they stepped out. They both held up their passes and were allowed through. The entire floor had been booked by the Zimbalan delegation although only ten rooms were being used. It was a security measure.

Another policeman challenged them outside Mobuto's suite and again they had to produce their passes. Kolchinsky knocked on the door. It was opened on the chain by Masala who immediately unlocked it to allow them in. They were ushered into the lounge then Masala discreetly withdrew, closing the door behind him.

Mobuto was alone. He was seated on the sofa sifting through a batch of papers he had taken from his attache case. He looked up, removed his reading glasses, then got to his feet and indicated the second sofa. Kolchinsky sat down and asked if Mobuto minded if he smoked.

'Please, feel free,' Mobuto replied then turned to Whitlock. 'You saved my life tonight. Thank you. I believe you were injured while chasing the gunman. Nothing serious, I hope?'

Whitlock shook his head. 'I cut my leg when I fell off the motorbike. It's nothing. I'm sorry about your man. He's the one who really saved your life.'

'He died without ever regaining consciousness. At least he was spared the pain.' Mobuto folded the glasses and placed them on the coffee table in the centre of the room. 'Can I offer either of you a drink?'

'Nothing for me,' Kolchinsky replied, shaking his head.

'Clarence?'

'Nothing, thank you.' Whitlock sat down beside Kolchinsky. 'Where's Brett?'

'He's next door,' Mobuto replied indifferently.

'And Masala's in the other room. You've got no protection — '

'I've got half the New York police force in the corridor and bodyguards in every adjoining room,' Mobuto cut in sharply. 'I feel like a prisoner.'

'It's important that you always have at least one bodyguard in the room with you at all times,' Whitlock countered.

'Even when I'm sleeping?'

'Even when you're sleeping,' Whitlock shot back. 'These assassins are obviously prepared to sacrifice their own lives to kill you. That means they'll go to any lengths to get you.'

'What exactly are you implying?'

'What I'm saying is that even in this room you're not safe. They could come through the window — '

'We're thirty floors up, for God sake,' Mobuto cut in then chuckled softly to himself. 'I think you're being a little melodramatic.'

'No, sir, he's not,' Kolchinsky said sternly. 'C.W.'s right. You must always have at least one bodyguard with you at all times. Tonight proved that.'

Mobuto sat down opposite them and sighed deeply. 'Very well. You are the experts.'

Whitlock got to his feet. 'Which room's Brett in?'

Mobuto pointed to his left. 'He's next door.'

Whitlock left the suite and knocked on the adjoining door. He grabbed Brett the moment he opened the door and slammed him up against the wall. 'You're supposed to be next door, not sitting here on your arse watching a ball game.'

Brett broke free from Whitlock's grip and stared angrily at him. 'The President told me to go. What the hell was I supposed to do?'

'You were supposed to explain to him that it's your job to stay with him. You don't tell him his job and he doesn't tell you yours. You're supposed to be a professional. Start acting like one.'

Brett glared furiously at Whitlock then slipped on his shoulder holster and scooped up his jacket before leaving the room. Whitlock followed him into Mobuto's suite. Brett pulled up a chair and sat discreetly in the corner.

'The President's just received a telephone call from Zimbala,' Kolchinsky said. 'His brother's been kidnapped.'

'What happened?' Whitlock replied, looking at Mobuto.

'He went to meet an informer. An hour later the newspaper's deputy editor received an anonymous call to say that Remy had been abducted by Ngune's men. That's all the caller would say.' Mobuto glanced at Whitlock. 'I presume you have been briefed about the Ngune breakout?'

'Yes, sir, I have,' Whitlock replied. 'Has Ngune got the backing to attempt a coup d'etat?

'He's got men and money,' Mobuto answered matter-of-factly. 'The men are his ex-Security Policemen. The money comes from the wealthy Moslem community in the south of the country. Many of them built up vast fortunes under my father's regime, illegal fortunes, I hasten to add. They know that if I do bring a new democratic freedom to my country then it'll mean the confiscation of those fortunes. And as you know, greed knows no bounds. They'll go to any lengths to reinstate a dictatorship that will protect them, just as my father's regime did for forty-five years. I'm the one obstacle in their way. The people look to me as a new Messiah. I won't let them down.'

'One thing puzzles me,' Whitlock said at length. 'Your father repealed the law making you his natural successor once he realized you'd never follow in his footsteps. So how did you manage to wrestle power from the government after his death?'

'My father was the government. He made the decisions, he passed the laws. His ministers were just yes-men, puppets. So, when he died, the puppets had no-one to pull their strings anymore. They panicked. And I used that panic to my benefit. But I had to act fast. Ngune was my biggest threat. He was the one man my father trusted, really trusted. Fortunately for the country, the police and the Security Police had never got on. And with the police and most of the armed forces behind me, I was able to stop Ngune from seizing power. Unfortunately I underestimated the strength of his support. But I'm determined not to cut short my visit here. That would just play straight into his hands. It would make the people think / was panicking. And that could lose me support.' Mobuto got to his feet and moved to the sideboard to pour himself a bourbon. 'Well, gentlemen, if you'll excuse me, I've got some work to finish before I go to bed.'

'Of course,' Kolchinsky said, getting to his feet.

Whitlock crossed to where Brett was sitting. 'Don't let him out of your sight,' he said softly.

'I won't,' Brett replied tersely.

Whitlock said good night to Mobuto then followed Kolchinsky out into the corridor. 'I wish we could have used our own people to babysit Mobuto. I'd have felt a lot happier.'

Kolchinsky nodded grimly. 'I know what you mean. But we're stuck with Bailey's men, I'm afraid. There's nothing I can do about it.'

'I know,' Whitlock replied and pushed the button for the lift.

'I'm going to drop by the hospital to update the Colonel on today's developments. Fancy coming?'

Whitlock shrugged. 'Why not? Carmen won't be home yet. She works late Tuesdays.' He looked at his watch. 'But aren't visiting hours over?'

'The Secretary-General had a word with the hospital's administrator who reluctantly agreed to make an exception in the Colonel's case and waive the normal visiting hours. It was one of the conditions the Colonel laid down if he was to remain in hospital.'

Whitlock shot Kolchinsky a knowing look then ushered him into the lift.

Kolchinsky drove the short distance to the Bellevue Hospital, conveniently situated less than two miles away from both the hotel and the United Nations building. The receptionist directed them to a private ward on the third floor.

Kolchinsky knocked lightly.

'Come in,' Philpott called out.

Kolchinsky opened the door and entered. Philpott was sitting up in bed, his face hidden behind a copy of the New York Times.

'Just put them by the bed. I'll take them later,' Philpott muttered gruffly from behind the newspaper.

'It's me, Malcolm,' Kolchinsky announced.

Philpott lowered the newspaper and gave them a wry smile. 'I'm sorry, I thought it was another of those damn nurses. They've been coming and going all day.' He glanced at Whitlock. 'I see he managed to drag you along as well.'

Whitlock smiled and pulled up a chair. 'How are you feeling, sir?'

'A little weak, but otherwise fine.'

Kolchinsky sat down on the second chair and handed Philpott a brown packet. 'It's from the deli on 44th Street.'

Philpott opened the packet and looked inside. 'Grapes! I was hoping it might have been some tobacco. The doctor confiscated mine.' He put the packet on the bedside table and picked up his empty pipe. 'I'm dying for a smoke. C.W. -'

'I'm not fetching you any tobacco,' Whitlock cut in quickly. 'Get better first, then you can smoke your pipe again.'

'I am better. I should have discharged myself this morning.' Philpott gave a resigned sigh. 'Any news of Mike?'

Kolchinsky explained the day's events, culminating in the attempted assassination of Jamel Mobuto.

'Good God,' Philpott muttered when Kolchinsky had finished talking. He looked at Whitlock. 'Are you alright?'

'I cut my leg when I fell off the motorbike. It's nothing serious. But my suit's a total write-off. It'll break my tailor's heart.'

'At least you're alright. Any news on the assassin and his accomplice?'

'Nothing yet,' Kolchinsky replied. 'They weren't carrying any ID but they're almost certainly Zimbalan. Probably ex-Security policemen. I've had their photographs and prints faxed through to the police in Habane. Hopefully they'll have come up with something by tomorrow.'

'And what was that you said earlier about Bernard. He's CIA?'

Kolchinsky nodded then opened the attache case. He handed his photostat copy of Bailey's file to Philpott. 'It's all in there. I'll leave it with you tonight. It certainly makes interesting reading.'

'I bet it does,' Philpott hissed. 'Be careful of Bailey, Sergei. Tell him as little as possible. And don't trust him an inch.'

'I think we all realized that when we met him,' Kolchinsky said, glancing at Whitlock.

'And as for those two bullet-catchers…' Whitlock trailed off with a shake of his head.

'What about them?' Philpott asked.

'Let's just say I wouldn't want them protecting me,' Whitlock replied. 'As I said to Sergei back at the hotel, I only wish we could have used our own people to babysit Mobuto. I'd have slept better.'

'I did try, C.W.,' Philpott said with an apologetic shrug. 'I wanted to bring in Strike Force Seven as his personal bodyguard team. That would have left you free to work with Sabrina in Beirut. But the President wanted this to be a joint operation and Bailey managed to convince him to use CIA men as bodyguards. There was nothing I could do. At least the President saw enough sense to agree to my request to put you in charge of the unit. I know you won't let me down, C.W. Just keep an eye on Bailey's goons. If President Mobuto had been killed tonight we'd have been crucified.'

'We've still got three days to go, sir. They're sure to try again.'

'You can count on it. And what happened to this warning Bernard was supposed to have passed on to Bailey?'

'I spoke to Bailey after the attempt on the President's life,' Kolchinsky said. 'He claims Bernard never contacted him. His theory is that the two men were either freelance or else they decided to try and kill the President by themselves without telling the others.'

'It just doesn't ring true, does it?' Whitlock said.

'Of course it doesn't,' Philpott snapped tersely. 'But we're dealing with Bailey, remember?'

Kolchinsky nodded then rubbed his eyes wearily. 'Well, there's nothing more we can do tonight. And I'm shattered. It's been some day.'

Whitlock got to his feet. 'Only three to go. Can you drop me off at the apartment on your way home, Sergei? If I get the subway I'll probably fall asleep and end up at Washington Heights.'

Kolchinsky patted Whitlock's shoulder. 'Of course. Come on.'

Philpott watched them leave then stared at the folder Kolchinsky had left with him. He knew Bailey was up to something, but what? The thought lingered as he opened the folder and started to read its contents.