Time of the Assassins

FIVE

Whitlock drove his white BMW down the ramp into the basement carpark underneath his apartment block in Manhattan. He pulled into the reserved space beside a red Porsche Carrera, Carmen's car. He switched off the radio and glanced at his watch. It had just gone six thirty. He stifled a yawn. It had been a long day-twelve hours with Mobuto, eight of those in the United Nations building where Mobuto and his entourage had spent the day.

Mobuto's address to the General Assembly had impressed him. It had been an eloquent, impassioned speech in which he had promised to uphold the principles of democracy as the new leader of Zimbala. Yet one aspect of the speech had surprised him. Mobuto had never once referred to his father by name or attempted to make any apology for the abhorrent crimes that had been committed under his regime. It was as if he had blocked out that part of his life and was only interested in talking about the future.

The speech was well received by the delegates and a motion was carried unanimously to send a fact-finding team to Zimbala in six months' time to monitor the situation with a view to readmitting the country to the United Nations. Its original membership, instated when the United Nations was founded in 1945, been cancelled in 1956 when Alphonse Mobuto had refused to allow a delegation to visit Zimbala to investigate accounts of mass genocide under his regime. The motion had particularly pleased Mobuto who was desperate to bring Zimbala back into world affairs. Whitlock knew that the ambassadors of two Western nations had already promised state visits to Zimbala as soon as it was readmitted to the United Nations. It had been an historic day for the future of Zimbala — and it was all down to the tactful diplomacy of Jamel Mobuto. Whitlock had found his animosity towards Mobuto beginning to waver as the day progressed. He genuinely wanted to bring about change in a country where tens of thousands of its people had been tortured or murdered under his father's regime. They still treated each other with caution but each was beginning to respect the other's professionalism. And that was certainly a start.

Whitlock had wanted to remain on duty for the banquet at the United Nations that evening but Kolchinsky had told him to call it a day. He had reluctantly agreed to go home. So the first day had passed uneventfully. But it had been the easiest of the three days. The following day Mobuto intended to tour the African-American Institute on East 47th Street then go on to visit a high-school deep in the heart of Harlem. Then, on the third day, he would be a guest at a trade fair held in New Jersey. Two days of public exposure: a security team's nightmare. But that was what he was being paid for and after hearing Mobuto at the United Nations he was now more determined than ever to ensure his safety. Mobuto was a man with a mission, a Messiah, the future of Zimbala…

Whitlock's thoughts were jolted by a sudden rap on the driver's window. He looked round sharply then exhaled deeply when he saw the man's face peering in at him. Joshua Marshall had been the parking-bay attendant ever since the apartment block had been opened eighteen years earlier. He had grown up in the slums of Harlem and had been a promising middleweight fighter in the late fifties before the lure of alcohol had devastated his career. He had been dry for the past twenty years.

Whitlock activated the window and clasped his hand over his chest. 'You almost gave me a heart attack, Joshua.'

'I thought you'd suffered one, Mr Whitlock. You haven't moved since you parked the car.'

'I was thinking, that's all.' Whitlock removed the keys from the ignition and got out of the car. 'How long's my wife been back?'

Joshua scratched his head thoughtfully. 'About an hour. She seemed in quite a hurry.'

'Oh?' Whitlock said, locking the door. 'Did she say anything?'

'She didn't see me.'

'Thanks, Joshua.'

Joshua touched his cap then ambled off back to his hut.

Whitlock used his personal ID card to activate the lift and tapped his foot apprehensively as he waited for it to arrive. Why had Carmen been in such a hurry?

She never rushed anywhere; she was always very graceful and calm. What was wrong? The lift doors parted and he smiled fleetingly at the couple who emerged then stepped inside and pressed the button for the seventh floor. He paced the lift anxiously until it stopped and the doors parted again. He strode briskly down the blue-carpeted corridor, the apartment keys already in his hand. The door opened directly onto the lounge. Carmen was standing by the window. Her sister, Rachel, sat on the couch, her hands clasped tightly together. Her eyes were red. She had been crying. He knew then that something had happened to Rosie.

'Thank God you're back,' Carmen said as he closed the door behind him.

'What's wrong?' he asked, his eyes flickering between the two women. 'Is it Rosie?'

Rachel bit her lip as she struggled to hold back the tears. 'She's gone.'

'What do you mean "gone"?'

'She had a blazing row with Eddie and stormed out of the house,' Rachel replied. 'We don't know where she's gone.'

Whitlock sat down. 'When did this happen?'

'About two hours ago. Eddie had just got back from work when they had a row in the kitchen. She stormed out of the house. I'm beside myself with worry, C.W. She's only wearing a T-shirt and jeans. And she doesn't have any money. I'm sure she's gone back to Times Square. That's where she's been spending most of her time these last few months.'

'And one of the conditions of her bail was that she wasn't to go anywhere near Times Square until her case went to court,' Carmen said.

Whitlock rubbed his eyes wearily.

'Where's Eddie now?'

'He's out looking for her,' Rachel replied, 'but he doesn't know Times Square.'

'Do you know any of her regular haunts there?' Whitlock asked.

Rachel shook her head. 'Rosie never tells us anything.'

Whitlock got to his feet. 'Well, I'd better get over there.'

'It's no use going now,' Carmen told him. 'You wouldn't know where Eddie was. He's phoning every twenty minutes to see if you're back.'

'When did he last phone?"

'About ten minutes ago,' Carmen said, glancing at her watch.

Til go and change,' Whitlock said.

'Are you hungry?' Carmen asked. 'There's a casserole in the oven. I can put some out for you before you go.'

'No, I had a big lunch. I'll eat later.'

'C.W.?'

Whitlock paused in the doorway to look back at Rachel.

'Bring her home. Please.'

Whitlock nodded grimly and left the room.

Rosie Kruger was in the Rollercoaster, her favourite bar on West 43rd Street, less than a hundred yards away from the heart of Times Square. She had her father's pale blue eyes but her long black hair and honey complexion had been inherited from her mother. She was sixteen-years-old but with her slim, petite figure and attractive features she could have passed for twenty. Kenny Doyle, the twenty-eight-year-old barman at the Rollercoaster, knew her real age but that had never stopped him from serving her a drink. He had been a good friend to her and when she walked out on her parents she had made straight for the bar, looking for him. He understood her plight. He had run away from his home in Chicago when he was fifteen and still bore the scars from the beating he had received at the hands of his father after his parents had discovered he was gay. He had never contacted them again. As far as he was concerned, he had no parents.

Rosie felt the same way about her parents. Her father was on the brink of alcoholism, a pathetic figure who could only face life if he had a bottle in his hand. She knew he was on the verge of losing his job. Not that it really mattered to him any more. He had lost his dignity years ago. And her mother was too weak to stop his drinking. Rosie had been the one who had had to put her father to bed every night for eighteen months while her mother took refuge behind the facade of a sordid affair with her boss, a divorcee. And then it had only ended after he had decided to go back to his wife. No, it wasn't only her father who had lost his dignity.

She could remember vividly the first time she had tried dope, the day that she had found out about her mother's affair from one of her classmates. She had felt cheap and degraded, bitter. She had shared a joint with some friends in the toilet. They each had a few tokes and by the time the roach was flushed away she was already experiencing her first rush, a warm, dreamy sensation that seemed to encompass her whole being. She never wanted it to end. A week later she made her first score from a dealer in Times Square. It made putting her father to bed that bit more bearable. She had been smoking dope now for the last year, scoring whenever she had saved up enough money from her weekend job at McDonald's.

Then, the previous day, it had all gone wrong. She had met her connection in the usual place but the moment the deal was struck they were busted by three plainclothes policemen who had been watching them from an unmarked car on the opposite side of the road. They were both frisked then cuffed and taken into custody. It was the most humiliating, and frightening, night of her life. She had never been so glad to see her mother that morning. All she wanted to do was get out of the cell. It stank of vomit and urine. And for those few hours after she got home she found she could talk to her mother properly for the first time in over two years. There was even a bond of understanding between them. Then her father had come home. All he had done was scream abuse at her, accusing her of bringing shame and disgrace on the family. The double standards appalled her. It was then she knew she couldn't stay there, not with him. She knew she was violating her bail conditions by being in the Rollercoaster but she also knew she would be perfectly safe if she kept a low profile. And she knew Kenny would look after her…

'What you drinking, sweetheart?'

The voice startled her but when she looked round she winced at the stale smell of alcohol on the man's breath. He was wearing a grey suit, his tie undone at the throat. She estimated he was in his early thirties.

'You're real pretty,' he said and reached out his hand to touch her face.

'Back off,' she snapped and jerked away.

'Hey, leave my girl alone,' Doyle said from behind the counter.

The man eyed Doyle contemptuously then muttered something to himself and moved to another table and sat down.

'Thanks,' she said, squeezing Doyle's hand.

'Any time,' Doyle replied. 'How's the bourbon?'

'I'm O K, thanks. Anyway, I haven't got — '

'How many times must I tell you? The drinks are on the house tonight.'

'Why are all the best guys either married or… like you?'

'You're too young to be so cynical," Doyle said. 'You'll meet the right guy some day.'

'Then what? Take him home to meet my parents?' she replied with a look of mock horror.

Doyle chuckled then left her to serve a customer. She looked slowly around the room. It wasn't busy, not yet. But give it another hour. She was about to reach for her drink when she caught sight of the car out of the corner of her eye as it pulled up on the opposite side of the road-a white BMW, identical to the one her uncle had. She held her breath as the driver's door opened. Whitlock got out. A moment later Eddie Kruger emerged from the passenger side and closed the door behind him.

'Kenny!' Rosie hissed, beckoning the barman towards her.

'What is it?'Doyle asked.

'It's my father. And he's brought my uncle with him,' she said, indicating with her head towards the BMW where Whitlock and Kruger were in conversation.

Doyle took a set of keys from his pocket, removed one, and gave it to her. 'It's for the back door. You know where it is?'

'Is it that one next to the men's room?'

He nodded. 'It leads into an alley behind the bar. Wait there. I'll get rid of them, don't worry. I'll send someone out to call you when they've gone.'

She made her way down the corridor that led off from the bar room, continually glancing over her shoulder, half expecting to see either her father or her uncle behind her. She reached the door and unlocked it. Her hands were trembling. She pushed it open and slipped outside, closing it silently behind her. A cold wind had picked up since she had arrived at the bar and she rubbed her arms quickly before picking her way through a sea of discarded newspaper to a metal drum and ducked down behind it, her eyes riveted on the door. She knew Doyle would do his best to protect her but what if they decided to search the place anyway? Including the alley. The wind sliced through the alley and blew a sheet of old newspaper against her leg. She brushed it away then huddled closer to the wall, hugging herself against the cold. A stray mongrel appeared at the end of the alley, its body gaunt from years of neglect. It sniffed the air then made straight for the drum. It stopped abruptly when it saw Rosie, an uncertainty shadowing its haunted eyes. Then it moved closer and began to scratch frantically at the foot of the bin. A rat suddenly darted out from a hole in the side of the drum and she had to bite back the scream that rose in her throat. It scurried over to a pile of old newspapers with the mongrel in close attendance. The mongrel tore savagely at the newspapers and the rat fled further down the alley, desperate for sanctuary. Rosie lost sight of it when it disappeared behind a cardboard box and she turned her attention back to the door. She inhaled sharply when she saw the figure there. It was the man in the grey suit who had tried to pick her up earlier. He was looking at the bin but she didn't know whether he had seen her or not.

'You can come out now,' he said, beckoning towards her with his finger. 'They've gone.'

She didn't move. Why had Kenny sent him out to tell her? Or had he? Had the man overheard her talking to Kenny? She was frightened, very frightened.

'I know you're behind the drum,' he said, taking a step towards it. 'I told you, they've gone. You're safe now.'

She slowly got to her feet, her eyes wide with fear. The cold didn't bother her any more. He held out a hand towards her. She instinctively shrunk back against the wall, her hands clasped tightly against her chest. His smile was chilling. She opened her mouth but she couldn't speak. Her throat was dry; her lips were dry. He stopped in front of her and wrenched her hands away from her chest. She wanted to run but her legs wouldn't move. She wanted to scream but no sound came from her throat. A faint sneer of satisfaction touched the corners of his mouth. She squeezed her eyes shut as she felt his hand slip under her T-shirt.

'Leave her alone!'

The man looked round sharply at the figure who had emerged silently from inside the bar. He was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans, a white shirt and a black leather jacket. A faint scar ran the length of his left cheek.

'You'll get your ass out of here if you know what's good for you,' the man snarled menacingly.

Bernard glanced at Rosie. 'Go inside. The two men have gone.'

'Like hell you are,' the man snarled and grabbed her arm.

She raked his face with her fingernails. He cried out in pain and stumbled back against the wall. She jerked her arm free and ran to where Bernard was standing.

'Inside,' Bernard ordered, indicating the door with his head.

Her eyes flickered momentarily between the two men then she pulled open the door and hurried inside.

'You're going to pay for that, you son-of-a-bitch,' the man hissed through clenched teeth as he wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand.

Bernard eyed the man contemptuously then dropped his cigarette and ground it underfoot. The man lunged clumsily at Bernard who ducked his wild punch and landed a vicious one of his own, catching him painfully in the kidney. The man stumbled against the wall and Bernard followed through with two more crippling kidney punches, dropping the man to his knees. He grabbed the man's hair and slammed his face against the wall. The man slumped into an unconscious heap at Bernard's feet. Bernard brushed his hands together then walked back to the door. It swung open as he was about to reach out for the handle. Doyle stood in the doorway, a baseball bat clenched tightly in his right hand.

'It's O K,' Bernard reassured him. 'He won't touch the girl again tonight.'

Doyle peered at the crumpled figure. 'Bastard. I was ready to take his head off when Rosie told me what had happened.'

'You know him?'

'Never seen him before,' Doyle replied then held open the door for Bernard. 'Thanks for helping her. Most people around here would have just looked the other way.'

'Is she your girl?' Bernard asked as they walked back to the bar room.

'Just a friend. A good friend.'

The waitress who had been covering for Doyle behind the bar eyed the baseball bat questioningly when he returned.

'I didn't have to do anything,' Doyle replied, placing the bat under the counter again. 'This gentleman took care of the situation.' He looked at Bernard. 'The least I can do is buy you a drink.

'A Diet Cola if you have it,' Bernard replied then eased himself onto the stool beside Rosie. 'Are you alright?'

She nodded. 'I don't know how I can ever thank you. If you hadn't come along when you did…' she trailed off as she struggled to hold back the tears.

'Would you like another drink?' he asked, indicating her empty glass.

'Please,' she replied softly then looked at him for the first time since he had sat down. 'I don't even know your name.'

'Marc Giresse,' he replied, quoting the name on his passport.

'I'm Rosie Kruger.' She looked round as Doyle returned with the Diet Cola. 'I was just saying, if you hadn't sent Mr Giresse out when you did I hate to think what would have happened to me.'

'I didn't send him out,' Doyle replied. 'I was about to come out myself.'

Rosie and Doyle looked at Bernard simultaneously.

'I was at the table behind you,' Bernard said to Rosie. 'I saw what happened when that guy tried to pick you up. Then when he followed you down the corridor I thought I'd better make sure you were alright.'

'How did you know about my father and my uncle?'

'I overheard you two talking,' Bernard replied with a sheepish grin. 'It's a bad habit of mine. I tend to do it when I'm bored.'

'I'm sure glad you did,' Rosie replied with a smile.

Doyle's eyes flickered to the nearest table behind Rosie. It was occupied by a young couple in their early twenties. Although he didn't know them, he could have sworn they had been there for the past hour. And they were sitting on the only two chairs at the table. He looked at Bernard, frowned, then glanced round sharply when he heard someone calling him from the end of the counter.

'A drink for the lady, when you have a minute,' Bernard said as Doyle turned to go.

'Sure,' Doyle replied then went off to serve the customer.

'Giresse?' Rosie said thoughtfully. 'Is that French?'

Bernard nodded.

'You don't sound French. You don't look it either. You're very swarthy.'

'My father was French. I was born in Tarabulus.'

'Where's that?' she asked.

'The Lebanon.'

A sly smile touched the corners of her mouth. 'You're not a terrorist, are you?'

'Sure,' Bernard replied then shook his head. 'You Americans never cease to amaze me. Everyone has to be neatly packaged into defined groups. If you're Russian you must be a Communist. If you're Colombian you must be a drug dealer. If you're Libyan or Lebanese you must be a terrorist.'

'I was only joking,' she said with a grin.

'I know. I only wish I could say the same about your politicians.' Bernard took a sip of the Diet Cola then leaned his elbows on the counter. 'I'm a humble businessman, that's all. Meat packaging — far less glamorous than being a terrorist, I'm afraid.'

'Do you know… any terrorists?'

'You meet lots of different kinds of people in the

Lebanon,' Bernard replied then dismissed the topic with a vague flick of his hand. 'Are you a runaway?'

The question caught Rosie by surprise. Normally she would have clammed up at that juncture. She made it a point to tell people as little about herself as possible. She never shared her inner thoughts with anyone, not even her friends at school who had come to regard her as something of an enigma. Yet she felt completely at ease with Bernard. It was a feeling she had never had before, not even with Kenny, and he was probably the best friend she ever had. She felt as if she could trust Bernard. And she had never trusted anyone before in her life. Part of her was frightened. It was a new experience for her to want to open up to someone, especially a man; but another part of her was relieved to have found a kindred spirit she could confide in.

'Sorry, I didn't mean to pry,' Bernard said, noticing her distant expression.

'No, you weren't prying,' she replied with a quick smile. 'I guess I am a runaway. I left home tonight.'

'It's a start,' Bernard said with a smile. He held up his glass. 'Welcome to the club.'

'Were you also a runaway?' she asked excitedly.

He nodded.

'I knew it. A kindred spirit,' she said softly to herself.

'Pardon?'

'Nothing,' she said then looked up as Doyle returned with her bourbon. 'Mr Giresse was also a runaway. Small world.'

'Very small,' Doyle replied tersely then placed the bourbon in front of her. His eyes darted towards Bernard. There was something about the man he didn't trust. And his instincts were rarely wrong. 'Where you from?'

'Beirut,' Bernard replied, holding Doyle's stare. He suddenly smiled. 'How much is the drink?'

'I'm paying for Rosie's drinks tonight,' Doyle replied quickly.

'Please, I insist,' Bernard said then took a five-dollar note from his wallet and placed it on the counter. 'Have one yourself.'

'No, thank you,' Doyle replied and left the note on the counter when he walked off to serve another customer.

'What's wrong with your friend?' Bernard asked, slipping the note back into his wallet.

Rosie shrugged. 'He gets like this sometimes. I suppose I would, too, if I had to serve all the creeps that come in here every night.'

'Thank you,' Bernard retorted.

'You know what I mean,' she replied then saw the smile on his face. 'Stop teasing me.'

His face suddenly became serious. 'Have you got somewhere to stay tonight?'

She instinctively looked across at Doyle. 'I was hoping Kenny could put me up for a few days until I'd sorted things out with my parents. But he can't. He's got someone staying with him. There's a couple of friends I know who might be able to give me a bed for the night. I'll try them.'

'And what if they can't?'

She shrugged. Til find a flop house somewhere. I've got a few bucks on me. But don't tell Kenny: I told him I was broke.'

'That's crazy. You can't go walking around New York by yourself at this time of night. Look, I've got a spare room. You can use it if you want.'

'Thanks, but…' she trailed off with an awkward shrug. 'I mean, I don't even know you.'

'Likewise,' Bernard replied. He bit his lip thoughtfully. 'I'll tell you what. Call your friends and see if they can put you up for the night. If they can't you can either stay at the flat or else I'll give you some money and drop you off at a hotel.'

'Why are you doing this?'

'My father raised me. I never knew my mother. He was the only family I had. He died when I was fourteen. So I ran off to Beirut to avoid being put into an orphanage. The first night there I was accosted by three men. I managed to get away but,' he paused and touched the scar on his cheek, 'they left me with a memento. It looks a lot better on me than it would on you. You got off lightly in the alley tonight. Don't push your luck.'

She pondered his words then glanced at the pay phone in the corner of the bar. 'You got any quarters?'

Bernard rifled through the change pouch in his wallet and handed her three quarters. 'Is that enough?'

She nodded then climbed off her stool and crossed the room to the phone. She dialled the first number: no reply. Then she tried the second. It was answered by a man. Three's company, she said to herself and hung up. When she turned round she found Doyle standing in front of her.

'Here, take this,' he said, pushing a ten-dollar note into her hand.

'What's this for?'

'Taxi fare to my place. You can stay there tonight.'

'But what about that guy?'

'He'll understand,' Doyle replied.

'Have you phoned to tell him I'm coming over?'

'I tried but he's not in. He'll be at a club.'

'I appreciate the offer, Kenny, but I can't stay with you guys. It wouldn't be right.'

'Why not?' Doyle demanded defensively. 'You can pad out on the sofa.'

'It just wouldn't be right,' she replied with a shrug and slipped the money back into his pocket.

'So where are you going to stay?'

'I'll find a crash pad somewhere,' she said, trying to reassure him.

'I heard that Lebanese guy offer you a room at his place. Don't go, Rosie. There's something pseudo abopt him.'

'Yeah, what?' she demanded.

'I don't know. It's just a gut feeling, that's all.'

'Oh, really?' she retorted sharply. 'He's been a perfect gentleman ever since I met him. And you don't find many of them in this dive.'

'He's trouble, Rosie.'

She shook her head angrily. 'You've been acting weird ever since he started talking to me. What's really bugging you, Kenny? Are you jealous that we're getting along so well?'

'Jealous?' Doyle replied in disbelief. 'Grow up, Rosie. I'm worried about you, that's all.'

'Yeah, well, don't bother. I can look after myself.' She spun on her heels and walked back to where Bernard was sitting. Til take you up on that offer of a bed if it's still going.'

'Sure,' Bernard replied.

'Can we go, now?'

Bernard looked round at her. 'Now? It's only eight thirty.'

'Then let's go somewhere else.' She glanced up at Doyle as he returned behind the bar. 'This place has got distinctly chilly in the last couple of minutes.'

Bernard shrugged. 'You'll have to recommend somewhere. I'm a stranger in these parts.'

'I know lots of places,' she retorted then glared at Doyle before striding out of the bar.

Bernard watched her leave. It was beyond his wildest expectations. All he had intended to do was keep tabs on her in case he needed a hostage after the hit on Mobuto. Whitlock's niece, the perfect weapon to foil UN A CO. His American contact had told him where to find her. He didn't know his name. He only knew him by his codeword, Seabird.

No, he couldn't have asked for it to have turned out better. He pushed the Diet Cola away from him and climbed off the stool. It was then that he noticed Doyle watching him. He allowed himself a faint smile of satisfaction then slipped the five-dollar note under Rosie's glass and left the bar.

Whitlock closed the door behind Eddie and Rachel Kruger then returned to the lounge and slumped dejectedly onto the sofa.

'You did your best, C.W.,' Carmen said, massaging his shoulders.

'It wasn't enough, was it?' Whitlock replied. 'Between us we must have been to every bar within a mile radius of Times Square. Nothing.'

'That could be a good thing in itself. If someone is shielding her then she'll probably have a bed for the night.'

'God, I hope so,' Whitlock said then got to his feet and moved to the balcony where he looked out over the illuminated New York skyline.

'It's almost midnight, C.W.,' Carmen said from the doorway. 'We've both got to be up early in the morning.'

'I know,' Whitlock replied but made no attempt to move away from the railing.

'You've done everything you could to find her. She's on her own now.'

'I still say we should have called the police.'

'We've been through this already. Eddie and Rachel decided against it. We have to respect that. She's their daughter, not ours.'

'If she was our daughter she wouldn't be in this mess,' Whitlock retorted.

'Wouldn't she?'

Whitlock looked round sharply at her then conceded the point with a shrug of the shoulders.

'Come on, let's go to bed.'

'Take care of yourself, kid,' Whitlock said softly then went inside and closed the sliding door behind him.

Robert Bailey was obsessed with security. He drove to work in a bulletproof Mercedes 5ooSL, changing his route daily. His personal bodyguards were always armed. His wife and two teenage daughters were ferried about by an armed chauffeur. And his house in the Georgetown suburb of Washington was a virtual fortress. Tripwires lined the top of the perimeter wall and armed dog-handlers patrolled the grounds twenty-four hours a day. Closed-circuit television cameras had been installed in every room and were monitored by guards from a control centre in the basement of the house-every room, that is, except his study.

It was a soundproof, windowless room at the end of the corridor on the second floor. The only access was through a sliding metal door which could only be activated by punching a code into the bellpush on the adjacent wall. He changed the combination daily. Nobody, not even his family, was allowed inside the room. It contained his personal computer, which was linked to computers at both the Pentagon and the CIA headquarters in Langley. Hundreds of secret programs that had been built up by the CIA over the years, including data sensitive enough to topple the heads of half a dozen European governments if they were ever to fall into the wrong hands. With this in mind, he had devised more security measures to thwart any would-be intruder that managed to get past the guards. The computer itself could only be activated by an access code known solely to Bailey. If the incorrect code was programmed in it would activate a canister of lethal nerve gas which was secreted in the ceiling directly above the door. Death would result in less than ten seconds. But he had provided a double failsafe mechanism for himself in case he accidently pressed the wrong key while accessing the code. The nerve gas would only be released if the incorrect code was programmed twice into the computer. He was, after all, only human.

After feeding in the access code he sat back and stifled a yawn. It was already one in the morning. He was exhausted. He had been up seventeen hours. His wife and daughters had long since gone to bed. They were accustomed to his irregular hours. But they all shared his ambition to become head of the CIA within the next five years. And he knew he had the backing of the President and most of the powerful Republican congressmen on Capitol Hill. It was only a question of time.

He tapped another code into the computer and moments later a dossier appeared on the VDU. The name on it was Jean-Jacques Bernard. He erased all the existing data and replaced it with a single line written in capital letters: TO BE TERMINATED AFTER THE ASSASSINATION OF JAMEL MOBUTO.