Time of the Assassins

SEVEN

'Morning.'

'Morning,' Rosie replied, rubbing her eyes wearily as she emerged from the bedroom.

'Sleep well?' Bernard asked.

'Great, thanks. I haven't slept that well in ages.'

'That's good.' Bernard slipped on his leather jacket. 'I have to rush. There's food in the fridge. Help yourself. I've left twenty dollars on the kitchen table. Buy something for dinner.'

'Do you have special food?' she asked hesitantly.

'Halal, you mean? No, I'm not a Muslim. I'm supposed to be Catholic but I renounced the faith after my father died. Get anything, pizzas, burgers, whatever you like.'

'What time will you be back?'

'You know what these business meetings are like. They can go on for ever. I hope to be back by six.' Bernard opened the front door then looked back at her. 'The money's for food, not dope. If the police catch you near another dealer they'll throw the book at you.'

'I know,' she replied.

Til score us some dope, O K?'

'O K,' she replied with a grin. 'Marc?'

'Yes?'

'Thanks for everything.'

Bernard winked at her then left the flat and closed the door behind him.

Rosie fixed herself breakfast then changed out of thp baggy white T-shirt Bernard had lent her into her jeans and the light blue shirt he had left out for her. She rolled up the sleeves then went back into the kitchen to make herself another cup of coffee. She sat down at the table and held the cup in both hands as she thought about the previous evening.

He had taken her to a steakhouse after they had left the Rollercoaster and ordered her the biggest T-bone steak she had ever seen. She had been ravenous, not having eaten properly for thirty-six hours, and managed to clear the plate and still have room for an icecream. Then, after scoring from a dealer outside Bryant Park, he had taken her back to the flat. They had talked for hours. Well, she had. He had listened patiently as she bared her soul. It was like unloading a great burden from her shoulders. She had felt completely relaxed in his company. He reminded her of C. W. Two gentlemen. C.W. was the only other person she could talk to in times of trouble. She knew C.W. would have chastised her for going off with a strange man. But it wasn't as if she did it all the time. In fact, it was the first time it had ever happened. And she wouldn't have done it if she had felt the slightest doubt about him. And her instincts had been proved right. She wondered if C.W. would understand? She would phone him. He could pass a message on to her parents…

Her thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of the doorbell. Her initial reaction was that Marc had come back for something. He'd probably forgotten his keys. Her mother did it all the time. She put the cup down on the table and was about to get up when another thought struck her. It could also be the police. What if they had traced her to the flat? But how? And anyway, the flat was in Murray Hill, nowhere near Times Square. She wasn't violating her parole conditions. What about last night?¯She had been in Times Square. Had they received a tip-off? Who from? Kenny? But he didn't know where she was.

The doorbell rang again. She stood up and walked to the front door. She opened it on the chain.

'Rosie?' a voice called out.

'Kenny?' she replied, peering through the narrow aperture at him.

'Can I come in, or are we going to talk like this?'

She unhooked the chain and opened the door. 'How did you know I was here?'

'I had you followed from the Rollercoaster,' Doyle replied and immediately pushed his hands against the door when Rosie tried to slam it in his face. 'I did it because I was worried about you.'

'So you had someone spy on me,' she snapped, still trying to force the door closed. 'Go away, Kenny. Go away and leave me alone.'

'Rosie, I just want to talk to you. Please.'

'No!' she screamed. 'Go away.'

'You carry on yelling like that and one of the neighbours will call the police. Is that what you want?'

She stopped pushing on the door. 'OK, say what you've come to say then get out. I can't believe you're acting like this, Kenny. We used to be friends.'

'We still are.'

'Think again,' she snapped back.

'Rosie, there's something about this guy that isn't right.'

'You're not starting that again?'

'I'm worried about you, for Christ's sake. The guy saved your butt last night, granted. But there was no need for you to throw yourself at him like you did.'

'Throw myself at him?' she retorted in amazement.

'That's exactly what you did, and you know it. You couldn't take your eyes off him. You live in a fantasy world, you know that?' Doyle shook his head slowly. 'Open your eyes, Rosie. This is the real world. You're shacking up with — '

Rosie slapped him across the face. 'I'm not shacking up with him! He hasn't touched me since we met.'

Doyle dabbed the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His lip was bleeding. 'I've tried my best. You just won't come out your fantasy world, will you? But you'll learn. And it'll be the hard way. I'll see you around. Take care of yourself.'

Rosie watched Doyle disappear into the lift then wiped a tear from her,cheek. Why had she hit him? She had never hit anyone before in her life. And he was her best friend. She knew he was only trying to protect her. He had always been the big brother she never had. But why couldn't he understand that she needed her own freedom, a freedom to pick and choose her own friends? She so wanted him to like Marc. But now she knew that would never happen. He would be there for her when Marc was gone. He was always there for her. That's what made him so special. Then they could talk again. But until then she would stay away from the Rollercoaster, far away.

She closed the door and went back to the kitchen where she finished her coffee. After washing up she went through to the lounge and picked up the newspaper Bernard had been reading. The front page carried the story about the attempted assassination of Jamel Mobuto outside the United Nations Plaza. She didn't bother reading it. She wasn't interested in politics. She paged through the newspaper, found nothing of interest, and tossed it onto the coffee table in the middle of the room. She glanced at her watch. Nine fifty-five. She wasn't going to sit around the flat all day. Hell, there wasn't even a television set. She went back to the kitchen and was about to pocket the twenty dollars when she thought better of it and left it on the table. She would only use it for food. She turned out her pockets. She had six dollars and a few cents. It would be enough for a sandwich at lunchtime. She stuffed the money back into her pocket then picked up the spare key from the table in the hall and left the flat.

Doyle watched Rosie leave the building from the seclusion of a doorway on the opposite side of the street. He waited until she had disappeared from sight then crossed the road and mounted the steps leading up to the glass doors. He glanced around quickly then entered the foyer. It was deserted. He took the lift to the third floor and walked the short distance to the flat. He looked around again and, satisfied he was alone, removed a credit card from his wallet and slipped it carefully between the door and the jamb. He eased it against the lock and prised it back gently until he felt the door give under his sustained pressure.

After a quick perusal he pushed open the door and slipped inside, closing it silently behind him. He looked into the room nearest the front door, the lounge. The second door led into a bedroom. The bed was unmade. The T-shirt Rosie had been wearing the previous night lay crumpled in the corner.

He tried the adjoining door. It also led into a bedroom. The bed had been made with military precision. He moved to the wardrobe and tried the door. It was unlocked. He opened it. The clothes had been ironed then folded with meticulous care before being stacked neatly on the shelves. He unhooked the second door and opened it. Two pairs of jeans hung beside a pair of black flannels and a grey chintz jacket. He crouched down and unzipped the grey holdall at the bottom of the wardrobe. It was empty. He was about to zip it up when he noticed the black attache case pushed up against the back of the wardrobe.

He pushed the holdall to one side then removed the attache case and placed it carefully on the floor. Wiping the sweat from his forehead he glanced furtively over his shoulder like a naughty schoolboy about to light up a cigarette behind the toilets. He wiped his clammy hands on his shirt then tried the catches. They wouldn't move — a combination lock. He tilted the case to get a closer look at the digits. They were all at zero.

'One-nine-six-seven.'

Doyle looked round, startled by the voice behind him. Bernard stood in the doorway, a Desert Eagle automatic in his hand.

'Please, carry on,' Bernard said, indicating the attache case with the pistol. 'The combination's one-nine-six-seven, the year the PFLP was founded.'

'What?' Doyle said, his eyes riveted on the pistol.

'You've never heard of the PFLP?'

Doyle swallowed nervously and shook his head.

'The Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine.'

'You're a terrorist!' Doyle spat the words out.

'I prefer "revolutionary". But not any more. I work freelance now.'

'How did you know I was here?' Doyle stammered.

Bernard indicated the transmitter attached to his belt. 'You activated it the moment you opened the wardrobe.' He noticed the uncertainty in Doyle's eyes. 'I was in the adjoining flat, working. The two flats are connected by a door built into the lounge wall. That's why you never heard me come in. Actually, I thought it was Rosie snooping around.'

'What are you going to do with her?'

'Nothing,' Bernard replied casually then gestured to the case again with the pistol. 'You still haven't opened it. I thought you'd be curious to know what's inside.'

Doyle's hands were trembling as he lined up the digits. He placed his thumbs on the catches then paused to glance up at Bernard. His breathing was ragged and the sweat now ran freely down his face.

'It's not booby-trapped if that's what you're worried about,' Bernard said. 'Do you think I would be standing here if it was?'

Doyle wiped the back of his hand across his forehead then unlocked the case. He eased the lid open. Inside were the specially designed segments of a rifle and telescopic sight-attachment which were sunk into the contours of a foam base. 'A gun. I should have guessed.'

'A Galil sniping rifle to be exact. They may be the enemy, but the Israelis still make the best weapons in the world. So, is your curiosity satisfied now, gay boy?'

The taunt stung Doyle into action. He lunged at Bernard who sidestepped his wild punch and landed a vicious rabbit punch of his own at the base of Doyle's neck. Doyle stumbled and threw his hands up to protect his face as he fell heavily against the wall. Bernard took a silencer from his pocket and screwed it onto the muzzle of the pistol. He looked down at Doyle who was on his knees, his head bowed, his fingers gingerly massaging his neck.

'Hey, gay boy?' Bernard said, prodding Doyle with his foot.

Doyle looked up slowly. Bernard smiled coldly and shot him through the head.

Kolchinsky was reading through a dossier when the intercom buzzed. 'C.W.'s here, Mr Kolchinsky.'

'Send him through, Sarah,' Kolchinsky replied and used the sonic transmitter to activate the door.

'Morning, Sergei,' Whitlock said, entering the room.

Kolchinsky glanced at his watch. 'Afternoon, actually. It's a minute after twelve.'

Whitlock shrugged. 'I won't quibble about a minute.'

'Sit down,' Kolchinsky said, indicating the nearest of the black leather sofas. 'I thought you were supposed to be accompanying the President to the African-American Institute this morning?'

'The tour was cancelled.' Whitlock sat down. 'He's been in conference all morning. Suits me fine. The less he sees of New York the better.'

'What about his trip to Harlem this afternoon?'

'Still on, unfortunately. It's scheduled for two o'clock. That's why I thought I'd pop over and see you while I had the chance. Anything on the two assassins?'

'Not a thing. I've been on the phone to the Zimbalan authorities again this morning. It seems the Security Police shredded a lot of documents before Jamel Mobuto outlawed the organization. A lot of personnel files were also destroyed. They've promised to get back to me the moment they come up with anything.' Kolchinsky pushed a folder across the desk. 'This came in this morning from the lab at the Test Centre. It's the report on the shooting outside the United Nations Plaza. It's routine stuff mainly. But there was something that caught my eye — second page, third paragraph. See what you think.'

Whitlock opened the folder and read the relevant paragraph then looked up at Kolchinsky. 'I see what you mean. Although the gun-man was only thirty yards from Mobuto, he fired almost three feet wide of his target. Are they sure about their calculations?'

'They had half-a-dozen press photographs to choose from when it came to pinpointing Mobuto's position outside the hotel."

Whitlock closed the folder and replaced it on the desk. 'So the gunman either missed deliberately or else he was a lousy shot.'

'It doesn't make sense,' Whitlock said thoughtfully. 'Any assassin worth his salt wouldn't have missed by three feet. Not from that distance.'

Kolchinsky explained briefly what Sabrina had said earlier about a 'third man'.

'If Bernard is this mysterious third man, why not just use him to assassinate Mobuto?' Whitlock said. 'Why go to all the trouble of assembling a team of Security policemen…' he trailed off and looked quizzically at Kolchinsky. 'Decoys?'

'That had crossed my mind. But decoys for what? We know that Bernard wasn't even in the country when the attempt was made on the President's life. He was in Beirut.'

Whitlock stood up and walked to the window. He chewed his lip thoughtfully then turned back to Kolchinsky. 'What if this third man was there the other night when the attempt was made on Mobuto's life?'

'As backup?'

'As the assassin. The gunman in the crowd was just the decoy.'

Kolchinsky tapped the folder. 'The bullet dug out of the wall came from a nine-millimetre parabellum. It's the same gun discarded by the gunman.'

'Exactly,' Whitlock said, nodding. 'He purposely fired wide. That would tie in with the report.'

'So why didn't this third man shoot Mobuto?'

'Obviously he didn't have a clear shot.' Whitlock moved to the desk and looked down at Kolchinsky. 'I know it's a wild hunch, Sergei, but it makes sense, don't you see that? The decoy draws our attention to himself by firing blindly and in doing so gives the real assassin the chance to shoot Mobuto in the ensuing confusion. But, as I said, the assassin obviously didn't have a clear shot. And he's only got one shot in that situation.'

'So if this theory of yours is right, why didn't the first gunman also try to shoot Mobuto? Why purposely fire wide?'

'Because they want Mobuto dead. Who would be more reliable? The man in the crowd, armed only with a handgun, or the sniper overlooking the target area? What if the first gunman had only wounded him? They'd never have got near him in hospital. He'd have been guarded better than Fort Knox.'

'If your theory is right, then Bernard can't be this third man.'

'Why?' Whitlock countered.

'I've told you, he was in Beirut two days ago.'

'We only have Bailey's word for that. You said that Bernard was spotted at the airport by a CIA operative. Bernard could easily have bribed him to say that. What if he's been here all the time?'

Kolchinsky stared at the folder thoughtfully then looked up at Whitlock. 'If you're right, the next attempt has to be this afternoon. It's the only time the President will be out in the open.'

'My thoughts exactly. I want to draft in more police snipers to cover the area around the school.'

'How many?'

Whitlock visualized the plan of the area in his head. 'A dozen to be on the safe side.'

Kolchinsky made a note on his desk pad. Til arrange it with the Commissioner.'

'Well, I'd better get over to the hotel. Call me when you've spoken to the Commissioner.'

Kolchinsky nodded then activated the door for Whitlock. He closed it behind him then reached for the telephone.

'Hello?' Bernard said, answering the telephone after the first ring.

'This is Seabird,' a voice said.

'Columbus,' Bernard replied, quoting his codename.

'Whitlock's stumbled on the truth,' Seabird told him. 'Abort Plan A. Don't go to Harlem this afternoon.'

'What about Sibele and Kolwezi?'

'Send them in as if nothing's wrong. They're expendable. It'll also convince Whitlock he was right.'

'Leaving Plan B.'

'Right,' Seabird agreed.

'What about the rifle?'

'I'll have someone drop by later and pick it up. Don't worry, we won't have any problems getting it past the security guards.'

Bernard replaced the receiver and smiled to himself. The hit on Mobuto was now down to him. He liked it that way.

Rogers was sitting by the door of Mobuto's suite reading a magazine when the lift doors opened and Whitlock emerged into the corridor. The two uniformed policemen by the lift checked Whitlock's ID disc then let him pass.

Rogers discarded the magazine onto the coffee table beside him and got to his feet. 'They're still in conference,' he said when Whitlock reached him.

Whitlock glanced irritably at his watch. 'What's he playing at? He knows he's got to give an address at the school in an hour. The press are already crawling all over the foyer, waiting for him to appear.'

'Hoping for blood this time,' Rogers muttered cynically.

'No doubt,' Whitlock agreed. 'If he'd been ready a half an hour ago we could have avoided them.'

The door suddenly opened and the towering figure of Masala appeared. 'The President will be ready to leave in five minutes.'

Whitlock waited until the Zimbalan ambassador and his entourage had left before entering the suite. 'Can I have a word with the President?' he asked Masala.

'The President is dressing,' came the sharp reply.

'Is there a problem?' Mobuto asked from the doorway of his bedroom.

'There could be, sir,' Whitlock replied.

'Then you'd better come in,' Mobuto said then disappeared back into the bedroom.

Mobuto was putting on a red silk tie in front of the mirror when Whitlock entered the room. 'And what seems to be the problem?'

Whitlock bit back his anger at Mobuto's sarcastic tone. 'We agreed that you would be ready half an hour ago to avoid the press.'

'The conference lasted longer than I anticipated,' Mobuto replied, glancing towards Whitlock's reflection in the mirror.

'Well, the press are here in force now. We'll have to smuggle you out through the back of the hotel.'

Mobuto finished knotting his tie then turned to face Whitlock. 'Perhaps you'd like to put a paper bag over my head as well just in case someone should see me.'

'None of this would be necessary if we had left on time,' Whitlock retorted, unable to hold back his anger any longer.

'You sound just like my father. Everything he did had to be done with military precision. He lived by the clock. He never knew the word flexibility.' Mobuto held up his hand before Whitlock could reply. 'Let's get something straight, Clarence. I intend to leave here through the front of the hotel. And if there is an assassin in the crowd, then let's hope you're as quick on your toes as you were the other night. But I will not bow to their terror by sneaking out through back doors. Is that understood?'

Whitlock nodded.

Mobuto put on his jacket and slipped a carnation into his button hole. 'I'm ready. Shall we go?'

The bleeper attached to Whitlock's belt went off before he could reply. He silenced it and immediately went into the lounge where a special scrambler telephone had been installed. He rang UN AGO headquarters and gave Sarah his identity number.

She immediately patched him through to Kolchinsky.

'Bailey's just called,' Kolchinsky told him. 'Bernard's been in touch.'

'Finally,' Whitlock replied. 'Did he say where the hit would take place?'

'At the school.'

'Where at the school?'

'There's no definite plan, but Bernard told the gunman to make the hit outside the building.'

'Which would tie up with a second assassin.'

'Perhaps,' Kolchinsky replied. 'It's a two-man team, like before, one wheelman, one assassin. The getaway car will be a red Buick, registration number 472. ENG.'

'That certainly helps,' Whitlock said, jotting down the number.

'I got a bad feeling about this, C.W. Be careful.'

'You can count on it,' Whitlock replied.

'Keep me advised.'

'Will do,' Whitlock said then replaced the receiver.

'Well?' Mobuto enquired.

Whitlock recounted what Kolchinsky had said on the telephone.

'At least now we know where we stand,' Mobuto said once Whitlock had finished speaking.

'I hope you're right,' Whitlock replied softly then followed Mobuto to the door.

The Mercedes carrying the President was hemmed in between two police cars while a second Mercedes brought up the rear of the convoy. Whitlock sat in the front of the presidential car, his mind racing. Had he anticipated every possibility when he had organized the security arrangements at the school that morning? Was there a weak link? He had gone over the plans of the area with the head of the SWAT team. Had they overlooked anything? If something happened to Mobuto now they had been warned that another attempt was to be made on his life, heads would definitely roll, starting with his. He had radioed through to the SWAT team before they set out for Harlem, warning them to be on the lookout for the red Buick. He had also given them strict instructions not to open fire unless it was absolutely necessary. A prisoner to question would be invaluable to a case that was crying out for answers, and there was far more chance of the gunman being killed than the getaway driver. Then there was Bernard. Where did he fit into the jigsaw? Was he the third man? And if he was, was he working for Bailey or had he double-crossed the CIA? Was he working for Ngune? So many questions and he didn't have an answer for any of them. That worried him. And like Kolchinsky, he had a bad feeling about Mobuto's visit to Harlem…

'Are you married, Clarence?' Mobuto asked from the back seat. 'I suddenly realized I don't know anything about you since you left Oxford.'

Whitlock wished Mobuto would stop calling'him Clarence. But there was nothing he could do about it. Mobuto had already reported him to Kolchinsky for calling him Jamel at the airport. Kolchinsky had hauled him into the office the next day and told him to bite his tongue. Mobuto was a guest in the country, and an important one at that. Kolchinsky had also pointed out that it wasn't as if he were insulting him. He was only calling him by his name. Whitlock knew he was right. Clarence indeed!

'Yes, I've been married for seven years. Actually, my wife works in Harlem.'

'Really? What does she do?'

'She's a paediatrician.'

'How interesting,' Mobuto said without sounding particularly convincing. 'Do you have any children?'

'No.'

The silence descended again.

'We're in Harlem now,' Whitlock said as the Mercedes followed the police car into Lenox Avenue.

Mobuto peered through the dark glass window. 'It seems so bleak and depressing.'

'It is, believe me. Poverty's rife because unemployment's so high. So youngsters turn to drugs, crime and prostitution to make ends meet. It's hard to believe this is America, land of the free.'

'I'd like to speak to some of the people,' Mobuto said, the pained expression etched on his face. 'Driver, pull over.'

The driver shot Whitlock a nervous glance but Whitlock shook his head.

'We're not stopping, not until we reach the school.'

'Why not?' Mobuto demanded. 'These are your people as well, Clarence.'

'We may be black, sir, but we don't belong here. They don't like outsiders. And can you blame them, looking around at all the squalor? This is what a succession of American governments have done for them. It makes me bitter when I come into Harlem.

But they don't want my sympathy. They don't want anybody's sympathy. They just want to be left alone to try and sort out their own problems.' Whitlock glanced at Mobuto in the rear-view mirror. 'Don't think it was easy getting you into Harlem; it wasn't. The government had to negotiate with community leaders to let the convoy enter. We're driving through some gang's turf right now. We're violating their space. If our visit hadn't been sanctioned by the community leaders the convoy would certainly have come under attack by now.'

'But surely the police cars would deter them?'

A faint smile touched the driver's lips.

'The gangs don't fear the police,' Whitlock said. 'If anything, it's the other way round. You may have noticed that all the uniformed policemen in the convoy are black. They're all based here in Harlem. The people know them.'

Mobuto fell silent.

The large crowd of onlookers which had congregated outside the school was being kept away from the main gates by a cordon of policemen. Some were genuinely interested in the man, others attracted by the media hype that had surrounded his visit since the attempt on his life two days earlier. The schoolchildren, who lined the approach road to the school, had been issued with small replicas of the Zimbalan flag and they began to wave them on cue the moment the cavalcade came into sight.

Mobuto smiled and waved as the car passed them. Whitlock ignored the children. His eyes were on the surrounding buildings. He could see the SWAT snipers on the roofs, their faces shaded from the overhead sun by their black peaked caps. He had given instructions that all buildings be searched and guarded within a seven-hundred-yard radius of the school. He knew it had already caused a lot of resentment amongst the occupants, especially as the SWAT team was predominantly white, but there was nothing he could do about it. His first duty was to protect Mobuto.

The Mercedes followed the police car through the wrought-iron gates and pulled up behind it two hundred yards further on in front of the main portico where the principal and a deputation of community leaders were standing. Whitlock slipped in his earpiece, which kept him in touch with the leader of the SWAT team, then got out of the car and waited until Rogers and Masala had joined him from the second Mercedes before opening the door for Mobuto.

The principal stepped forward as Mobuto climbed from the car and extended his hand in greeting. He welcomed Mobuto to the school then set about introducing him to the five community leaders who had been chosen to meet him. Whitlock and Rogers exchanged anxious glances. Why couldn't the introductions be made inside? Mobuto was a prime target on the portico. Whitlock slid on his sunglasses and scanned the roof of the adjacent building. It was guarded by two of the SWAT team. He felt the sweat run down the side of his face. Bernard had said the attempt would be made outside the school. That was why he had already persuaded Mobuto not to get out and greet the crowd. It would be tempting fate. Which left the sniper — if, in fact, there even was one. And if Bernard were the sniper, why had he tipped off Bailey about the hit? None of it made any sense. But it wasn't the time to be speculating about Bernard's involvement.

He looked around once more then turned back to Mobuto who was being introduced to the last of the community leaders. He nodded to Masala who took up his position at the door, waiting to lead the deputation into the corridor, then spoke briefly to the uniformed policemen who had formed a cordon around the portico, reiterating the point he had made several times earlier at the briefing that nobody was to get past them once Mobuto was inside the building. He also told them to keep in touch with the other uniformed officers in and around the school building and to contact him if anything untoward happened, no matter how trivial. He was desperate to apprehend the assassin, or assassins, without a shot being fired. It would make amends for the lapse of security outside the hotel. Rogers touched him on the arm. They were ready to go inside. Whitlock had been uncertain about Rogers's presence in the hall. He would be the only white face there. It had finally been decided that he would watch the door leading off from the back of the stage. He would be hidden from view by the heavy red curtains that bordered the stage on three sides. Whitlock looked around one last time then followed Mobuto into the building.

Walter Sibele had been with the Zimbalan Security Police for eight years before it was disbanded by Jamel

Mobuto, so he had jumped at the chance to join the four-man team selected to go to America to assassinate Mobuto. Massenga had told them not to view it as a revenge mission. It must be approached clinically and professionally. They had been training together for a week at a farmhouse on the outskirts of Kondese when Massenga had suddenly arrived unexpectedly with a man none of them had ever seen before. Massenga introduced him only as 'Columbus'. There was to be a change of plan. Columbus was the new team leader, and he would kill Mobuto. They were to listen to him and obey his every instruction. They didn't question Massenga's orders but there was a feeling of resentment against this newcomer. He had yet to prove himself. On the second day he had thrown down the gauntlet. If any of them could beat him on the firing range, then they would not only become the new leader, but they would also win the job of killing Mobuto. It was a challenge they had readily accepted. None of them had come close to matching his shooting ability, either with handguns or rifles. That was to be the turning point. By the time the four of them had flown out to America there was nothing they wouldn't do for him.

And now that the other two were dead, it was up to Kolwezi and himself to prove themselves to Columbus, even if it meant they would be killed in the process. They were ready for that-as long as Mobuto died with them. Then Ngune could take power and they would become the martyrs that had helped to create a new generation of power in Zimbala. And if they survived, Ngune would decorate them publicly i8z for their bravery. Whatever the outcome, Mobuto had to die…

Sibele had been searched when he entered the building and the number on his invitation had been checked against a list. It had been bought legitimately from a tout in St Nicholas Park. There had only been five hundred tickets printed and, on Mobuto's specific instructions, three hundred and fifty of those were to be sold to the public. All the money would go to help the children of Harlem. Had all the tickets gone to the wealthy black socialites of New York, as had initially been the plan, then he could never have got into the building. It was ironic that Mobuto had orchestrated his own death. The gun, a Beretta, had been smuggled into the building a week ago by a janitor who had been handsomely rewarded for his trouble. He had waited until the toilets had been searched by the police then taped the gun under the cistern for Sibele to collect minutes later. He had tucked the Beretta into the belt at the back of his trousers then taken his seat early to ensure that he was close to the stage. He had been sitting there for over an hour but he knew Mobuto had arrived at the school: it would only be a matter of minutes before he entered the hall…

The double doors at the back of the hall were thrust open and the menacing figure of Masala entered. There were some anxious whispers from the audience but the appearance of the principal behind him seemed to calm the situation. Most of the audience recognized Mobuto immediately from the exposure he had received on national television and they watched him walk down the aisle with the rest of the delegation and climb the stairs leading onto the stage. The principal gestured to the chair nearest the podium and Mobuto smiled briefly before sitting down. The community leaders took their seats, leaving the chair next to Mobuto vacant for the principal. Whitlock and Masala sat at the rear. Whitlock glanced towards the wings. Rogers gave him a thumbs up then peered through the curtains at the audience before turning and moving back to the door.

The principal moved to the podium. He looked out across the sea of faces then cleared his throat. 'May I straight away welcome you all here today. I had a speech all prepared to introduce our guest to you but, thanks to the efficiency of the American press, I doubt there's anyone here who doesn't know the entire life history of Mr Mobuto by now.'

There was a ripple of laughter. Mobuto remained impassive as he stared at the floor.

'Mr Mobuto has graciously agreed to answer any questions you may have after he has finished his speech. So without further delay, please give a warm Harlem welcome to the new President of Zimbala, Jamel Mobuto.'

That was Sibele's cue. As the applause echoed around the room he drew the Beretta and sprung to his feet. The woman beside him screamed. Masala knocked the principal out of the way and felled Mobuto, shoving him to safety behind the podium before Sibele could get off a shot. Women and children began screaming as chairs were kicked aside in the stampede for the back doors. Whitlock drew his Browning but couldn't shoot at Sibele for fear of hitting someone in the audience. Sibele looked towards the gallery which had been closed for renovations. There was no sign of Columbus. Where was he? He said he would be there. Something must have gone wrong. Sibele turned back towards the stage. He was on his own. Whitlock had reached the edge of the stage when Sibele swung the Beretta on him and fired. The bullet hit Whitlock in the arm. The Browning spun from his hand. Sibele ran towards the stairs leading onto the stage. Rogers swung out from behind the curtain and fired twice as.Sibele reached the top of the stairs. The bullets took Sibele in the chest, punching him off the stage. He crashed into the front row of chairs, scattering them across the floor. Rogers leaped off the stage and kicked the gun away from Sibele's outstretched hand. He pressed his Smith & Wesson into Sibele's neck and felt for a pulse.

'Well?' Whitlock asked from the edge of the stage, his hand clutched over his arm.

'Dead,' Rogers replied then frowned anxiously. 'Areyou OK?'

Whitlock nodded and hurried over to where Mobuto lay. 'Sir, are you alright?'

Tm fine.' Mobuto got to his feet and winced as he looked at Whitlock's blood-soaked sleeve. 'You're losing a lot of blood. You need to get to a hospital.'

'The bullet went straight through. It looks a lot worse than it is.'

The principal and the community leaders ventured out from behind the curtains and looked from Sibele's body to Whitlock's injured arm.

'How did he get in here with that gun?' the principal demanded. 'I thought the police had searched everybody who came in here today.'

'They did,' Whitlock replied. 'It was obviously an inside job.'

Two uniformed policemen appeared at the back of the hall, alerted by the sound of gunfire.

'Call an ambulance,' Rogers shouted to them. 'And close those doors. The press aren't to get in here under any circumstances until the body's been removed.'

'Yes, sir,' one of the policemen said and closed the doors behind them.

Whitlock used his handkerchief as a tourniquet then glanced out across the now deserted hall before focussing his attention on the gallery. Why had Sibele looked up there? Was that where the sniper should have been? But the door leading into the gallery was being guarded by a uniformed policeman. Had that put the sniper off?

'You also saw it,' Masala said behind him.

Whitlock nodded.

There was a knock at the door and a breathless policeman entered the hall. He glanced at Sibele's body then looked up at Whitlock. 'We've been trying to reach you but you weren't replying.'

Whitlock instinctively looked down at the receiver on his belt. The wire connected to the earpiece had been ripped from the socket, probably when he fell. He looked up at the policeman. 'What is it?'

'The SWAT team have cornered the getaway driver a couple of blocks from here. They're awaiting your instructions.'

Whitlock turned to Rogers. 'Get over there right away. We need him alive. Make sure the SWAT team know that. If they are forced to shoot, tell them to maim, not kill.'

'I'm on my way,' Rogers said and jumped nimbly off the stage.

'Wait, I'm going with you,' Masala said and looked to Mobuto for his consent.

'Go on. And remember what Mr Whitlock said. Don't kill him.'

Masala nodded and followed Rogers from the hall. They were immediately besieged by the press but neither man said anything as they shoved their way through the extended microphones. Rogers told the uniformed police on the portico to get the press out of the building then walked with Masala to the main gates where an even larger crowd had gathered after word had spread through the neighbourhood of the shooting. A member of the SWAT team was waiting for them.

'What's the situation?' Rogers asked.

'We spotted him in a sidestreet. The description of the car and the registration number match the bulletin you sent through to us earlier. The street's been cordoned off but we haven't approached the car. He's just sitting there.'

'Let's go,' Rogers said.

The three men ran the hundred yards to where a crowd of onlookers had gathered around the mouth of the sidestreet. A police car was parked at an angle to the road, making it impossible for the Buick to get out without ramming it. Another police car was similarly positioned at the other end of the street. Half-a-dozen members of the SWAT team were positioned on the roofs overlooking the street, their rifles trained on the car. The lieutenant in charge of the SWAT team was waiting for them. Rogers told him what Whitlock had said and he immediately passed the instructions on to his men.

'What do you suggest we do?' the lieutenant asked.

Til try and speak to him,' Rogers replied.

'The car could be booby-trapped,' said the lieutenant.

Rogers shrugged. 'I've got to take that chance. The longer we make him sweat it out, the more chance there is of him cracking. We need him alive, remember?'

The lieutenant nodded.

Rogers stepped out in front of the police car and took off his jacket. He carefully unholstered his Smith 8c Wesson, held it up for Kolwezi to see, then handed it to Masala.

'Are you crazy?' the lieutenant said in amazement. 'He could gun you down.'

'If he does, don't kill him, disable him.''

The lieutenant sighed deeply then stepped back and spoke into his radio, telling his men that Rogers would be going in unarmed. Rogers walked slowly towards the Buick, his arms held out away from his body. He reached the front of the Buick and indicated for Kolwezi to open the driver's window. Kolwezi wiped the sweat from his face with his hand then wound down the window. He levelled the Walther at Rogers and ordered him to approach to within five feet of the window. Rogers complied. He looked up at the nearest of the SWAT snipers on the roof above them. He was at least fifty yards away from the car — out of earshot.

'We can talk — they can't hear us,' Rogers told him in Arabic. 'Sibele's dead.'

'And Mobuto?'

'No.'

'What about Columbus?'

'He couldn't get into the building,' Rogers lied. 'It was too well guarded. But there was no way to get a message to Sibele before he went into the hall. He didn't stand a chance.'

'Twice we have failed,' Kolwezi said bitterly. 'Mobuto lives a charmed life, just as he did when his father was in power.'

'Don't worry, your deaths won't be in vain. Mobuto will die tomorrow.'

'Columbus?'

Rogers nodded then glanced across at Masala and the lieutenant. 'I'm supposed to be trying to persuade you to surrender.'

'Go now, my friend.'

Rogers turned sharply on his heel and began to walk back towards the police car.

Kolwezi calmly pressed the barrel of the gun against the roof of his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Carmen had left her receptionist to lock up and rushed over to the hospital after Whitlock had rung to tell her that he was there. Although his arm was heavily bandaged he had assured her that it wasn't a serious wound. He knew the lie would at least put her mind at rest. It did hurt like hell, though. The doctor had given him a prescription for sleeping tablets which they had picked up on the way back to the apartment. He had eaten a light dinner then retired to bed early, determined to be back at work the following morning.

She was busy washing up when the telephone rang. She wiped her hands on the dish towel and answered the extension in the kitchen.

'Carmen?'

'Rosie?' Carmen countered in surprise.

'Yeah,' Rosie replied.

She had dropped the 'aunt' and 'uncle' routine at their insistence. Uncle Clarence! Whitlock had hated it. Now she just called him C.W.

'Rosie, where are you?' Carmen asked anxiously. 'Your parents are going out of their minds with worry. You must call your mother — '

'No,' Rosie cut in firmly. 'That's why I called you. Tell her I'm fine. I'll call her in a few days.'

'Where are you staying?'

'With a friend.'

'Why not come and stay with us for a while?' Carmen suggested. 'You don't have to see your parents until you want to. But at least they'll know you're safe.'

'Well…,' Rosie replied. Til call you tomorrow at work and we'll sort something out.'

'Is that a promise?'

'Sure. My money's run out. I'll call you, OK?'

'OK.'

The line went dead. Carmen replaced the receiver then looked in on her husband, wondering if he had heard the telephone. He was fast asleep. She smiled then closed the bedroom door and returned to the kitchen to finish washing the dishes.

Rosie picked up a pizza from the pizzeria near the callbox then went back to the apartment. She opened the door and saw Bernard's leather jacket on the chair in the hall. He was listening to the news on the radio in the lounge.

'When did you get in?' she asked from the doorway.

'About twenty minutes ago,' Bernard replied with a smile.

'How was your day?'

'Don't ask,' he said then got to his feet and pointed to the box in her hand. 'What's the pizza?'

'Ham and mushroom. Is that OK?'

'Great. I'm starving.' Bernard made room for the box on the coffee table. 'And how was your day?'

'I went out soon after you left this morning,' she said, opening the box. 'I only got back now.'

'Where did you go?' Bernard asked.

'I took the subway to Fifth Avenue. I spent the day window-shopping. Not much else to do there with five bucks in your pocket.'

Bernard smiled then helped himself to a slice of pizza.

'I rang my aunt just before I got the pizza.'

'Your aunt?' Bernard asked suspiciously, the pizza slice hovering inches from his mouth.

'Carmen. She suggested I go and stay with them from tomorrow. I reckon it might be a good idea. It's not that I don't appreciate what you've done for me. I really do. But she is family. I only wish my parents were as liberal as my aunt and uncle.'

'And you're going to move in with them tomorrow?'

'Yeah, I think so. We've always got on great. Is there something wrong?'

'No, I think it's a good idea. And anyway, I'm heading back to Beirut in a couple of days.' Bernard's mind was racing: Carmen, Whitlock's wife. If Rosie moved in with them he could kiss his hostage goodbye. It only complicated matters. Why couldn't she have called them the next day? By then he would know if he needed her. He would have to play it by ear. It was the only way.

The doorbell rang.

Bernard frowned. Was it the courier for the rifle? He wasn't expecting him for another couple of hours, and he wasn't expecting anyone else. He wiped his hands on a paper napkin then got to his feet and answered the door. Two uniformed police officers stood in front of him.

'Good evening, sir,' one said, touching his cap. 'Are you Marc Giresse?'

Bernard nodded slowly. 'Yes. What's the problem, officer?'

'May we come in?'

'Yes, of course,' Bernard replied, opening the door for them.

'I'm Officer Deacon,' the spokesman said once they were inside. 'And this is Officer Cummings.'

Bernard noted that their badges were genuine. 'You still haven't told me what the problem is.'

Deacon was about to speak when Rosie appeared from the lounge. He glanced towards her. 'Are you Rosie Kruger?'

She glanced at Bernard, her eyes wide and fearful. 'Yes,' she stammered.

'Do you know a Kenneth Doyle?'

'Yes,' she answered. A look of concern suddenly crossed her face. 'Has something happened to him?'

'I was hoping one of you could answer that.' Deacon took a sheet of folded paper from his pocket and held it up. 'Mr Doyle left this note with a friend. In it he said he was coming round here this morning to see you, Miss Kruger. He also said that if this friend hadn't heard from him by four o'clock this afternoon he was to go to the police with the note. It all sounds a little sinister, doesn't it?'

'Officer, there must be a logical explanation,' Bernard said, fighting the anxiety that throbbed in the pit of his stomach.

'Did you know Miss Kruger was sixteen years old, Mr Giresse? Or that she was a runaway?"

'Yes, I knew that,' Bernard replied. 'She told me. That was one of the reasons I gave her a bed for the night. She's too young to be on the streets at night.'

'Whose bed?' Cummings asked, looking from Bernard to Rosie.

'You bastard!' Rosie snarled. 'Marc's never touched me.'

'Cool it, Rosie,' Bernard said, holding up his hands.

'Did Mr Doyle come round this morning?' Deacon asked Rosie.

She nodded. 'He had this thing about Marc. He didn't trust him. He wanted me to leave the apartment. I told him to go away. Marc's been fantastic to me ever since I came here.'

'And did he go away?' Cummings asked.

'Yes.'

'Did he return?' Cummings continued.

'I don't know. I left soon after him and I only got back a few minutes ago.'

'Did you see him?' Deacon asked Bernard.

'I've been out all day, officer,' Bernard replied. 'I'm sorry I can't be more helpful but I only met him once, and that was at the Rollercoaster where he worked.'

'Have you tried the Rollercoaster?'

'We've tried all his usual haunts, Miss Kruger. He just seems to have vanished. And that's very unlike him, according to his friends.'

'That's true,' Rosie said. 'Kenny loves company. I've never known him to be alone.'

'You say he didn't trust Mr Giresse,' Cummings said. 'Why?'

'Kenny was very protective towards me. He was like a big brother. He was always wary of any new friends I made, especially if they were men. I don't know why he didn't trust Marc. He just kept saying that there was something about him that wasn't right.'

'You'd both better come down to the precinct with us,' Deacon said.

'Are you booking us?' Bernard demanded.

'No,' Deacon replied. 'We'd like to question you further.'

'It's OK,' Bernard said to Rosie. 'As I said, there's sure to be a logical explanation to all this. Get your coat.'

'I don't have one with me,' she replied.

'Use mine,' Bernard said, gesturing towards the chair. He turned to Deacon. 'Can I get a jacket from the bedroom?'

Deacon nodded then followed Bernard into the bedroom. He stood by the door. Bernard opened the wardrobe and unhooked the grey jacket then slipped his hand under the pile of shirts and curled his fingers around the Desert Eagle. It still had the silencer attached. His first thought was to shoot Deacon on the turn, but that would alert Cummings. He had to get them together. He removed the automatic from under the bottom shirt and slipped the jacket over his hand to hide it. He closed the wardrobe then walked across to Deacon. Cummings was now in sight, standing by the front door. But Rosie was in the way of a clear shot. He cursed. What if Cummings opened the door before Rosie moved? Any gunplay outside the flat would certainly compromise his cover. His mind was still racing when Cummings reached for the handle. Bernard had to play his hand, even if Rosie were caught in the crossfire. Keeping his cover intact far outweighed her usefulness as a hostage. He raised the gun underneath the jacket and shot Deacon through the head. Rosie screamed as Deacon stumbled back against the wall before slumping face forward onto the carpet. Cummings instinctively pushed her aside and was still reaching for his holstered Colt Python when Bernard shot him. He was slammed back against the door and the surprise was still mirrored in his eyes when he slid, lifelessly, to the floor. Bernard discarded the jacket and aimed the automatic at Rosie who was crouched against the wall, her hands clutched together tightly under her chin. She looked up slowly at him, the terror plain on her face.

'Please, don't kill me,' she whimpered, shaking her head slowly.

'I'm not going to kill you. You're too valuable to me.'

Bernard kept the gun trained on her as he checked to see that both policemen were dead. Satisfied, he ordered her to stand up. She slowly got to her feet, petrified.

'You should have listened to your friend Kenny, shouldn't you?'

'What have you done to him?' she asked, already fearing the worst.

'He came back to the flat after you had gone. I think he fancied himself as a bit of a detective. But he was in way over his head. Pity, he meant well.'

'You killed him, didn't you?'

'Yeah,' he replied with an indifferent shrug.

She fought back the tears. Why hadn't she listened to Kenny? He had been right all along. She had been living in a fantasy world. And now suddenly she had been pitched headlong into the world of reality. She desperately wanted to crawl back into her old world where she knew she would be safe. But she knew that couldn't happen. Never again. Then came the damning realization that she had been partly responsible for Kenny's death. If she had listened to him he would still be alive. And in that moment of truth her fear turned to anger. She lunged at Bernard, almost wishing he would pull the trigger. He sidestepped her clawing hands and she saw the gun out of the corner of her eye as he swung it down onto the back of her head. Then everything went black.