Time of the Assassins u-6

by Alastair Macneill

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

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

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

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

  'What is it?'

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

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

  'An American, Russell Laidlaw.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'It could be a trap.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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