The official welcoming party had congregated in front of the limousines, talking amongst themselves. The Zimbalan mission was headed by their newly appointed ambassador to the UN and the White House's Chief of Protocol was the official representative from the American administration.
Whitlock's eyes flickered to the two sombre-suited men standing apart from the others, Paul Brett and Jack Rogers. Bailey's men. Both had been presidential bodyguards with the Reagan administration but neither of them had ever had to draw his gun in anger. Whitlock had spent most of the afternoon with them and he'd come away with the distinct impression that they held him in little regard. Although they never said it, he knew their bitterness stemmed from the fact that he would be in charge of the operation. They would be taking orders from someone outside the CIA. Brett suddenly glanced across at him. His face remained expressionless. Rogers said something and they both laughed. Whitlock stared back at Brett. The hell he'd be intimidated by one of Bailey's flunkeys. Brett looked away.
Whitlock suddenly noticed that a member of the Zimbalan mission had been watching them. She was an attractive, light-skinned African in her late twenties in a blue suit and white blouse. The translator. The official languages of Zimbala were Swahili and French; and several of the Zimbalan delegates didn't speak English. He smiled at her. She smiled back then looked away quickly as if she had been caught doing something wrong. He suddenly thought of Rosie. He'd been so busy that afternoon that he'd completely forgotten to call her. He felt a sense of guilt but at the same time knew he could never have spoken to her anyway. He made a mental note to call her and arrange a time to meet, away from her parents.
Someone called out, breaking his train of thought. The presidential plane was making its final descent. He immediately ordered the policemen to take up their designated positions on the runway then crossed to where Brett and Rogers were standing. They glanced at him but said nothing.
The white Gulfstream One executed a perfect landing but it was only when it taxied towards them that Whitlock saw the blue, red and white Zimbalan flag painted on the side of the fuselage with the words 'Air Zimbala' above it in black lettering. It was obvious that the plane had been repainted before its journey and Whitlock suddenly wondered if it had been done to erase the memories of the previous regime. He let the thought pass as the plane came to a halt less than twenty yards away from the limousines. The hatch opened and a set of steps was driven up to it. The Chief of Protocol led the way to the foot of the steps, waiting for Mobuto to appear. The first man to emerge had to duck through the opening. Whitlock judged him to be at least six foot six. He looked around him slowly then disappeared back inside the aircraft. He reappeared a moment later and Whitlock immediately recognized Mobuto when he emerged behind the bodyguard. He was a tall, handsome man who had an air of confidence about him. He was dressed in an expensive grey Dior suit and wore dark glasses. It was hard to believe he was forty-two years old. He looked ten years younger. He removed the glasses on reaching the tarmac and he shook the Chief of Protocol's extended hand. Rogers and Brett immediately flanked him at the foot of the steps and walked with him as he shook hands with each member of the Zimbalan mission in turn. His grip lingered on the translator's hand and he smiled faintly at her before turning back to the Chief of Protocol who was standing behind him. It was then that he noticed Whitlock standing discreetly in the background. He told Brett and Rogers to hold back then crossed to where Whitlock stood and held out a hand of greeting.
'It's been a long time, Clarence,' Mobuto said in his faultless English.
Whitlock bit back his anger. He had never forgiven his parents for christening him Clarence Wilkins.
'Over twenty years,' Whitlock replied, gripping the extended hand. 'You look well, Jamel.'
Mobuto inhaled sharply and glanced at the massive bodyguard who was hovering in the background. He turned back to Whitlock. 'You call me President Mobuto in front of my people!'
'And you call me C.W. in front of mine,' Whitlock retorted, holding Mobuto's stare.
Mobuto smiled coldly. 'You haven't changed a bit. Still as insolent as ever.'
'And you're still as arrogant as ever.' Whitlock looked past Mobuto and gestured for Brett and Rogers to approach them. He introduced them to Mobuto then went on to explain that one of them would always be at his side for the duration of his visit.
'And you?' Mobuto asked once Whitlock had finished speaking.
'I'm in charge of security. Brett and Rogers report directly to me. As do your bodyguards.'
'Very well,' Mobuto replied after a moment's thought then moved away with the Chief of Protocol, heading towards one of the limousines.
'Brett, you're taking first shift, aren't you?'
Brett nodded.
'Rogers, you'll relieve him tomorrow at seven a.m.'
'Fine,' was all Rogers said.
Whitlock dismissed Rogers then he and Brett hurried after Mobuto. Brett went to the lead limousine and climbed in beside the driver. Whitlock caught up with
Mobuto but remained discreetly in the background while he finished talking to the Chief of Protocol. Mobuto spoke briefly to the Zimbalan ambassador in Swahili then beckoned the tall bodyguard towards him. He introduced him to Whitlock as Masala, his personal bodyguard, then told Masala that he and the other three Zimbalan bodyguards were to liaise directly with Whitlock.
'President Mobuto and I will be in the second car,' Whitlock said to Masala. 'You ride up front in the third. Spread your men amongst the other two cars.'
Masala nodded then went off to carry out Whit-lock's instructions.
Mobuto climbed into the back of the limousine. The Zimbalan ambassador got in beside him and the driver closed the door behind them. Whitlock got into the passenger seat and the driver immediately started the engine.
Whitlock looked round at Mobuto. 'I'm going to seal off the back of the car with a sheet of soundproof glass. Not only is it bulletproof but it will also give you privacy to speak to the ambassador. There's a private telephone in the compartment in front of you if you need to make any outside calls. And if you need us, just dial zero.'
Mobuto nodded.
Whitlock activated the switch on the dashboard and the glass slid into place, sealing off the back and front seats of the car. He sat back and exhaled deeply. The driver glanced at him but sensed that Whitlock wasn't in the mood to talk. He switched on the radio, found a music station and followed the first limousine out of the airport onto the Grand Central Parkway, heading towards Manhattan.
The convoy, led by a police car and two police motorcycles, made its way through Long Island City, across the Queensboro Bridge into Manhattan then down First Avenue to the United Nations Plaza, the hotel where the Zimbalan delegation would stay for the duration of their three-day visit to New York. It was situated close to the United Nations headquarters as well as being only three blocks away from the African American Institute which Mobuto had requested to see at some point during his visit. And with Mobuto due to address the United Nations' General Assembly, the locale couldn't have been better.
The convoy drew to a halt in front of the hotel; Whitlock jumped out of the limousine and looked around him slowly. The press, who had been alerted by an anonymous call to Reuters the previous day by one of the assassins, were out in force, waiting and hoping to get an exclusive of an assassination, or at least an attempted assassination, for the morning papers. Whitlock shouted at the two policemen on the motorcycles to get the photographers back a few feet to give Mobuto a chance to get out of the limousine. They immediately set about the task of pushing the jostling photographers away from the limousine. Brett and Masala flanked the back door and the other three bodyguards took up positions on the other side of the car, facing the photographers. Satisfied, Whitlock nodded to Masala who opened the back door. Mobuto climbed out slowly and turned to wave at the waiting photographers. Flashbulbs popped incessantly and Whitlock found himself struggling to focus on the sea of cameras, his eyes d
arting about in search of anything untoward.
Suddenly one of the Zimbalan bodyguards shouted a warning and lunged at the photographers. Whitlock knocked Mobuto to the ground in the split-second before a bullet smashed into the wall behind them. The photographers scattered in panic as the bodyguard made a grab for the gunman. A second shot rang out and the bodyguard stumbled back, clutching his stomach. The other two Zimbalan bodyguards immediately drew their snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .385 and sprinted after the fleeing gunman.
The getaway driver, in a blue Ford, laid down a burst of suppressing fire, forcing the bodyguards to dive for cover. By the time they had got to their feet the gunman had jumped through the open passenger door and the wheels shrieked in protest as the car sped away from the hotel.
Whitlock mounted one of the police motorcycles, kick-started it, then slewed it violently in an ungainly one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and took off after the getaway car. He unhooked the radio and called for backup, giving a description of the car and its registration number. The Ford swung sharply into East 34th Street, mounted the kerb, and narrowly missed a couple of teenagers waiting to cross the road. The driver managed to regain control and turned into Second Avenue.
Suddenly he felt the car beginning to skid and in his panic trod on the brakes. The wheels locked and the car careered across the road, clipping the side of an oncoming Greyhound bus. The car overturned and ploughed into the side of a stationary delivery van. The driver was dead, his chest crushed by the steering wheel.
The gunman managed to unbuckle his safety belt and struggled to push open the passenger door. Eager hands reached out to help him as he eased himself out of the car. He wiped the blood from a gash on his forehead then waved the Walther?5 threateningly at the growing crowd of onlookers. They immediately stepped back, anxious not to alarm him.
He fired blindly at Whitlock as he turned into Second Avenue. Whitlock lost control of the motorcycle and fell heavily onto the road. The gunman looked around him wildly and the crowd parted as he darted up a narrow alleyway. Whitlock pulled himself to his feet and winced as a sharp pain shot through his left leg. He looked down at it. His trousers were ripped and the blood seeped down his leg from the gash inches above his knee. It hurt like hell but he was damned if he was going to let the gunman escape. He drew his Browning Mkz and went after the gunman. Ignoring the pain that shot through his leg with every step, he reached the end of the alleyway. It forked off in two directions. And the gunman was nowhere to be seen. He cursed softly, knowing he'd lost him.
A bullet cracked inches above his head and he flung himself behind a row of metal dustbins, the Browning clenched tightly in his hand. The shot had come from the left fork. He couldn't see the gunman but at least he knew where he was. He could wait. The gunman fired again but the bullet was well off target. He was panicking; and panic invariably leads to mistakes. He suddenly darted out from behind a metal ladder and Whitlock aimed at his legs. He needed him alive.
A police car emerged from the other alleyway and screeched to a halt ten yards in front of Whitlock, blocking his shot. Whitlock cursed angrily and got to his feet. The policeman got out of the car, his Colt Python drawn. He shouted to Whitlock to drop his weapon. Whitlock tried to explain but the policeman's grip tightened on the revolver and he repeated the order. Whitlock snarled angrily and tossed the Browning onto the ground.
The policeman kicked it away and gestured for Whitlock to approach the police car. 'I want ten fingers on the hood. Do it!'
'I'm working with you guys, for Christ's sake!' Whitlock snarled in exasperation.
'Sure, now put those fingers on the hood.'
'My name's Whitlock, check with your superior. I'm head of the Zimbalan President's security team.'
The policeman waited until Whitlock had put his hands on the police car then used his foot to spread his legs. 'I was told to apprehend an armed black suspect in this alley. I don't see another one, do you?'
'That's because you've let him get away,' Whitlock snarled but the policeman snapped at him to face the front when he tried to look round.
The policeman frisked him then reached for his handcuffs. Whitlock, sensing his moment, swung round and felled him with one punch. He tossed the Colt Python onto the front seat then locked the keys inside the police car. Retrieving his Browning he hurried over to where he had last seen the gunman. He had gone. Then he heard a noise, a metal bin being knocked over. He followed the sound and was just in time to see the gunman climbing a wire fence at the end of an adjoining alleyway. Whitlock purposely fired wide. It had the desired effect — the gunman tumbled over the top of the fence, landing painfully on his back. Whitlock scrambled to his feet but by the time he reached the fence the gunman had already crossed the twenty-yard clearing and disappeared into a derelict warehouse. Whitlock clambered over the fence and landed nimbly on his feet. He straightened up then noticed the gunman's Walther?5 lying at the edge of the clearing. He must have lost it when he fell to the ground. Whitlock doubted he would have another gun but he still approached the warehouse with professional caution.
He reached the open doors and peered in. It took his eyes a few seconds to get accustomed to the gloom then he darted inside and ducked down behind a rusty skip close to the door. He looked around slowly then carefully scanned the catwalk that criss-crossed the warehouse above him. No sign of the gunman. He slipped out from behind the skip and moved slowly across the concrete floor, the Browning gripped tightly in his hand, his eyes continually darting about him. He reached the other side of the cavernous room and paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Where the hell was he?
A shower of dust sprinkled his face but before he could react the gunman leaped onto him from a ledge on the wall. They both fell heavily to the ground and the Browning went spinning from Whitlock's hand. The man lashed out with a rusted chain but Whitlock managed to roll clear before it struck the ground where he had been lying. Whitlock kicked out at the man, catching him on the leg so that he overbalanced and fell against the wall. The chain clattered noisily to the ground. Whitlock sprung to his feet and caught him on the side of the head with a stinging haymaker then followed up with two brutal body punches that dropped him to his knees. The man clutched his stomach in agony then noticed the fallen Browning out of the corner of his eye. He grabbed it and turned on Whitlock who managed to deflect it before he fired. They struggled for possession of the gun. It slipped from the gunman's hand, landing at his feet. Whitlock shoved him back onto a tarpaulin in the corner of the warehouse and scooped up the Browning. He levelled it at the gunman then let his hand drop to his side. The man had been impaled on the rusted spikes of a security gate that had been discarded underneath the tarpaulin.
Whitlock swallowed back the bile in his throat and crossed to where the gunman lay, his shirt soaked in blood. He felt for a pulse then, letting the gunman's arm drop, he bolstered the Browning before walking back slowly towards the doors. As he reached them he heard the first of the police sirens in the distance. He dusted off a box and sat down to wait for them.
Kolchinsky was waiting in the foyer when Whitlock got back to the hotel. 'How's the leg?' were Kolchinsky's first words.
'O K,' Whitlock replied with a grim smile. 'It didn't need stitches. But I got a tetanus jab as a precaution. Thank for clearing everything for me with the N YP D. I had visions of being stuck in a cell all night.'
Kolchinsky patted Whitlock on the shoulder. 'Come on, Mobuto's waiting to see you.'
'How is he?'
'Remarkably well under the circumstances,' Kolchinsky replied as they walked to the lift. 'You wouldn't believe someone had just tried to kill him. He's acting like it never happened.'
'Acting being the operative word,' Whitlock retorted as the lift door parted.
'You really don't like him, do you?'
'As a person, no. But he's obviously genuine about bringing democracy to Zimbala. And that makes all this worthwhile.'
They rode the lift to the thir
tieth floor and were immediately challenged by a uniformed policeman as they stepped out. They both held up their passes and were allowed through. The entire floor had been booked by the Zimbalan delegation although only ten rooms were being used. It was a security measure.
Another policeman challenged them outside Mobuto's suite and again they had to produce their passes. Kolchinsky knocked on the door. It was opened on the chain by Masala who immediately unlocked it to allow them in. They were ushered into the lounge then Masala discreetly withdrew, closing the door behind him.
Mobuto was alone. He was seated on the sofa sifting through a batch of papers he had taken from his attache case. He looked up, removed his reading glasses, then got to his feet and indicated the second sofa. Kolchinsky sat down and asked if Mobuto minded if he smoked.
'Please, feel free,' Mobuto replied then turned to Whitlock. 'You saved my life tonight. Thank you. I believe you were injured while chasing the gunman. Nothing serious, I hope?'
Whitlock shook his head. 'I cut my leg when I fell off the motorbike. It's nothing. I'm sorry about your man. He's the one who really saved your life.'
'He died without ever regaining consciousness. At least he was spared the pain.' Mobuto folded the glasses and placed them on the coffee table in the centre of the room. 'Can I offer either of you a drink?'
'Nothing for me,' Kolchinsky replied, shaking his head.
'Clarence?'
'Nothing, thank you.' Whitlock sat down beside Kolchinsky. 'Where's Brett?'
'He's next door,' Mobuto replied indifferently.
'And Masala's in the other room. You've got no protection — '
'I've got half the New York police force in the corridor and bodyguards in every adjoining room,' Mobuto cut in sharply. 'I feel like a prisoner.'
Time of the Assassins u-6 Page 5
