Time of the Assassins u-6

by Alastair Macneill

  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.

  SIX

  Sabrina flew out of Beirut the following morning on a Ugandan Boeing 747 bound for Kampala via Habane and Khartoum. It was barely half full. It touched down at Habane International Airport six hours later and she was one of only eight passengers to disembark. They were met on the tarmac by a friendly ground stewardess and driven the five-hundred yards to the small, oval-shaped terminal building. The interior had recently been redecorated and the pungent odour of fresh paint still hung in the air. Armed soldiers stood guard inside the building and she could feel the tension as she joined the short queue waiting to pass through passport control. The official ran his eyes the length of her body as she approached the counter then held out his hand for her passport. He wet his finger then leafed through it slowly before looking up at her.

  'What is the nature of your visit to Zimbala, Miss Cassidy?' he asked in a thick English accent.

  'I'm a journalist,' she replied with a smile. 'And this country is news at the moment.'

  'And how long do you intend staying in Zimbala?'

  'That all depends on my editor. I would hope to be here for about a week, though.'

  The official stamped the passport then handed it back to her. 'Your visa is valid for ten days. If you wish to stay longer, you will have to apply to have it renewed.'

  'Thank you,' she replied, slipping the passport back into the pocket of her fawn blouson.

  'Enjoy your stay in Zimbala,' he said with a half-smile then beckoned the next person in line to step forward to the counter.

  She collected her lightweight Vuitton suitcase then went to the information counter where she picked up the locker key that had been left there for her. The lockers were situated at the far end of the terminal. She unlocked the one corresponding to the number on the key. Inside was a black holdall. She unzipped it. It contained a Beretta, tucked into a Boyt shoulder holster, and a manila envelope. She opened the envelope and took out the fax confirming her hotel booking. The hotel was called the International. Taking a pen and notepad from her overnight bag, she wrote down the name and address for Graham then placed the sheet of paper inside the locker and closed it again. She returned to the information counter and asked the stewardess for an envelope. She put the key inside the envelope, sealed it, and wrote MILES GRANT across it then told the stewardess that a Mr Grant would collect it later.

  Picking up her suitcase, she went outside to look for a taxi. She slipped on her sunglasses then crossed to the nearest taxi which was parked directly opposite the main entrance, a white Toyota. The driver beamed at her then took her suitcase and put it carefully in the boot.

  'Where to, Missy?' he asked.

  'The International,' she replied.

  The driver frowned momentarily then nodded. 'It only called the International after the President die. It built many years now, and always called Alphonse Mobuto Hotel.'

  'That figures,' she muttered.

  The driver closed the back door behind her, got in, then climbed behind the wheel and pulled out into the road, heading for the exit.

  A pale blue Cortina, which had been parked in the carpark, followed at a discreet distance. There were two men in the car. Both wore blue overalls. The driver was Gordon Gubene, a former sergeant in the Security Police who had driven the van when Ngune was sprung from jail. Thomas Massenga sat beside him in a black leather cap and dark sunglasses. He opened the glove compartment and removed a Walther?5. He had lost count of the number of assassinations he had carried out during his seventeen years with the Security Police — dozens, certainly. Men, women, children: it had never made any difference to him.

  He slipped the pistol into his overall pocket then picked up the brown folder off the dashboard. It had been given to him the previous day at the airport by a man known only to him as 'Columbus'. Inside was a photograph of Sabrina. 'Columbus' had told him that she was part of a team which had been assigned to track down the assassins before they could carry out the hit on Jamel Mobuto. She had to be stopped before she could uncover any incriminating evidence in

  Zimbala. He had long since memorized her face but it was the first chance he had had to compare it to her in person. It did her little justice. But he had no time for sentimentality. She was the enemy, and he would kill her once she reached her destination.

  Sabrina was immediately struck by the number of blocks of flats, all of identical height and width, that lined the road into Habane. Tall, unsightly structures positioned equidistantly from each other and painted a depressing shade of grey.

  'Don't you have any houses around here?' she asked finally.

  'House not here,' the driver answered without taking his eyes off the road. 'Other side Habane. Plenty money house for rich peoples.'

  'But surely all that will change now that Alphonse Mobuto is dead?'

  The driver shrugged. 'No money to build house.'

  'That's why Jamel Mobuto went to America, isn't it? To get money to rebuild the country.'

  'Good man, Jamel Mobuto. Not bad like his father.'

  Sabrina just nodded, realizing she was talking way over his head. She suddenly wondered if he even knew that Jamel Mobuto was in America. Probably not.

  'Where you from, missy?'

  'America,' she replied.

  'Like Chicago?'

  'Chicago's in America, yes. But I'm from New York.'

  'The Yankees,' he said, grinning at her in the rear-view mirror. f

  'That's right. You like baseball?'

  He nodded. 'We see baseball on television. And football. Chicago Bears my team.'

  'I've got a friend who played professional football. He was a quarterback for the New York Giants."

  'Your boyfriend?' he asked excitedly.

  'No, just a friend,' she replied with a smile, wondering how Graham would have reacted to being called her boyfriend.

  'He still play?'

  She shook her head. 'No, he injured his arm in Vietnam. He couldn't play again.'

  'Vietnam?' the driver said with a frown. 'What their team called?'

  She was about to explain then decided against
it. It would only lead to more misunderstanding. She fell silent.

  The military presence became significantly stronger the closer they got to Habane. Apart from the roadblocks manned by soldiers armed with Mi6s, old M4i tanks stood menacingly on every street corner. She could sense the same tension that she had felt back at the airport. Most of the soldiers they passed were still in their teens, the uncertainty of the situation etched onto their youthful features.

  They wouldn't stand a chance against the heavily armed and well-disciplined squad of ex-Security policemen that were reportedly amassing in the south of the country. But the reports UN AGO had received were mostly hearsay from locals in and around Kondese. Much of it would be propaganda spread by Ngune and his officers. They had also received the draft of a statement made by a deserter who had fled to Chad. He claimed that the squad wasn't nearly as big as Western intelligence had feared and that there was a bitter internal struggle amongst the officers about who would be included in Ngune's cabinet once they had seized power. The animosity was running so high that one officer had already been executed by Ngune for killing a fellow officer in an argument. UN AC O were well aware that the deserter could be a plant to try and lull Jamel Mobuto into a false sense of complacency. But they knew his claims could also be genuine. All they could do was await developments. Mobuto had so far refused the offer of a United Nations peacekeeping force in Zimbala, insisting that his troops would be able to crush any uprising by Ngune and his rebels. Sabrina didn't share his optimism. It worried her.

  'Hotel,' the driver announced.

  'What?' Sabrina replied, her thoughts interrupted.

  'Hotel,' the driver repeated, pointing it out.

  The International was a box-shaped building painted out in white and gold. It was certainly nothing spectacular. And it was reputedly the best hotel in town. She shuddered to think what the worst was like. The driver stopped the taxi in the forecourt and a doorman immediately stepped forward and opened the back door. He doffed his cap to Sabrina when she climbed out and snapped his fingers at a porter who came hurrying over and took the suitcase from the boot. What it lacked in appearance, it seemed to make up for in service. She used some of the money in the envelope to pay the driver.

  'Thank you,' he said appreciatively. 'If you want to go anywhere, I take you. My name is Harris. The staff know me.'

  She nodded then bit her lip thoughtfully as she watched him climb back into the taxi and drive away. Had she tipped him too generously? He'd probably ripped her off anyway. She made a mental note to study the currency more closely once she got to her room.

  The Cortina slowed to a crawl and as it drew abreast of the hotel Mcssenga took the Walther from his pocket and aimed it at Sabrina.

  'Get down,' a voice yelled but before Sabrina could react she was bundled roughly to the ground in the same moment as Massenga fired.

  The bullet smashed into the wall. Massenga cursed angrily, unable to get in another shot at Sabrina who had rolled to safety behind one of the two concrete pillars that stood on either side of the doors. He snapped at Gubene who immediately accelerated and sped off down the road.

  The doorman, who had taken sanctuary behind the other pillar, sprang to his feet and ran over to where Sabrina lay. He helped her up, his eyes wide with concern. 'Are you alright?'

  She rubbed her bruised elbow painfully. 'I'm alright. I hope that wasn't a traditional Zimbalan welcome.'

  'Rebels,' the doorman spat angrily. 'Now they are shooting at tourists.'

  Sabrina's mind was in turmoil. Why had someone just tried to kill her? Who, outside UN AGO, knew she was in Zimbala? The questions disturbed her but, pushing them from her mind, she turned to the man who had shouted the warning before knocking her to the ground. He was a small man in his forties with a thin face and wire-rimmed glasses. She was about to thank him when the manager emerged from the hotel and hurried over to them. The doorman explained in Swahili what had happened and the manager immediately began to apologize but Sabrina held up her hand to silence him.

  'It's not your fault,' she said with a quick smile.

  'Are you hurt?'

  'No, I'm fine.'

  The manager ushered her into the foyer and led her across to the reception desk. 'I'm sure you want to get up to your room but we need you to fill in the register first. I'm sure you understand.'

  She was becoming irritated by the way he was treating her like a child but she let it pass and completed the formalities.

  'I'll let you know when the police arrive, Miss Cassidy,' the manager said after the receptionist had handed her key to the porter.

  'Don't call the police on my account. I told you, I'm fine.'

  'I must by law.'

  'Well, you know where to find me. Now, if you'll excuse me.'

  'Of course,' the manager replied then bowed curtly before withdrawing to his office to phone the police.

  She turned to the man in the wire-framed glasses and held out her hand. 'Sabrina Cassidy. I owe you my life. Thank you.'

  'Joseph Moredi,' he replied, shaking her hand firmly. He led her away from the reception desk. 'Can we talk?'

  'What about?'

  He glanced at the porter who was hovering beside him then turned back to Sabrina. 'Not here. Can we go to your room?'

  'I appreciate what you did for me, but I do feel a little shaken right now. Perhaps you could — '

  'Please, Miss Cassidy,' he cut in. 'It is important.'

  'O K,' she replied, seeing the intensity in his eyes.

  They took the lift to the fourth floor and the porter led them to the room. It was spacious and tastefully decorated with a bathroom en suite. The window overlooked the main road. Sabrina tipped the porter after he had put the suitcase on the luggage stand and closed the door behind him.

  'I know who tried to kill you, Miss Cassidy.'

  'Rebels, I believe you call them,' Sabrina replied.

  'His name's Massenga, Thomas Massenga. He was deputy head of the Security Police for the last five years before it was disbanded.' He walked to the window then turned back to look at Sabrina. 'These "rebels", as you call them, aren't in the habit of tailing foreigners from the airport and trying to shoot them outside their hotels. Massenga took a great personal risk coming out in the open like that. I don't know who you're working for but your investigations are obviously linked to the Mobuto brothers. It's the only reason Massenga would have tried to kill you: to prevent you from stumbling on the truth.'

  'This is all very interesting, Mr Moredi — ' 'Miss Cassidy, your life's in danger,' he snapped angrily then held up his hands apologetically. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout at you like that. I can appreciate your wanting to keep your cover intact. And I know what's going through your mind right now. You're thinking that I could be working in league with Massenga and the shooting outside the hotel was all staged to try and get you into my confidence. Believe me, it wasn't. But I don't expect you to take my word for that. Jamel Mobuto will vouch for me. We were at Oxford together. I'm sure your organization can contact him in New York. Tell him to set a question that only the real Joseph Moredi would be able to answer. Then call me at this number.' He took a business card from his pocket and placed it on the dresser. 'We can help each other, Miss Cassidy. Please, call me.'

  She waited until he had left the room then crossed to the dresser and picked up the card. Joseph Moredi, deputy editor of La Voix, Remy Mobuto's newspaper. If he was who he claimed to be then he could prove to be a valuable contact for them in Zimbala. There was only one way to find out. She sat down on the edge of the bed and dialled UN AGO headquarters in New York.

  Massenga climbed out of the car after Gubene had parked it in the garage of the safe house and slammed the door angrily behind him. Gubene waited until he had stalked out of the garage before getting out of the car himself and locking the driver's door. Moments later he heard Massenga unlocking the front door and he winced as it hammered against the wall. Then silence. He exhaled deeply then cl
osed the garage door and walked down the narrow path. He pushed open the front door gingerly with his fingers and entered. He found Massenga perched on the edge of the sofa in the lounge, his hand resting lightly on the telephone.

  'You want a drink?' Gubene asked apprehensively, gesturing towards the cabinet in the corner of the room.

  Massenga shook his head then looked down at the telephone. 'What am I supposed to tell him?'

  'The truth,' Gubene replied then crossed to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a Scotch.

  'That we failed?' Massenga said then slumped back on the sofa. 'He'll crucify us, you know that.'

  'You couldn't have anticipated what happened. She'd be dead now if that man hadn't intervened when he did. It wasn't your fault.'

  'You want to tell that to Ngune?'

  'You're the only one with his number,' Gubene said with a shrug then left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  Massenga dialled the number he had memorized. Ngune answered it immediately at the other end. Massenga told him what had happened at the hotel.

  'So she's still alive?' Ngune concluded once Massenga had finished.

  'Yes, sir,' Massenga muttered.

  'And who was this knight in shining armour?'

  Ngune asked sarcastically as he struggled to control his temper.

  'I didn't get a good look at him, sir,' Massenga replied. 'It all happened so quickly.'

  'You disappoint me, Thomas. I thought you were the one person I could rely on to carry out an order.'

  'I couldn't have anticipated his intervention, sir,' Massenga replied defensively, remembering Gubene's words.

  'I want results, not excuses!' Ngune snarled angrily. 'And if you can't get them for me, I'll find someone who can. Do I make myself clear?'