'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 th
rough 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?'
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