“Get in,” Swain yelled, grabbing McGuire’s arm to bundle him into the backseat.
McGuire broke free and fled toward the door. Swain sprinted after him. Geddis got off a shot at the Rover before a burst from the Uzi punctured the windscreen. Two of the bullets took him in the head and the Beretta slipped from his fingers as he slumped forward onto the steering wheel. The Ford careered backward out of control. McGuire flung open the door and a row of bullets peppered the wall inches away from him. He stumbled and fell through the doorway. Swain heard the car behind him and was still turning around when it smashed into the door, ripping it off its hinges, crushing him between the door and the wall.
The driver of the Rover dimmed his lights as two masked figures got out of the car. The taller one, who was over six feet tall, was still clutching the Uzi when he ran across to the Ford and switched off the engine.
“You go after McGuire,” the tall one shouted out to his colleague in a strong Irish accent. “I’ll make sure these three are dead.”
The driver of the Rover, who was also wearing a balaclava, spun the car around and sped back toward the ramp, still hoping to cut McGuire off before he reached the street.
There was a “ping” sound and a laughing couple emerged from the lift. The woman screamed in terror when she saw the man swing the Uzi toward them.
“No!” his colleague shouted, pushing the barrel downward. It was a female voice. “Come on, let’s go.”
The two of them ran up the stairs, the woman pulling the balaclava off her head as they went. Fiona Gallagher was an attractive twenty-six-year-old with pale blue eyes and short, spiky blonde hair and a petite figure, which was disguised under the baggy clothes. As they reached the door leading out into the street her companion also removed his balaclava. Liam Kerrigan was in his late thirties with cropped black hair and the face of an ex-boxer. He reached for the handle but Fiona quickly pushed her palm against the door and gestured angrily to the Uzi in his hand. He slid it discreetly under his jacket and they stepped out into the street. The Rover was already parked outside the door. Hugh Mullen had also discarded his balaclava. He was two years Fiona’s senior with curly brown hair and wore wire-rimmed glasses.
“He’s gone,” Mullen said. “He could have disappeared up any of these side streets. You want to look for him?”
“No, we’ve got to get out of here,” Fiona said, shaking her head. “We left a couple of witnesses down there. It won’t be long before they call the police.”
“You should have let me kill them,” Kerrigan snapped.
“We don’t kill innocent by-standers,” she retorted, then got in beside Mullen.
Kerrigan climbed into the back and slammed the door shut. He glowered at her but said nothing. Mullen engaged gears and drove away, careful to keep within the speed limit. There would be another chance to get McGuire. And he already knew how they could track him down …
Sergei Kolchinsky had just entered his flat when the telephone rang. It was Whitlock. Kolchinsky listened, pale and frowning, as Whitlock told him about the ambush in London two hours earlier. Swain had been killed instantly. Geddis had died in the ambulance. Mosser was in intensive care at the Charing Cross Hospital, his condition serious. The doctor who had operated on Mosser had told Whitlock that even if he did make a full recovery, it would be very unlikely that he would ever be able to walk again. UNACO had lost field operatives in the past but never an entire Strike Force team. Both men knew it would certainly renew calls amongst its critics to have the organization disbanded. There were those governments who had felt for some time that UNACO was little more than a group of vigilantes working outside the law. And the grumbling disquiet had certainly intensified since Philpott’s departure. Kolchinsky had barely settled into his new post and he was already facing the most serious problem of his professional career.
Kolchinsky was an overweight, fifty-two-year-old Russian with a doleful face and thinning black hair. He was a brilliant tactician whose meteoric rise through the ranks of the KGB had been abruptly curtailed when he had dared to speak out against the inhuman methods used by the KGB to interrogate prisoners. He had spent the next twelve years as a military attaché in a succession of Soviet embassies in the West before returning to a desk job at the Lubianka. When Philpott’s deputy, a former KGB operative, was sent back to Russia in disgrace for spying, Kolchinsky’s name was one of those put forward as a suitable replacement. He was Philpott’s first, and only, choice. Kolchinsky had been Philpott’s deputy for three years before his promotion to UNACO Director. But at that moment Kolchinsky would gladly have exchanged the mundane desk job at the Lubianka for what he knew was going to be a very rough ride over the next few weeks …
“I’ll need you back here as soon as possible, C.W.,” Kolchinsky said, reaching for his cigarettes on the coffee table in front of him. “As you can imagine, I’m going to be tied up in an endless succession of meetings with the various ambassadors once they’ve been briefed by their governments.”
“I guessed as much,” Whitlock replied. “I’ve already booked myself on a flight to JFK at eleven tomorrow morning, British time. That means I’ll be back in New York for breakfast.”
“Good. I doubt I’ll even get into the office tomorrow. I should think most of the day will be spent going over the events with the Secretary-General. Can you send a fax through to headquarters giving as much info as possible on what actually happened over there tonight? At least then I’ll have something to work from when I meet with the Secretary-General.”
“I’ll get on to it straight away,” Whitlock replied. “Which team are you going to bring in to replace Strike Force Seven?”
“There is only one team I’d trust to handle something as delicate as this,” Kolchinsky said, lighting his cigarette. “Your old team. Strike Force Three.”
“Yes, I’d have gone for Mike and Sabrina as well. But what about Fabio Paluzzi? He hasn’t actually worked on an assignment with them yet.”
“Fabio’s a good man. He proved that during his transitional period with Strike Force Five. He’ll be all right.”
“It’ll be some baptism of fire for him,” Whitlock said at length.
“He’s got to start somewhere,” Kolchinsky replied, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was almost eight-thirty. “I’ll ring the duty officer at headquarters and tell him to put the three of them on a Code Red standby. What time do you want to brief them in the morning?”
“Make it nine-thirty to be on the safe side.”
“Fine. Nine-thirty.”
“Are you going to break the news to the families?”
“It’s part of the job,” Kolchinsky replied grimly.
“I’ll ring Ann Swain as soon as I’ve spoken to the duty officer. Jason wasn’t married, was he?”
“No, engaged. His fiancée lives somewhere in Alberta, I think.”
“I’ll get the details from the duty officer. Well, I’ll see you when I see you. I think that’s the best way to put it.”
“Good night, Sergei.”
Kolchinsky replaced the receiver and poured himself a stiff bourbon before dialing the number for the duty officer at UNACO headquarters.
“I don’t know,” Fabio Paluzzi said after a moment’s thought. “What do you think?”
“I don’t believe this,” Claudine Paluzzi retorted, looking despairingly at her husband. “Fabio, which of the two colors do you prefer? The cream or the pale blue?”
Paluzzi looked at the two diagonal streaks of paint his wife had applied to the wall then shrugged. “You know I’m no good with color schemes.”
“Forget about color schemes. All I want to know is which of the colors you prefer.”