“They could torture me, I wouldn’t talk,” Tillman replied, using his cuff to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
“The Colombians are masters of torture. I know I’d talk rather than have to endure that kind of agony. And so would you. You’d tell them everything they wanted to know. And more. Just to make them stop.” Varese levelled the automatic at Tillman’s head. “This way there can’t be any misunderstandings. And you’ll be spared an agonizing death at the hands of the Colombians.”
Tillman lashed out with the holdall, catching Varese full in the face. The bullet smashed harmlessly into the wall behind the desk. Tillman darted past Varese and out through the open doorway. Cursing angrily, Varese moved to the door. Tillman was making for the hangar a couple of hundred yards away from the office. Varese raised the automatic, steadied his aim, then fired. The bullet took Tillman in the leg. He stumbled and fell heavily to the ground. He looked around in horror as Varese walked toward him. He tried to get up but a sharp pain speared through his leg. He gritted his teeth in agony and finally managed to get up onto his one good leg. But after a couple of unsteady steps he overbalanced and fell to the ground again. He clawed at the ground, dragging himself toward the hangar. When Varese caught up with him he raised the automatic and shot him through the back of the head. He used his foot to roll Tillman over onto his back. Satisfied Tillman was dead, he picked up the holdall and walked back to the taxi which had been parked out of sight at the back of the hangar. He told the driver to take him to West Side Electronics. He wanted to break the news personally to Navarro. Their troubles were over …
Kolchinsky punched a code into the bellpush then opened the door and entered the room. Sarah wasn’t behind her desk. And the sliding door leading into the Director’s office was open. Although she had access to the spare miniature transmitter which was kept in the wall safe behind her desk, she knew she was only to use it in an emergency if either he or Whitlock wasn’t in the office. Those were the rules. So why was she in there? Was it an emergency? Another crisis? He hurried into the room and froze when he saw Malcolm Philpott seated behind the desk.
“Afternoon, Sergei,” Philpott said, looking up at him. He turned back to Sarah who was standing in front of the desk. “Thanks for doing those photocopies for me.”
She smiled at him and left the room.
Philpott used the spare miniature transmitter to close the door again behind her. “Sit down and I’ll tell you what’s going on.”
“I would but you’re sitting in my chair.”
“This is the Director’s chair.” Philpott took the envelope containing Kolchinsky’s letter of resignation from his pocket and placed it on the desk. “I believe you gave this to the Secretary-General this morning?”
Kolchinsky sat down slowly on one of the black leather sofas, his eyes never leaving Philpott’s face. “This smacks of an old-style Soviet coup. The ink isn’t even dry on my letter of resignation and already the bureaucrats have moved me out.”
“You haven’t been moved out, Sergei.” Philpott picked up his pipe and turned it around thoughtfully in his hands. He hadn’t used it since he suffered the heart attack earlier in the year. Now it was just a memento. He put it down again. “The Secretary-General called me this morning after you’d handed in your letter of resignation and asked if I’d consider returning to UNACO. It was a bolt out of the blue. Not that I needed any persuading. As you already know, the boredom’s been driving me mad. But I haven’t come back to wind UNACO down. On the contrary, I intend to fight tooth and nail to ensure it survives. I’ve spent most of the morning studying the reports of the Scoby case. There’s no use fooling ourselves. UNACO is in a lot of trouble. But there are loopholes. And I intend to exploit them to the full to get UNACO back on an even keel. But I’m going to need support on this. And I hope you’ll be there to give me that support, old friend. Of course you’re going to take some flak from the politicians. It’s only to be expected. But that doesn’t mean you were to blame for what’s happened. It would still have happened even if I’d been here. None of us is infallible. But my main concern at the moment is that UNACO will fragment at the top. A point borne out by your resignation this morning. That’s why I’m asking you to reconsider your decision. I can understand why you did it. But I don’t think it’s the answer. At least not at the moment. If we appear solid then it’s going to be that much harder for our critics to find the chinks in our armor.
“I’ve already spoken to C.W. and he’s indicated that he wants to stay with UNACO on the condition that he can return to the field. I’ve certainly got no problem with that. He’s one of the best field operatives we’ve ever had. He’s obviously never settled properly on the management side.” Philpott held up the envelope. “We’ve always been honest with each other, Sergei. If you still want to stick by your decision, I won’t try and change your mind. I respect you too much for that. It’s entirely up to you.”
Kolchinsky stared at the carpet for some time then sat back on the sofa and clasped his hands in his lap. “In retrospect, what you say makes sense. The organization does need to stand together at a time like this. Perhaps I was a bit hasty in tendering my resignation this morning. But I still intend to reconsider my position again once all the hubbub has died down.”
“Then I’d better hang on to this,” Philpott said, slipping the envelope into the drawer in front of him.
“Why didn’t the Secretary-General tell me you were coming back? I’ve been with him for the last three hours.”
“I asked him not to say anything. I thought it would be better if I told you myself.”
“It’s good to have you back again, Malcolm,” Kolchinsky said at length. “I only wish it were under different circumstances.”
“The cards have been dealt. It’s now up to us to play our hand as best we can.”
“Some hand,” Kolchinsky retorted.
“We’ve still got an ace to play,” Philpott replied, tapping the folder in front of him. “Jack Scoby left instructions with his wife to forward an envelope to C.W. if anything happened to him while they were in Ireland. C.W. faxed the contents through to the office while you were still in conference with the Secretary-General. It makes chilling reading. The question now is how best to play it for maximum effect.”
“What was in the envelope?” Kolchinsky asked, his interest stimulated.
Philpott briefly outlined the five pages of handwritten text in which Scoby had explained, in meticulous detail, the agreement he’d made with the Colombians, later to be hijacked by the Mafia, to import cocaine into the United States using New York State as the port of entry.
“Tillman’s obviously the key to this now that Scoby’s dead,” Kolchinsky said. “Has he been arrested yet?”
“Tillman fled the hotel in London as soon as he found out that Scoby was dead. By the time this came through he’d already arrived back in New York. The DEA have staked out his apartment and there’s an APB out on him as well but so far there’s been no sign of him. He seems to have vanished.”
“I’m not surprised. He must know it’ll only be a matter of time before both the Colombians and the Mafia catch up with him. But why would he come back here? If I was in his shoes I’d have fled as far away from the States as I possibly could.”
“We’ll only know that after he’s been arrested,” Philpott replied.
“Did Scoby give any reason for leaving such a damaging confession behind?”