The game ended in jeers and abusive chants. He resisted the temptation to kick the radio in after the fish then sprinted the forty yards to the cabin where he made a telephone call to acknowledge the bleeper.
It was answered at the other end after the first ring by a friendly, but formal, female voice.
‘Llewelyn and Lee, good afternoon.’
‘Mike Graham, ID 1913204.’
‘I’m putting you through, Mr Graham,’ came the immediate reply.
‘Mike?’ a deep voice boomed down the line a moment later.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Code Red. I’ve chartered a Cessna from Nash, saves us sending a plane from our end. He’s waiting for you at the Burlington airstrip. Sergei will be waiting for you at JFK.’
‘I’m on my way, sir.’
‘And Mike, pack some warm clothes. You’ll need them.’
He replaced the receiver then hurried back to the water’s edge where he gathered together his tackle before returning to the cabin to pack.
Sergei Kolchinsky was the stereotyped image of a chain smoker. Early fifties, thinning black hair, the unmistakeable signs of middle-age spread and the sort of doleful features that gave the impression he was carrying the troubles of the world on his shoulders. The strange thing was that he derived no real enjoyment from smoking. It had just become a costly, and addictive, habit. Yet behind those melancholy eyes lay a brilliant tactical mind.
Following a distinguished career with the KGB, including sixteen years as a military attaché in a succession of western countries, he was appointed as Deputy Director of UNACO after his predecessor had been sent back to Russia in disgrace for spying. He had been with UNACO now for three years and although he still suffered from bouts of homesickness he never allowed those feelings to interfere with his work. His clinical approach to his job had always been one of complete professionalism.
‘This cab free, tavarishch?’
Kolchinsky looked round sharply at the face peering through the open passenger-door window. He smiled, then scrambled from the white BMW 728, crushing the half-smoked cigarette underfoot. ‘Hello Michael, I wasn’t expecting you for another twenty minutes.’
Kolchinsky was the only person Graham knew who called him Michael. Not that it bothered him. After all, it was his name.
‘I told Nash to step on it. The boss sounded agitated when I spoke to him over the phone.’
‘He’s got reason to be,’ Kolchinsky replied, opening the boot so Graham could deposit his two black holdalls.
‘When’s the briefing?’
‘As soon as we get to the UN,’ Kolchinsky answered, then snapped his seatbelt into place. ‘Sabrina and C.W. should be there already.’
‘Have you been briefed yet?’
Kolchinsky started the engine, glanced in the side mirror, and pulled away from the kerb.
‘Naturally. And no, I’m not telling you anything.’
‘I never said a word.’
‘You didn’t have to. Put some music on; the cassettes are in the glove compartment.’
Graham found three tapes, holding up each one in turn. ‘They’re all Mozart. Haven’t you got anything else?’
‘Mozart’s the perfect driving music,’ Kolchinsky replied, lighting another cigarette.
Graham reluctantly pushed one of the cassettes into the system, waved the cigarette smoke irritably from his face, then turned his attention to the New York skyline and started to name the numerous skyscrapers to himself in an attempt to pass the time.
Officially, UNACO didn’t exist. Its name was absent from all the directional boards in the United Nations foyer and none of its thirty telephone lines was listed in any of the New York directories. When someone did ring one of the numbers it was answered by a receptionist on behalf of ‘Llewelyn and Lee’. If the caller could identify himself either by an ID number or a codeword his call would be transferred to the relevant extension. If it was a wrong number, no harm had been done. Not surprisingly ‘Llewelyn and Lee’ were also unlisted in the city directories. The receptionist presided over a small office on the twenty-second floor of the United Nations Building, its unmarked door locked at all times and only accessible to authorized personnel. Apart from her desk and swivel chair, the only other furniture was a burgundy-coloured couch and two matching armchairs. Three of the walls were papered in a light cream colour and decorated with a selection of framed sketches of the Dag Hammarskjold Plaza, commissioned by the Secretary-General himself. The fourth wall was constructed of rows of teak slats, incorporated into which were two seamless sliding doors, impossible to detect with the naked eye and only capable of being activated by miniature sonic transmitters.
The door to the right led into the UNACO command centre, manned round the clock by teams of analysts monitoring the fluctuating developments in world affairs. Massive multicoloured electronic charts and maps plotted the vacillating movements in known trouble-spots, computer print-outs updated existing material and VDUs displayed detailed information on known criminals at the touch of a button, feeding off the thousands of names stored in the system’s central memory bank. It was the nerve centre of UNACO’s highly sophisticated world operation. The door to the left could only be opened by one person. It was the Director’s private office.
Malcolm Philpott had been the UNACO Director ever since its inception, having spent the previous seven years as head of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch. He was in his mid-fifties with a gaunt face and thinning wavy red hair.
There were 209 employees working for UNACO, thirty of those being crack field agents siphoned off from police and intelligence agencies around the world. Ten teams, each with three operatives, able to cross international boundaries without fear of breaking the law or breaching protocol. There was no pecking order; each team had its own individuality and style.
That was certainly the case with Strike Force Three. Of all his field agents Philpott had known Whitlock the longest, having personally recruited him for MI5 at Oxford University. He had liaised closely with him as a handler until his transfer to the Operations Planning Department, but Whitlock never really got on with his new handler and jumped at the chance to work with Philpott again. Whitlock was the master of patience; nothing ever seemed to rile him, which was just as well considering the simmering tension between Sabrina and Graham.
When Sabrina’s dossier had arrived on his desk from the FBI Director he was initially sceptical about her abilities but quickly changed his mind after meeting her. She was both friendly and intelligent with none of the vanity so often associated with beautiful women. Then he had been treated to a display of her marksmanship, involving both moving and stationary targets. She was, without question, the finest shot he had ever seen. He had never regretted the day he welcomed her to UNACO. Graham, on the other hand, had nearly slipped through the net. The Delta Commander had contacted the Secretary-General instead of Philpott to put Graham’s case forward. The Secretary-General rejected Graham on the basis of his psychiatric report.
Philpott had then been contacted by Graham personally on the advice of the Delta Commander. Philpott had been furious that the Secretary-General had failed to consult him and after several meetings with Graham overruled the decision, accepting Graham on to the team on a probationary basis, on the understanding that he would be subjected to periodic re-evaluation. Graham still bore the mental scars of his tragedy but he had proved to be an excellent operative and Philpott had no intention of letting him go.