Time of the Assassins

Kolchinsky nodded grimly. 'I know what you mean. But we're stuck with Bailey's men, I'm afraid. There's nothing I can do about it.'

'I know,' Whitlock replied and pushed the button for the lift.

'I'm going to drop by the hospital to update the Colonel on today's developments. Fancy coming?'

Whitlock shrugged. 'Why not? Carmen won't be home yet. She works late Tuesdays.' He looked at his watch. 'But aren't visiting hours over?'

'The Secretary-General had a word with the hospital's administrator who reluctantly agreed to make an exception in the Colonel's case and waive the normal visiting hours. It was one of the conditions the Colonel laid down if he was to remain in hospital.'

Whitlock shot Kolchinsky a knowing look then ushered him into the lift.

Kolchinsky drove the short distance to the Bellevue Hospital, conveniently situated less than two miles away from both the hotel and the United Nations building. The receptionist directed them to a private ward on the third floor.

Kolchinsky knocked lightly.

'Come in,' Philpott called out.

Kolchinsky opened the door and entered. Philpott was sitting up in bed, his face hidden behind a copy of the New York Times.

'Just put them by the bed. I'll take them later,' Philpott muttered gruffly from behind the newspaper.

'It's me, Malcolm,' Kolchinsky announced.

Philpott lowered the newspaper and gave them a wry smile. 'I'm sorry, I thought it was another of those damn nurses. They've been coming and going all day.' He glanced at Whitlock. 'I see he managed to drag you along as well.'

Whitlock smiled and pulled up a chair. 'How are you feeling, sir?'

'A little weak, but otherwise fine.'

Kolchinsky sat down on the second chair and handed Philpott a brown packet. 'It's from the deli on 44th Street.'

Philpott opened the packet and looked inside. 'Grapes! I was hoping it might have been some tobacco. The doctor confiscated mine.' He put the packet on the bedside table and picked up his empty pipe. 'I'm dying for a smoke. C.W. -'

'I'm not fetching you any tobacco,' Whitlock cut in quickly. 'Get better first, then you can smoke your pipe again.'

'I am better. I should have discharged myself this morning.' Philpott gave a resigned sigh. 'Any news of Mike?'

Kolchinsky explained the day's events, culminating in the attempted assassination of Jamel Mobuto.

'Good God,' Philpott muttered when Kolchinsky had finished talking. He looked at Whitlock. 'Are you alright?'

'I cut my leg when I fell off the motorbike. It's nothing serious. But my suit's a total write-off. It'll break my tailor's heart.'

'At least you're alright. Any news on the assassin and his accomplice?'

'Nothing yet,' Kolchinsky replied. 'They weren't carrying any ID but they're almost certainly Zimbalan. Probably ex-Security policemen. I've had their photographs and prints faxed through to the police in Habane. Hopefully they'll have come up with something by tomorrow.'

'And what was that you said earlier about Bernard. He's CIA?'

Kolchinsky nodded then opened the attache case. He handed his photostat copy of Bailey's file to Philpott. 'It's all in there. I'll leave it with you tonight. It certainly makes interesting reading.'

'I bet it does,' Philpott hissed. 'Be careful of Bailey, Sergei. Tell him as little as possible. And don't trust him an inch.'

'I think we all realized that when we met him,' Kolchinsky said, glancing at Whitlock.

'And as for those two bullet-catchers…' Whitlock trailed off with a shake of his head.

'What about them?' Philpott asked.

'Let's just say I wouldn't want them protecting me,' Whitlock replied. 'As I said to Sergei back at the hotel, I only wish we could have used our own people to babysit Mobuto. I'd have slept better.'

'I did try, C.W.,' Philpott said with an apologetic shrug. 'I wanted to bring in Strike Force Seven as his personal bodyguard team. That would have left you free to work with Sabrina in Beirut. But the President wanted this to be a joint operation and Bailey managed to convince him to use CIA men as bodyguards. There was nothing I could do. At least the President saw enough sense to agree to my request to put you in charge of the unit. I know you won't let me down, C.W. Just keep an eye on Bailey's goons. If President Mobuto had been killed tonight we'd have been crucified.'

'We've still got three days to go, sir. They're sure to try again.'

'You can count on it. And what happened to this warning Bernard was supposed to have passed on to Bailey?'

'I spoke to Bailey after the attempt on the President's life,' Kolchinsky said. 'He claims Bernard never contacted him. His theory is that the two men were either freelance or else they decided to try and kill the President by themselves without telling the others.'

'It just doesn't ring true, does it?' Whitlock said.

'Of course it doesn't,' Philpott snapped tersely. 'But we're dealing with Bailey, remember?'

Kolchinsky nodded then rubbed his eyes wearily. 'Well, there's nothing more we can do tonight. And I'm shattered. It's been some day.'

Whitlock got to his feet. 'Only three to go. Can you drop me off at the apartment on your way home, Sergei? If I get the subway I'll probably fall asleep and end up at Washington Heights.'

Kolchinsky patted Whitlock's shoulder. 'Of course. Come on.'

Philpott watched them leave then stared at the folder Kolchinsky had left with him. He knew Bailey was up to something, but what? The thought lingered as he opened the folder and started to read its contents.

FOUR

Sabrina paused outside the door, knocked, and entered. The man behind the desk was in his early forties with a dark, swarthy complexion and a thick black moustache which arched over the corners of his mouth. He looked up from the document he was reading and his eyes lingered on her body before he sat back and raised his eyebrows quizzically, waiting for her to speak.

'Are you Captain Farouk?' she asked.

'That's what it says,' he replied in faultless English, gesturing to the nameplate on his desk.

'If you read Arabic,' Sabrina replied with a smile. 'I spoke to you earlier on the phone — '

'Ah, yes,' Farouk cut in and glanced down at the notepad in front of him. 'Miss Cassidy, not so?'

'Sabrina Cassidy,' she replied, using the name on her UN AGO passport.

'Please, won't you sit down, Miss Cassidy?' Farouk said, indicating the wooden chair in front of his desk.

'Thank you,' she said and sat down.

'Is this your first time in Beirut?'

'Yes,' she replied truthfully. 'I didn't know where to begin looking for Mike so I called the police and they put me on to you. They said you were in charge of the investigation.' She feigned nervousness by fidgeting with the handbag in her lap. 'But what investigation? What's happened?'

Farouk raised his hand to silence her. 'There's a warrant out for the arrest of Michael Green.'

The name on one of the passports Graham had drawn from UN AGO stores in New York. She sat forward. 'On what charge?'

'Murder.'

She slumped back in the chair. 'Oh, my God. Murder? I don't believe it. Sure, Mike's a bit of a rebel but he'd never kill anybody.'

Farouk uncapped his pen and pulled the notepad towards him. 'I'd like to ask you a few questions, Miss Cassidy?'

'Yes, of course,' she replied, continuing to feign nervousness. 'Anything.'

'You said on the phone that he'd called you in New York. What exactly did he say?'

'All he said was that he was in trouble and that he needed some money to get out of the country. Then the line went dead.'

'Do you know why he was here?'

'The first I knew he was in Beirut was when he rang me.' She sighed deeply. 'Mike's a loner. It's not the first time he's gone off by himself.'