Time of the Assassins

'And he owns a company in New York?' Farouk said, consulting his notes again.

'Whitaker Haulage,' she added. 'He's the boss.'

'Yes, I know. We found some business cards in his hotel room.' Farouk tapped thoughtfully on the notepad. 'And his fellow directors don't mind him just going off by himself without letting them know where he is? What if something were to happen to the company?'

'They're used to his erratic behaviour by now. And anyway, he pays their salaries. What can they say?'

'Did he have any friends that you knew of in Beirut?'

She shook her head. 'None that he ever mentioned.'

'Russell Laidlaw?'

She pretended to think for a moment. Then she shook her head again. 'No, I can't say the name means anything to me. Is that the man who was murdered?'

'No,' Farouk replied. 'He was the last person to see your boyfriend here in Beirut. He used to be in the Special Forces in America, the Delta unit.'

'Are you suggesting that Mike was once a member of Delta?' She shook her head in disbelief. 'I don't believe it. Not for one minute.'

'I'm not suggesting anything, Miss Cassidy. It's just strange that Laidlaw was with Delta and the murdered man, Barak, was an informer for Delta here in Beirut. Delta seems to be the common denominator, doesn't it?'

'Haven't you asked this man Laidlaw about Mike?'

'He claims to have met him for the first time at the Windorah; it's a bar frequented mainly by foreigners. The owner's borne out his story. So I'm back to square one.'

'Can't you ask Delta?'

'I already have. They say no Michael Green has ever been with them. And it took a lot of persuasion for them to just admit that.'

'How do you know Mike was involved? Did someone see him?'

'His fingerprints were on the murder weapon. I checked with Interpol and they confirmed they were his prints.'

'Interpol?' she replied with surprise. 'You mean he had a criminal record?'

'No, but the New York police had his prints on file.'

The N YPD had Graham's fingerprints on file. They had all U N A C O operatives' fingerprints on file. It was a precaution in case any of them were injured, or killed, and weren't carrying any formal identification. But Michael Green? Then it hit her. Why hadn't she thought of it when Kolchinsky briefed them? UN AGO must have given the NYPD permission to release the prints under Graham's assumed name. But why? It made no sense. They had set up their own operative. She wanted some answers and she was determined to get them when she next spoke to Kolchinsky.

'Is something wrong, Miss Cassidy?' Farouk said, noticing her frown.

She cursed herself silently for letting her guard drop. 'Sorry, I was just surprised that the New York police had his fingerprints on file. I never realized he had a criminal record.'

'He was once convicted of a drink-driving offence.'

'I didn't know that,' she said then sat forward, her eyes burrowing into Farouk. 'I still don't believe Mike killed this man. It's not in his character.'

'Well, unless he turns himself in we have to assume that he is the killer. And the longer he remains on the run, the worse it will become for him.'

'I think he's being held against his will somewhere,' she said.

'Perhaps he's already fled the country. InterpoPs been alerted.'

'How could he have fled the country without any money?' She shook her head. 'No, it all points to him being held against his will somewhere. Mike never travels without cash and credit cards. So why call me unless he had lost them? Or had them stolen?'

'You really believe he's innocent, don't you?'

'Yes, I do.' She got to her feet. 'Is there anything I can do to help him?'

'It's a police matter now, Miss Cassidy.' Farouk capped his pen and pointed it at her. 'If he should contact you, tell him to call me. It would be in his best interests.'

'I doubt he will call me,' she said with a dejected shrug. 'He doesn't even know I'm here.'

Farouk got to his feet and came round the desk to shake her hand. 'Thank you for your time,Miss Cassidy.'

She nodded and walked to the door.

'Oh, Miss Cassidy?' Farouk waited until she turned to look at him. 'If you're caught trying to help him escape you'll be charged with aiding and abetting a wanted criminal. Bear it in mind.'

'Sure,' she replied and closed the door behind her.

Laidlaw had been detained by the police only hours after Barak's murder and although they had interrogated him at regular intervals every four hours, trying to break him down, he had managed to stick to his story. He had met Graham, or Green as he had referred to him throughout the interrogation, for the first time at the Windorah. They had talked for a while then he had given Green a lift back to his hotel. He had never seen him again after that. He knew no-one had seen him at Barak's house otherwise he'd have been charged straight away.

He had been finally released after thirty-six hours. He had tried to sleep when he got home but to no avail. The voice haunted him: the voice of the policeman, Farouk. But he had never seen Farouk's face. He had asked the questions at every interrogation but always from behind the sanctuary of a powerful table lamp. Why hadn't he shown his face? Laidlaw had racked his brains over and over but he couldn't place the name. So why had he been so secretive? Laidlaw knew he could be overreacting from lack of sleep — it could have been a plan to try and break him down: a voice, no face. But still it troubled him. Who was Farouk?

He punched the pillow angrily. Forget Farouk. Just get some sleep. But he couldn't. That monotonous, grinding voice was in his head and he couldn't get rid of it. He kicked the sheet off and swung his legs onto the floor. Pushing the hair from his face he looked at the bedside clock. It had been five hours since he'd got home, and he hadn't slept in that time. All because of that damn voice. He stifled a yawn then stood up and went into the kitchen. He opened the freezer and helped himself to a cold beer and the last of the chicken drumsticks from the packet he had bought earlier in the week. He tossed the empty packet onto the overflowing bin in the corner of the room and sat down at the table. Just as he was about to open the beer the doorbell rang. He shook his head in despair then got to his feet and went to open the door.

'Russell Laidlaw?'

'That's right,' Laidlaw muttered. 'You're not a reporter, are you?'

'My name's Sabrina Cassidy, I'm a friend of Mike's.'

'Mike?'

'Mike Graham,' Sabrina retorted with a hint of irritation in her voice. 'We need to talk.'

'Look, come back later. I'm absolutely exhausted. I've been in police custody for the last thirty-six hours. And it's all thanks to your friend Mike.'

'I think he's in trouble,' she said. 'Please, we need to talk.'

Laidlaw rubbed his eyes wearily then pulled open the door. 'What the hell. I couldn't sleep anyway.'

'Thanks,' she said and stepped inside.

'You'll have to forgive the mess,' Laidlaw said, closing the door. 'I'm not very domesticated.'

She followed him into the kitchen and sat down in the chair offered to her.

'You want a beer?' he asked.

'Coffee, if you've got it.'

'Somewhere,' he replied and switched the kettle on before rummaging through the drawers. He found the coffee jar and put a heaped spoonful into the only clean mug he could find. 'You say you're a friend of Mike's. You work with him?'

'That's right,' she replied.

Laidlaw opened the beer and drank a mouthful.

'And you're out here to find him? Well, I wish you luck.'

'You saw him, didn't you?'

'I met him, yes-at the Windorah; it's a bar in town. We talked a bit then I gave him a lift back to his hotel. I never saw him after that.'

Sabrina exhaled deeply. 'How can I convince you I'm on the level?'