'Come on, let's go to bed.'
'Take care of yourself, kid,' Whitlock said softly then went inside and closed the sliding door behind him.
Robert Bailey was obsessed with security. He drove to work in a bulletproof Mercedes 5ooSL, changing his route daily. His personal bodyguards were always armed. His wife and two teenage daughters were ferried about by an armed chauffeur. And his house in the Georgetown suburb of Washington was a virtual fortress. Tripwires lined the top of the perimeter wall and armed dog-handlers patrolled the grounds twenty-four hours a day. Closed-circuit television cameras had been installed in every room and were monitored by guards from a control centre in the basement of the house-every room, that is, except his study.
It was a soundproof, windowless room at the end of the corridor on the second floor. The only access was through a sliding metal door which could only be activated by punching a code into the bellpush on the adjacent wall. He changed the combination daily. Nobody, not even his family, was allowed inside the room. It contained his personal computer, which was linked to computers at both the Pentagon and the CIA headquarters in Langley. Hundreds of secret programs that had been built up by the CIA over the years, including data sensitive enough to topple the heads of half a dozen European governments if they were ever to fall into the wrong hands. With this in mind, he had devised more security measures to thwart any would-be intruder that managed to get past the guards. The computer itself could only be activated by an access code known solely to Bailey. If the incorrect code was programmed in it would activate a canister of lethal nerve gas which was secreted in the ceiling directly above the door. Death would result in less than ten seconds. But he had provided a double failsafe mechanism for himself in case he accidently pressed the wrong key while accessing the code. The nerve gas would only be released if the incorrect code was programmed twice into the computer. He was, after all, only human.
After feeding in the access code he sat back and stifled a yawn. It was already one in the morning. He was exhausted. He had been up seventeen hours. His wife and daughters had long since gone to bed. They were accustomed to his irregular hours. But they all shared his ambition to become head of the CIA within the next five years. And he knew he had the backing of the President and most of the powerful Republican congressmen on Capitol Hill. It was only a question of time.
He tapped another code into the computer and moments later a dossier appeared on the VDU. The name on it was Jean-Jacques Bernard. He erased all the existing data and replaced it with a single line written in capital letters: TO BE TERMINATED AFTER THE ASSASSINATION OF JAMEL MOBUTO.
SIX
Sabrina flew out of Beirut the following morning on a Ugandan Boeing 747 bound for Kampala via Habane and Khartoum. It was barely half full. It touched down at Habane International Airport six hours later and she was one of only eight passengers to disembark. They were met on the tarmac by a friendly ground stewardess and driven the five-hundred yards to the small, oval-shaped terminal building. The interior had recently been redecorated and the pungent odour of fresh paint still hung in the air. Armed soldiers stood guard inside the building and she could feel the tension as she joined the short queue waiting to pass through passport control. The official ran his eyes the length of her body as she approached the counter then held out his hand for her passport. He wet his finger then leafed through it slowly before looking up at her.
'What is the nature of your visit to Zimbala, Miss Cassidy?' he asked in a thick English accent.
'I'm a journalist,' she replied with a smile. 'And this country is news at the moment.'
'And how long do you intend staying in Zimbala?'
'That all depends on my editor. I would hope to be here for about a week, though.'
The official stamped the passport then handed it back to her. 'Your visa is valid for ten days. If you wish to stay longer, you will have to apply to have it renewed.'
'Thank you,' she replied, slipping the passport back into the pocket of her fawn blouson.
'Enjoy your stay in Zimbala,' he said with a half-smile then beckoned the next person in line to step forward to the counter.
She collected her lightweight Vuitton suitcase then went to the information counter where she picked up the locker key that had been left there for her. The lockers were situated at the far end of the terminal. She unlocked the one corresponding to the number on the key. Inside was a black holdall. She unzipped it. It contained a Beretta, tucked into a Boyt shoulder holster, and a manila envelope. She opened the envelope and took out the fax confirming her hotel booking. The hotel was called the International. Taking a pen and notepad from her overnight bag, she wrote down the name and address for Graham then placed the sheet of paper inside the locker and closed it again. She returned to the information counter and asked the stewardess for an envelope. She put the key inside the envelope, sealed it, and wrote MILES GRANT across it then told the stewardess that a Mr Grant would collect it later.
Picking up her suitcase, she went outside to look for a taxi. She slipped on her sunglasses then crossed to the nearest taxi which was parked directly opposite the main entrance, a white Toyota. The driver beamed at her then took her suitcase and put it carefully in the boot.
'Where to, Missy?' he asked.
'The International,' she replied.
The driver frowned momentarily then nodded. 'It only called the International after the President die. It built many years now, and always called Alphonse Mobuto Hotel.'
'That figures,' she muttered.
The driver closed the back door behind her, got in, then climbed behind the wheel and pulled out into the road, heading for the exit.
A pale blue Cortina, which had been parked in the carpark, followed at a discreet distance. There were two men in the car. Both wore blue overalls. The driver was Gordon Gubene, a former sergeant in the Security Police who had driven the van when Ngune was sprung from jail. Thomas Massenga sat beside him in a black leather cap and dark sunglasses. He opened the glove compartment and removed a Walther?5. He had lost count of the number of assassinations he had carried out during his seventeen years with the Security Police — dozens, certainly. Men, women, children: it had never made any difference to him.
He slipped the pistol into his overall pocket then picked up the brown folder off the dashboard. It had been given to him the previous day at the airport by a man known only to him as 'Columbus'. Inside was a photograph of Sabrina. 'Columbus' had told him that she was part of a team which had been assigned to track down the assassins before they could carry out the hit on Jamel Mobuto. She had to be stopped before she could uncover any incriminating evidence in
Zimbala. He had long since memorized her face but it was the first chance he had had to compare it to her in person. It did her little justice. But he had no time for sentimentality. She was the enemy, and he would kill her once she reached her destination.
Sabrina was immediately struck by the number of blocks of flats, all of identical height and width, that lined the road into Habane. Tall, unsightly structures positioned equidistantly from each other and painted a depressing shade of grey.
'Don't you have any houses around here?' she asked finally.
'House not here,' the driver answered without taking his eyes off the road. 'Other side Habane. Plenty money house for rich peoples.'
'But surely all that will change now that Alphonse Mobuto is dead?'
The driver shrugged. 'No money to build house.'
'That's why Jamel Mobuto went to America, isn't it? To get money to rebuild the country.'