Time of the Assassins

'I must see him now!' Barak retorted.

The guard unslung the kalashnikov. 'I told you, Mr Devereux isn't to be disturbed tonight.'

Barak glared at the guard. 'Mr Devereux's life is in danger. If anything happens to him then I'll see to it that you're held personally responsible.'

The guard wavered. 'What danger?'

Til tell that to Mr Devereux, when I get to see him.'

The guard turned away from the car and spoke softly into a two-way radio. A minute later the gates were activated from somewhere inside the grounds.

The guard peered through the window at Barak. 'Follow the road to the courtyard. Someone will be waiting there to meet you.'

Barak put the Peugeot into gear and drove the hundred yards to the courtyard. He pulled up in front of the stone steps and got out of the car. Another guard frisked him expertly then led him up the steps into the house. Barak looked around the spacious hallway in awe. The three-tier Czech-oslovakian crystal chandelier was the only reminder of its once resplendent grandeur. He could imagine that the walls had once been lined with an array of expensive paintings or tapestries and the wooden floorboards covered with elegant, sculpted carpeting.

'The house once belonged to a Turkish prince when the Lebanon was still a part of the Ottoman Empire,' a man said, tying the belt of his white dressing-gown as he descended the stairs. He was a tall, handsome man in his late thirties with short black hair, which was already beginning to grey at the temples, and a neatly trimmed black moustache. A faint scar ran the length of his left cheek. He reached the foot of the stairs and looked around him slowly. 'Some would call it beautiful,' he said, still speaking Arabic. 'All I see is decadence.'

'I'm sorry to disturb you like this, Mr Devereux — '

The man held up a hand to silence Barak then turned to the guard beside him and dismissed him with a curt nod of the head. He waited until he had left then ushered Barak into a small study. 'I told you never to come here!'

'I had no choice,' Barak replied defensively. 'I had to speak to you in person.'

'What is it?'

Barak shifted uneasily on his feet. 'You've been recognized, Mr Bernard.'

Bernard dug his hands into the pockets of his dressing-gown and moved to the window where he stared across the lawn at the empty swimming pool. He finally turned back to Barak. 'Who recognized me?'

'An American, Russell Laidlaw.'

Bernard pondered the name then shook his head. 'I don't know him. Who is he? A journalist?'

Barak shook his head. 'He used to be with Delta. He lives here now. But he's not your problem. There was another man with him, Mike Graham. He offered me ten-thousand dollars to find you for him. This has got something to do with the murder of his family, hasn't it? Were you involved?'

Bernard ignored the questions. 'Where's he staying?'

'He didn't say. I'm to contact Laidlaw if I come up with anything.'

Bernard took a cigarette from the pack on the table and lit it. He exhaled thoughtfully then sat in the armchair in the corner of the room. 'Tell Graham you've made some enquiries and that you've come up with something. Arrange to meet him at your house later tonight.'

'My house?' Barak stammered. 'I don't want to get involved — '

'You're already involved,' Bernard cut in sharply. He smiled coldly. 'Don't worry, I won't kill Graham there. I can't have the police finding any clues at your house. You don't have the guile to talk your way out of it.'

Barak knew it would be futile to argue. 'What time?' he asked with a resigned sigh.

'Midnight. That gives me plenty of time to make the necessary arrangements. But don't call him until eleven thirty. That way it will look as if you've been asking around about me.'

Barak rubbed his hands together nervously. 'What about the extra five-thousand dollars Graham would have paid me?'

Bernard stubbed out the cigarette and got to his feet. 'Everything you do has to have a price, doesn't it?'

Barak stepped backwards, his eyes flickering between Bernard and the floor. 'I have to make a living…'

'You make more money than most people in this town,' Bernard snapped.

Barak swallowed nervously. 'I think I should go now. We can discuss the money another time.'

Bernard grabbed the front of Barak's shirt and slammed him up against the wall. 'You're paid a retainer every month to keep me informed on developments in and around Beirut. I don't know how you negotiate your other deals, nor do I want to, but you can be sure you're not going to get another cent out of me. Is that understood?'

Barak nodded his head vigorously and Bernard let go of his shirt. Barak dabbed his face with a dirty handkerchief, his eyes wide with fear.

'And don't even think about trying to double-cross me. You know what Hezbollah would do to you if anything were to happen to me?'

'I would never double-cross you, Mr Bernard — ' 'Devereux!' Bernard snapped angrily. 'How many times must I tell you? Jean-Jacques Bernard is dead. I'm now Alain Devereux.' 'I'm sorry, Mr Devereux. It's just force of habit.' Bernard gestured towards the door. 'Get out.' Barak left the room, leaving the door ajar in his haste to get out of the house.

Bernard took another cigarette from the packet and lit it. He had always known that Graham would find him again one day. It had been inevitable. But now he had the advantage, and he intended to use it…

'I still say I should go in with you,' Laidlaw urged after he had parked the car outside Barak's house.

Graham shook his head. 'We've been through this already. Barak gave specific instructions that I was to go in alone. I've got to play by his rules. He's my only chance of finding Bernard.'

'It could be a trap.'

'Don't you think that's crossed my mind? It's a chance I've got to take.'

Laidlaw sighed deeply then nodded.'O K, but if you haven't shown your face at the window in the first couple of minutes I'm coming in after you.'

'Deal,' Graham replied and got out of the car.

Laidlaw watched Graham until he had disappeared into the house then touched his bolstered Pzzo automatic as if to reassure himself. Not that he would use it. He couldn't. Not since that fateful mission in Honduras. He had tried several times at a local shooting range but he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. He knew it was psychological. It was why he had been forced to retire from Delta. But he couldn't tell Graham. How could he? Graham was depending on him. He wiped the sweat from his forehead, willing Graham to appear at the window. Where the hell was he?

The gunshot came from inside the house. Then silence. Laidlaw banged the steering wheel angrily with his fist. It had been a trap. Why hadn't Graham listened to him? He pushed open the door and scrambled out of the car, careful to keep out of sight of the house. He pulled the automatic from his holster but stopped short of curling his finger around the trigger. Sweating, he peered round the side of the car at the house. It was in darkness, just as it had been when they had been there earlier that evening. He would have to go round to the back. He ran, doubled-over, to the adjoining house. It, too, was in darkness. But that was to be expected. Staying alive in Beirut depended on ignoring trouble. He vaulted over the gate and hurried up the narrow driveway. An overgrown hedge divided the two properties. He found a hole in it and squeezed his way through. Barak's back door was barely ten yards away from where he was crouched. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and looked down at the automatic in his hand. But he still couldn't bring himself to touch the trigger. He cursed himself angrily. What happened if the gunman was still in the house? Could he defend himself? He was breathing heavily, but it had nothing to do with the run he had made from the car. It was fear. Delta had taught him that fear was all in the mind. It could be overcome. But that was when he could still pull a trigger.