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Kolchinsky stared at the folder thoughtfully then looked up at Whitlock. 'If you're right, the next attempt has to be this afternoon. It's the only time the President will be out in the open.'

'My thoughts exactly. I want to draft in more police snipers to cover the area around the school.'

'How many?'

Whitlock visualized the plan of the area in his head. 'A dozen to be on the safe side.'

Kolchinsky made a note on his desk pad. Til arrange it with the Commissioner.'

'Well, I'd better get over to the hotel. Call me when you've spoken to the Commissioner.'

Kolchinsky nodded then activated the door for Whitlock. He closed it behind him then reached for the telephone.

'Hello?' Bernard said, answering the telephone after the first ring.

'This is Seabird,' a voice said.

'Columbus,' Bernard replied, quoting his codename.

'Whitlock's stumbled on the truth,' Seabird told him. 'Abort Plan A. Don't go to Harlem this afternoon.'

'What about Sibele and Kolwezi?'

'Send them in as if nothing's wrong. They're expendable. It'll also convince Whitlock he was right.'

'Leaving Plan B.'

'Right,' Seabird agreed.

'What about the rifle?'

'I'll have someone drop by later and pick it up. Don't worry, we won't have any problems getting it past the security guards.'

Bernard replaced the receiver and smiled to himself. The hit on Mobuto was now down to him. He liked it that way.

Rogers was sitting by the door of Mobuto's suite reading a magazine when the lift doors opened and Whitlock emerged into the corridor. The two uniformed policemen by the lift checked Whitlock's ID disc then let him pass.

Rogers discarded the magazine onto the coffee table beside him and got to his feet. 'They're still in conference,' he said when Whitlock reached him.

Whitlock glanced irritably at his watch. 'What's he playing at? He knows he's got to give an address at the school in an hour. The press are already crawling all over the foyer, waiting for him to appear.'

'Hoping for blood this time,' Rogers muttered cynically.

'No doubt,' Whitlock agreed. 'If he'd been ready a half an hour ago we could have avoided them.'

The door suddenly opened and the towering figure of Masala appeared. 'The President will be ready to leave in five minutes.'

Whitlock waited until the Zimbalan ambassador and his entourage had left before entering the suite. 'Can I have a word with the President?' he asked Masala.

'The President is dressing,' came the sharp reply.

'Is there a problem?' Mobuto asked from the doorway of his bedroom.

'There could be, sir,' Whitlock replied.

'Then you'd better come in,' Mobuto said then disappeared back into the bedroom.

Mobuto was putting on a red silk tie in front of the mirror when Whitlock entered the room. 'And what seems to be the problem?'

Whitlock bit back his anger at Mobuto's sarcastic tone. 'We agreed that you would be ready half an hour ago to avoid the press.'

'The conference lasted longer than I anticipated,' Mobuto replied, glancing towards Whitlock's reflection in the mirror.

'Well, the press are here in force now. We'll have to smuggle you out through the back of the hotel.'

Mobuto finished knotting his tie then turned to face Whitlock. 'Perhaps you'd like to put a paper bag over my head as well just in case someone should see me.'

'None of this would be necessary if we had left on time,' Whitlock retorted, unable to hold back his anger any longer.

'You sound just like my father. Everything he did had to be done with military precision. He lived by the clock. He never knew the word flexibility.' Mobuto held up his hand before Whitlock could reply. 'Let's get something straight, Clarence. I intend to leave here through the front of the hotel. And if there is an assassin in the crowd, then let's hope you're as quick on your toes as you were the other night. But I will not bow to their terror by sneaking out through back doors. Is that understood?'

Whitlock nodded.

Mobuto put on his jacket and slipped a carnation into his button hole. 'I'm ready. Shall we go?'

The bleeper attached to Whitlock's belt went off before he could reply. He silenced it and immediately went into the lounge where a special scrambler telephone had been installed. He rang UN AGO headquarters and gave Sarah his identity number.

She immediately patched him through to Kolchinsky.

'Bailey's just called,' Kolchinsky told him. 'Bernard's been in touch.'

'Finally,' Whitlock replied. 'Did he say where the hit would take place?'

'At the school.'

'Where at the school?'

'There's no definite plan, but Bernard told the gunman to make the hit outside the building.'

'Which would tie up with a second assassin.'

'Perhaps,' Kolchinsky replied. 'It's a two-man team, like before, one wheelman, one assassin. The getaway car will be a red Buick, registration number 472. ENG.'

'That certainly helps,' Whitlock said, jotting down the number.

'I got a bad feeling about this, C.W. Be careful.'

'You can count on it,' Whitlock replied.

'Keep me advised.'

'Will do,' Whitlock said then replaced the receiver.

'Well?' Mobuto enquired.

Whitlock recounted what Kolchinsky had said on the telephone.

'At least now we know where we stand,' Mobuto said once Whitlock had finished speaking.

'I hope you're right,' Whitlock replied softly then followed Mobuto to the door.

The Mercedes carrying the President was hemmed in between two police cars while a second Mercedes brought up the rear of the convoy. Whitlock sat in the front of the presidential car, his mind racing. Had he anticipated every possibility when he had organized the security arrangements at the school that morning? Was there a weak link? He had gone over the plans of the area with the head of the SWAT team. Had they overlooked anything? If something happened to Mobuto now they had been warned that another attempt was to be made on his life, heads would definitely roll, starting with his. He had radioed through to the SWAT team before they set out for Harlem, warning them to be on the lookout for the red Buick. He had also given them strict instructions not to open fire unless it was absolutely necessary. A prisoner to question would be invaluable to a case that was crying out for answers, and there was far more chance of the gunman being killed than the getaway driver. Then there was Bernard. Where did he fit into the jigsaw? Was he the third man? And if he was, was he working for Bailey or had he double-crossed the CIA? Was he working for Ngune? So many questions and he didn't have an answer for any of them. That worried him. And like Kolchinsky, he had a bad feeling about Mobuto's visit to Harlem…

'Are you married, Clarence?' Mobuto asked from the back seat. 'I suddenly realized I don't know anything about you since you left Oxford.'

Whitlock wished Mobuto would stop calling'him Clarence. But there was nothing he could do about it. Mobuto had already reported him to Kolchinsky for calling him Jamel at the airport. Kolchinsky had hauled him into the office the next day and told him to bite his tongue. Mobuto was a guest in the country, and an important one at that. Kolchinsky had also pointed out that it wasn't as if he were insulting him. He was only calling him by his name. Whitlock knew he was right. Clarence indeed!

'Yes, I've been married for seven years. Actually, my wife works in Harlem.'

'Really? What does she do?'

'She's a paediatrician.'

'How interesting,' Mobuto said without sounding particularly convincing. 'Do you have any children?'

'No.'

The silence descended again.

'We're in Harlem now,' Whitlock said as the Mercedes followed the police car into Lenox Avenue.

Mobuto peered through the dark glass window. 'It seems so bleak and depressing.'