'I don't have one with me,' she replied.
'Use mine,' Bernard said, gesturing towards the chair. He turned to Deacon. 'Can I get a jacket from the bedroom?'
Deacon nodded then followed Bernard into the bedroom. He stood by the door. Bernard opened the wardrobe and unhooked the grey jacket then slipped his hand under the pile of shirts and curled his fingers around the Desert Eagle. It still had the silencer attached. His first thought was to shoot Deacon on the turn, but that would alert Cummings. He had to get them together. He removed the automatic from under the bottom shirt and slipped the jacket over his hand to hide it. He closed the wardrobe then walked across to Deacon. Cummings was now in sight, standing by the front door. But Rosie was in the way of a clear shot. He cursed. What if Cummings opened the door before Rosie moved? Any gunplay outside the flat would certainly compromise his cover. His mind was still racing when Cummings reached for the handle. Bernard had to play his hand, even if Rosie were caught in the crossfire. Keeping his cover intact far outweighed her usefulness as a hostage. He raised the gun underneath the jacket and shot Deacon through the head. Rosie screamed as Deacon stumbled back against the wall before slumping face forward onto the carpet. Cummings instinctively pushed her aside and was still reaching for his holstered Colt Python when Bernard shot him. He was slammed back against the door and the surprise was still mirrored in his eyes when he slid, lifelessly, to the floor. Bernard discarded the jacket and aimed the automatic at Rosie who was crouched against the wall, her hands clutched together tightly under her chin. She looked up slowly at him, the terror plain on her face.
'Please, don't kill me,' she whimpered, shaking her head slowly.
'I'm not going to kill you. You're too valuable to me.'
Bernard kept the gun trained on her as he checked to see that both policemen were dead. Satisfied, he ordered her to stand up. She slowly got to her feet, petrified.
'You should have listened to your friend Kenny, shouldn't you?'
'What have you done to him?' she asked, already fearing the worst.
'He came back to the flat after you had gone. I think he fancied himself as a bit of a detective. But he was in way over his head. Pity, he meant well.'
'You killed him, didn't you?'
'Yeah,' he replied with an indifferent shrug.
She fought back the tears. Why hadn't she listened to Kenny? He had been right all along. She had been living in a fantasy world. And now suddenly she had been pitched headlong into the world of reality. She desperately wanted to crawl back into her old world where she knew she would be safe. But she knew that couldn't happen. Never again. Then came the damning realization that she had been partly responsible for Kenny's death. If she had listened to him he would still be alive. And in that moment of truth her fear turned to anger. She lunged at Bernard, almost wishing he would pull the trigger. He sidestepped her clawing hands and she saw the gun out of the corner of her eye as he swung it down onto the back of her head. Then everything went black.
EIGHT
Sabrina gazed up at the myriad stars that speckled the night sky like a panoply of diamonds on a velvet background and could almost believe there was a heaven. What else could lie beyond such beauty? Although she had been raised a Catholic she had never really considered herself very religious and now only attended mass once a year with her parents at Christmas, and that was only to appease them. She smiled to herself. Why did the subject of religion always seem to crop up when she was on assignment? A subconscious attempt to avoid eternal perdition? She pushed the thought from her mind and concentrated instead on their plans.
It had been decided that the five of them would travel to Kondese alone. Tambese had told them that any attempt to take reinforcements would only alert the rebels. Sabrina had spoken privately to Graham about the decision to take Moredi and Laidlaw with them. Moredi knew the layout of Branco prison, having once been a prisoner there, and Laidlaw's speciality at Delta had been his ability to plan the best way in, or out, of a compound. Both would be invaluable but neither would be part of the assault team. Satisfied, Sabrina had let the matter drop.
Tambese had then collected an assortment of weaponry from the barracks before chartering a Cessna from a private firm in the city. Not only would it be quicker by air, they would also avoid the rebel roadblocks which had been set up on all the approach roads into Kondese. Moredi had arranged for them to land at a farm on the outskirts of Kondese which belonged to Matthew Okoye, a personal friend of the Mobutos. He was one of the wealthiest businessmen in the country and Ngune had wisely given strict instructions for him to be left alone when the rebels had set up camp in and around Kondese. He knew the value of keeping on the right side of the likes of Okoye. They were the future of Zimbala, irrespective of who was in power.
It had taken them a little over an hour to reach the private airstrip and after Tambese had landed the Cessna they were driven to the farm. Okoye and his wife had discreetly withdrawn after dinner, leaving them in the spacious lounge to discuss the operation. But there wasn't anything they could do until the plans of the prison compound were delivered to the farm. So Sabrina had gone out onto the porch for a breath of fresh air.
The door opened behind her.
She looked round and smiled at Graham when he emerged onto the porch. 'It's so peaceful out here. Look at the sky — not a cloud in sight, just stars as far as the eye can see. And you can even make out the lights of Kondese in the distance. Isn't it beautiful?'
'Yeah. It's at times like this that you can see where
Keats got his inspiration for "The Secret Rose", or Hopkins for "The Starlight Night".'
'You never cease to amaze me, Mike Graham,' she said, shaking her head in astonishment. 'I never realized you read poetry.'
He smiled then sat on the step beside her. 'I grew up with it. My mother has volumes of the stuff, all beautifully bound in leather — Keats, Wordsworth, Browning, Shelley, the lot. Every Friday night her parents would come round for a meal and afterwards I would have to read to them from one of the volumes. That went on until I was in my teens.'
'Do you still read poetry?'
'Only when I visit my mother at the retirement home in Santa Monica. She's still got all the volumes on a shelf in her room. Her eyesight's going so I always read her favourite poems to her.'
'That's the first time you've ever really spoken about your childhood, do you know that?'
'Now you know why,' he said with a wry grin. 'Imagine a ten-year-old in a suit and tie reading Gray's "Elegy in a Country Churchyard" to his grandparents. But she meant well, and that's what counts.'
Sabrina chuckled. 'I only wish I'd been there to see it.'
'You don't,' Graham retorted. 'She'd have got you reading as well.'
'I know you think the world of your mother. But you never talk much about your father. I don't mean to pry, but is there a reason for that?'
'I was never close to my father. We didn't have anything in common, that's why. He never once took zoo me to see the Giants or the Yankees play. I had to go with other kids' fathers until I was old enough to go by myself. It was really embarrassing. I started playing football at the age of eleven. He never once came to watch me play, never. My mother wasn't interested in football either, but I can't ever remember her missing a game when I played in the New York area.'
'Didn't he even go and watch you when you played for the Giants?'
'He died seven months before I joined them. I doubt he'd have come though. Why break the habit of a lifetime?'
The bitterness wasn't lost on her and she decided against pursuing the subject. But she was still amazed at his openness. A year ago he would have clammed up at the mere mention of his past. Was he beginning to break down those barriers he had built around himself since he had lost his family? Or was it the thought that he was finally going to get a showdown with the man he blamed for their murder? And what would happen if he did come face to face with Bernard? Would he kill him? Or would he hand him over to the authorities? She knew she couldn't answer that question. Or perhaps she just didn't want to…