Time of the Assassins

'It's Bailey, can you talk?'

'No,' came the quick reply.

'Can you get to another phone and call me back?'

'Sure,' Brett replied.

Til be waiting,' Bailey said then replaced the receiver and drank down the remainder of the Scotch.

Brett called back five minutes later.

'What time does Rogers relieve you?' Bailey asked.

'Eight tomorrow morning,' Brett answered.

'Right. When he gets there I want you to go straight from the hotel to the safe house off the Garden State Parkway. You know the one I mean?'

'I should do, sir; I helped to lay the traps.'

'Bernard's there.'

'But I thought he was staying at the apartment in Murray Hill?' Brett replied.

'He was until he shot two policemen there.'

'Sweet Jesus, how did that happen?'

Til brief you tomorrow. All you have to worry about at the moment is getting to the safe house in the morning.'

Til be there, sir.'

'He's holding Whitlock's niece as a form of insurance in case anything should go wrong at the Trade Center tomorrow. He wants you there to keep an eye on her while he's away.'

'Insurance? It sounds like he's cracking, sir.'

'No, he's just being shrewd, like he always is. Do as he says then kill him when he returns to the house, irrespective of what's happened at the Trade Center. We won't be able to use him again after tomorrow anyway. But be careful. He's smart. He's sure to suspect we'll go after him once this is over.'

'And the girl?'

'She's a witness, isn't she? But she mustn't be harmed until you've killed him. As I said, he's smart. He's quite likely to have devised a method of approaching the house unseen. And if he sees she's dead, he'll pull out. Then we'll have lost him.'

'I understand, sir.'

'Good. How's my favourite President?'

'He's in a meeting with his colleagues from the embassy. They've been locked away in his suite for the last three hours. God knows what they're discussing.'

'It doesn't really matter, does it? By this time tomorrow he'll be dead.'

Brett chuckled. 'Yes, sir, he will.'

Bailey smiled to himself then replaced the receiver. He left the study, secured the door behind him, then went downstairs to join his wife and children in the lounge.

Kolchinsky rubbed his eyes wearily then opened another of the files that had been left on Philpott's desk for him. It was one of half a dozen in front of him, each containing an update on one of the UN AGO Strike Force teams currently on assignment. They were compiled by duty analysts in the Command Centre. He read the first two paragraphs of the report then stifled a yawn and got to his feet. He wasn't taking any of it in. He needed a break. Pouring himself a coffee from the dispenser behind him, he moved to the nearest of the black sofas and sat down. He lit a cigarette and was about to reach for his coffee when the interleading door between the office and the Command Centre slid open and an analyst entered carrying a folder.

'Not another update, Hans?' Kolchinsky said with a resigned sigh.

'No, we've matched the prints taken from the newspaper you brought in earlier.' Hans held the folder out towards Kolchinsky. 'I think you'd better take a look for yourself, sir.'

Kolchinsky took the folder and opened it. Inside was a print-out of the computer file corresponding to the prints. The name was typed in capital letters across the top of the page: JEAN-JACQUES BERNARD. He closed the folder and placed it on the table.

'Is there anything else, sir?'

'No, thank you, Hans,' Kolchinsky replied.

Hans returned to the Command Centre, activating the door behind him. Kolchinsky looked at the folder again. He knew he should be surprised but he wasn't. He couldn't explain the feeling. It was almost as if he had expected something like this, sub-consciously. Had he? He glanced across at the telephone on Philpott's desk. Whitlock had asked him to call with any news on the fingerprints. But what good would it do waking Whitlock with that kind of news? He wouldn't get to sleep again. And it wasn't as if either of them could do anything about it. No, he'd tell Whitlock about it in the morning. He reached for the folder and inadvertently knocked the cup off the table, spilling coffee onto the carpet. He cursed angrily but when he bent down to retrieve the cup he noticed something attached to the underside of the table. At first he thought it was a spider or even a piece of gum but when he got closer he realized it was a microphone no bigger than a man's coat button. It had two prongs on the back which had been used to secure it to the wood. He made no attempt to remove it. No, that would only alert the person who had planted it there. And there was only one man who could have done it, Dave Forsythe, whose job it had been for the last year to check the Command Centre, Philpott's office and Sarah's office for bugs when he came on duty every morning. He was one of the senior electronic experts in the organization.

Kolchinsky could hardly believe it, but the proof was there. And how long had it been there? How long had the organization been compromized? He got to his feet and picked up the folders. He'd read the rest of them at home. At least there he wouldn't feel betrayed. He used the sonic transmitter to activate the door, switched off the light in Philpott's office, then closed the door behind him.

TEN

Tambese's arms ached and he was sweating profusely. But at least the goggles stopped the sweat from seeping into his eyes. That would have made the situation even more unbearable. Apart from the goggles, he was also wearing a pair of thick, insulated gloves and the blowpipe in his right hand was attached to the two oxyacetylene tanks strapped to his back. He was anchored to the wall-mounted ladder underneath the manhole cover by the rope which had been looped through his belt and secured to the sides of the ladder. Although uncomfortable, it left his hands free, and that was essential for the job he was doing.

Using the blueprint taken from the city hall, it had taken them almost seventy minutes to negotiate their way through the labyrinth of sewer tunnels to finally reach the manhole that led up directly into the prison grounds. They had decided to go in around two thirty that morning. That had left them a good two hours to devise the best method of cutting through the cover without alerting either the guards manning the watchtowers or their colleagues sleeping in the building which stood only a few yards away from the manhole.

They had found out from the blueprint that the manhole cover was protected by a time lock which they had to assume was regulated from the control room inside the prison compound so that it would be impossible to cut through it without triggering some sort of alarm. That meant they would have to cut a section from within the framework of the cover itself. They knew the guards couldn't see the manhole from the watchtower. Furthermore, it faced onto a windowless wall so the flame wouldn't be the problem. It would be the noise. That had narrowed their options considerably.

It was Graham who had come up with the most viable solution. The cover would have to be removed in segments. That way it would only need one person on the ladder. Tambese had insisted on doing the job. If, by chance, the flame was seen, he would be challenged, giving them time to flee. It was, after all, his friend they were going to spring from jail. Graham had suggested they take it in turns on the ladder but Tambese had refused to back down. They had done more than enough already to help him. He would do it alone.