Time of the Assassins

'Please, take a seat,' Ngune said, indicating the armchair in front of the desk. He stepped behind the desk and eased himself onto his padded leather chair.

Graham pulled himself to his feet and slumped into the chair, his hand still rubbing the nape of his neck.

'Cigarette?' Ngune said, extending the silver box towards Graham.

Graham glared back at Ngune.

'As you wish,' Ngune said then took one out for himself and lit it. He exhaled the smoke then sat back and studied Graham before smiling faintly at him. 'As

I said earlier, you certainly put on quite a show here tonight. Eight dead at the last count. There may be more.'

'I certainly hope so,' Graham retorted.

'They can be replaced,' Ngune replied with a dismissive shrug, 'unlike a wife and son.'

'You son-of-a-bitch,' Graham screamed and lunged at Ngune.

The guard slammed the AK-47'$ butt down onto Graham's shoulder, knocking him to the floor. Graham swung round on the guard but he was already out of striking range. The AK-47 was again aimed at his head. He pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. His breathing was shallow and ragged as he glared down the barrel of the Walther?5 Ngune had taken from one of the desk drawers.

'Sit down, Mr Graham, before you do yourself an injury.'

The intercom buzzed on the desk. Ngune waited until Graham had sat down again before answering it.

'It's the control room here, sir,' an anxious voice said in Swahili. 'We can't get through to any of the patrols. They're not answering their radios.'

Ngune wiped away a drop of sweat that trickled down his forehead. 'Send out a patrol to reconnoitre the area. And keep trying to contact the other patrols.'

'That's not all, sir. We can't get through to garrison either.'

'Have you checked that there isn't something wrong with our radio?'

'Yes, sir. It's working.'

'Keep trying. And keep me advised.'

'Yes, sir.'

Ngune switched off the intercom and looked across at Graham. 'We know you were working with your partner tonight. Who was the third member of your team?'

'Mickey Mouse,' Graham replied contemptuously.

'Who was it?' Ngune shouted, aiming the Walther at Graham's head.

'Got some trouble, have we?' Graham said, glancing at the intercom.

Ngune lowered the gun. 'Killing you would be stupid. Either you answer my questions here in the comfort of my office or I will have you taken down to one of the interrogation rooms and tortured until you tell me what I want to know. The choice is yours, Graham.'

'A choice?' Graham said in mock surprise. 'And I thought you abhorred democracy. Perhaps I've been underestimating you all along.'

'I will ask you for the last time. Who was the third member of your team?'

'I told you, Mickey Mouse.'

Ngune sat back and stared at Graham. 'I have come across your kind before. You think you can unnerve me by pretending to show no fear at the thought of being tortured, but it never works. I have never failed to get the answers I want from a prisoner, never. You will not be the exception, Graham, no matter what you may think. I will break you.'

'Torture me as much as you want,' Graham replied, holding Ngune's stare. 'But you tell me this, how can you break a man who's already immune to pain?'

Ngune's eyes narrowed fractionally as he waited for Graham to continue.

'Do you honestly believe that whatever machinery you've got waiting for me down in your interrogation room can possibly match the pain I went through when I lost my family?' Graham shook his head. 'Hell, you do what you want, Ngune. You can't hurt me, not any more.'

'We will see,' Ngune replied, but the intercom buzzed again before he could arrange to have Graham taken down to one of the interrogation rooms. He activated the switch. 'Yes?'

'It's the control room here again, sir.'

'Have you managed to re-establish contact with the outside yet?'

'No, sir.' There was a nervous pause. 'We've just picked up two aircraft on the radar scanner. They're headed this way. And judging by their speed, they have to be fighter jets.'

'That doesn't make any sense,' Ngune said suspiciously. 'I haven't authorized the scrambling of any of our jets from the airbase in Chad. And we'd have been told by one of our informers if the air force had scrambled any of their jets from Habane.'

'They don't originate from Habane, sir. They've come from one of the neighbouring states in the south.'

'Chad?'

'I can't say, sir.'

'Have you tried to establish radio contact with them?'

'Yes, sir, but so far they're both maintaining complete radio silence.'

'Range?'

'Forty miles, sir, and closing fast.'

'Put out an alert but tell the men to hold their fire until we know the identity of the planes. They could be ours. And keep trying to get them on the radio.'

'Yes, sir.'

Ngune switched off the intercom and sat back in the chair. What was going on? First they lose contact with the patrols, then they lose contact with the garrison, and now two unidentified fighter jets were closing in on them. It had already crossed his mind that the government forces could have already recaptured Kondese. But there had been no gunfire. Well, no more than usual. And if the city had been taken, surely at least one patrol would have contacted the base? Then there was the mystery of the garrison on the Chad-Zimbalan border. If they had come under attack from government troops, they too, would have radioed through to the base. But nothing. Absolute silence. It was as if they had been isolated. The thought lingered in his mind. But how?

He pushed the thought from his mind and ordered the guard to take Graham to one of the interrogation rooms. He would join them presently. The guard prodded Graham in the back with the AK-47 and indicated for him to walk to the door. Ngune waited until the two men had left the room then removed a pair of powerful night-vision binoculars from the desk and moved to the window. He raised the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the horizon. Nothing. Then, a moment later, he saw the lights. At first they were hazy and distorted in the distance but as they grew nearer he z8i could make out the silhouettes of two jets. He immediately recognized them as Dornier Alpha jets but he couldn't see the markings. Then the lead jet peeled away to the right and Ngune was able to see the markings of the Zimbalan Air Force on the underside of the wings. He lowered the binoculars and wiped his hand across his clammy forehead. It was impossible. How could two fighter planes have been smuggled off the airbase in Habane without at least one of his informers knowing about it? Dammit, they lived on the airbase. How could it have happened? He switched on the intercom and gave the order to open fire as soon as the jets came into range.

He returned to the window and instinctively ducked as one of the jets buzzed overhead. The first missile exploded several yards short of the fence but the men still had to take cover as a shower of rocks and stones rained down onto the yard. The second missile ripped through the fence and detonated underneath one of the watchtowers. Ngune stared, transfixed, as the watchtower buckled under the impact of the explosion before toppling over and crashing down onto the barracks where many of his men had taken cover seconds earlier. A handful of men tried to break cover from behind the barracks but were cut down by the concentrated gunfire that strafed across the yard. The third missile hit the main gate, ripping it off its hinges as though it were made of papier mache.

Then the first of the army's Challenger tanks rumbled into the compound, its barrel already trained on the barracks where a handful of his men were making one last, determined stand. Machine-pistols against tanks, but he knew they would fight to the last man. It was a question of honour. Now suddenly it all made sense. They hadn't been able to get through to the garrison because it had already been destroyed by the jets. The garrison had no radar so the jets could have approached completely unnoticed. He had always anticipated an attack from Habane. And to get to the garrison from Habane, the air force would have had to bypass Kondese. But the whole plan had backfired. Badly. He had been outmanoeuvred by Jamel Mobuto, the man he had despised for so many years. And without men he couldn't mount a challenge on Habane. The dream was finally over. Now all that concerned him was staying alive, self-preservation. And the longer his men held out, the better his chances were of escaping. He opened the wall safe and stuffed his pockets full of bank notes. Then, unlocking the bottom drawer, he removed a miniature transmitter but the door burst open before he could use it to make good his escape. He put the transmitter down on the desk.