'Well, I hope you were proud of your man, Robert. And I always thought you were a person who believed in the ideology of democracy. It shows just how much I really knew you.' She got to her feet. 'I've already packed a suitcase. It's in the car. I'll be at my parents until I've found my feet. We're finished, Robert.'
Bailey didn't argue with her. He knew how futile that would be in her mood. He would call her in a few days, give her time to calm down.
'Aren't you even going to say anything?' she snapped scathingly.
'What's there to say? I said you wouldn't understand.'
'No, I guess I didn't.' She walked to the door then turned back to look at him. 'I feel sorry for you, Robert. You're a pathetic, bigoted little man. God help this country if you'd ever reached the White House. Well, at least something good's come out of this, hasn't it?'
Bailey winced as she slammed the door behind her. The front door closed, followed moments later by the sound of an engine revving into life. The tyres screeched as she spun the car round and headed towards the gate. He waited until the sound of the engine had faded into the distance then poured himself another bourbon before walking out into the corridor. His bodyguard, who was sitting discreetly at the end of the corridor, got to his feet. Bailey waved him away then climbed the stairs and crossed to the study door. He punched a code into the bellpush and the door slid open. He closed it behind him and sat down in front of the VDU.
Bailey thought about the meeting he had had with Morgan Chilvers in the morning. He would be asked to resign. Failing that, he'd be fired. Chilvers had always been good to him. He was a naive man when it came to some of the more clandestine operations carried out by CIA personnel in both Africa and Central America and Bailey was determined to destroy all those incriminating files before the auditors were sent in to analyse his system.
He switched on the computer and fed in his personal code. The words ACCESS DENIED flashed across the screen. He ran his hand through his hair and scratched the back of his head. Access denied? He stifled a yawn then shook his head. You're tired, Robert. Now concentrate this time. Feed in the right code this time. His fingers froze over the keyboard. He'd never made a mistake like that before. For a moment he wondered if somehow the access code had been tampered with by a professional hacker. He dismissed the thought. Why change the code? A hacker would be too busy reading the files. And even if the code had been altered, he could press the '9' button which would automatically cancel the whole program. That had been programmed into the system by Dave Forsythe. The man was an expert when it came to' computers. He cursed himself for his suspicion. You pressed a wrong key, for God sake. Try again, slowly this time.
He pressed each key carefully then immediately put his finger lightly on the '9', just in case he did need to use it. ACCESS DENIED. He pressed the '9' button. Nothing happened. The door sealed behind him and the ten-second countdown began flashing on the screen. He pressed the '9' frantically. Someone had overridden it. He kicked over the chair and ran to the door, banging furiously on it. But the whole room was soundproofed. Nobody could hear him. He looked round at the screen again, knowing he was going to die. The countdown finished and the word ACTIVATE began flashing across the screen.
A jet of nerve gas streamed from the nozzle of the canister built into the wall directly above the door. He stumbled away and fell to the floor. Saliva bubbled on his lips and he clawed desperately at his throat as he struggled to breathe. It felt as if his chest were about to burst. His breathing became increasingly ragged as his body twisted uncontrollably on the floor. The spasms ended with a final shudder then his head lolled to the side. His breathing stopped.
The message, which had appeared on the screen as Bailey lay dying on the floor, was still there the following morning when the body was discovered: TO BE TERMINATED AFTER THE ASSASSINATION OF JAMEL MOBUTO.
FOURTEEN
Jack Rogers sat in his favourite armchair by the window, his hand resting lightly on the telephone. His mind was in turmoil. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd called the safe house in the last hour. And always the same. He picked up the receiver and dialled the number again. Still no reply. He looked at his watch. It was already one fifteen in the morning. Where was Brett? Why hadn't he called? Had Bernard got to him?
Rogers slipped on his shoulder holster then pulled on his jacket over it. He checked his Smith & Wesson then bolstered it. He picked up the car keys off the hall table and left the house, closing the door silently behind him. He shivered as he walked down the footpath to the gate. But it wasn't cold — an omen? He dismissed the idea. He didn't believe in that nonsense. He got into his Fiat and started the engine. Then, after checking the side mirror, he pulled out into the road.
Dave Swain, a former presidential bodyguard, had been with UNACO for five years. He was the leader of Strike Force Seven. He sat behind the wheel of a Mazda which was parked fifty yards away from the Rogers's house. He'd been there since ten thirty the previous evening. Philpott's orders. An empty coffee carton lay beside the half-eaten hamburger on the dashboard. The radio was on and he was tapping his fingers on the wheel to the beat of the music when Rogers emerged from the house. He immediately radioed in to the command centre to let them know that Rogers was on the move. He switched off the radio and activated the tracking device on the seat beside him. It would pick up the signal from the homer he had attached to the underside of the Fiat. He gave Rogers a thirty-second start then followed him at a discreet distance.
The man in the black Sedan, which was parked at the end of the street, stubbed out his cigarette then started up the engine and followed the Mazda.
The telephone rang.
Kolchinsky rolled over in bed and patted the bedside table with his hand until he found the receiver.
'Sergei?'
'Yes,' Kolchinsky replied sleepily. 'Malcolm, is that you?'
'Yes,' Philpott replied. 'I've just had a call from the duty officer at the command centre. Dave Swain followed Rogers to a house off the Garden State Parkway. Rogers parked out of sight of the house and approached it on foot. Then Dave heard a burst of gunfire. When he went to investigate he saw Rogers lying in a clearing close to the house.'
'Where's David now?'
'He's got the house under surveillance. I don't want him to do anything until we get reinforcements to the area.'
'Who are you bringing in? Strike Force Seven?'
'No, Strike Forcfe Three. It's their operation. I've already told the duty officer to call C.W., Mike and Sabrina. They're meeting you outside the UN in twenty minutes. I'm going on ahead to talk to Dave.'
'I'm on my way,' Kolchinsky said, pulling the duvet to one side.
'I've sent a car over to pick you up,' Philpott told him. 'It should be with you in a few minutes.'
'Thanks, Malcolm.'
'See you at the house,' Philpott replied then the line went dead.
Kolchinsky replaced the receiver, stifled a yawn, then hauled himself to his feet. He took a cigarette from the packet on the bedside table, lit it, then got dressed and went outside to wait for the car.
'What the hell are they doing here?' Graham demanded angrily, pointing to the row of police cars parked at the entrance to the approach road that led to the safe house.
'We're about to find out,' Sabrina replied, braking gently as a policeman stepped out into the road and waved down the car. She stopped beside him and opened her window. 'What's going on?'
'Who are you?' the policeman demanded.
Kolchinsky, who was sitting in the passenger seat, reached across to show his ID card. The policeman checked it then looked at Graham and Whitlock, who were sitting in the back of the car, before handing the card back to Kolchinsky.