Time of the Assassins (10 page)

'Leave her alone!'
The man looked round sharply at the figure who had emerged silently from inside the bar. He was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans, a white shirt and a black leather jacket. A faint scar ran the length of his left cheek.
'You'll get your ass out of here if you know what's good for you,' the man snarled menacingly.
Bernard glanced at Rosie. 'Go inside. The two men have gone.'
'Like hell you are,' the man snarled and grabbed her arm.
She raked his face with her fingernails. He cried out in pain and stumbled back against the wall. She jerked her arm free and ran to where Bernard was standing.
'Inside,' Bernard ordered, indicating the door with his head.
Her eyes flickered momentarily between the two men then she pulled open the door and hurried inside.
'You're going to pay for that, you son-of-a-bitch,' the man hissed through clenched teeth as he wiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand.
Bernard eyed the man contemptuously then dropped his cigarette and ground it underfoot. The man lunged clumsily at Bernard who ducked his wild
punch and landed a vicious one of his own, catching him painfully in the kidney. The man stumbled against the wall and Bernard followed through with two more crippling kidney punches, dropping the man to his knees. He grabbed the man's hair and slammed his face against the wall. The man slumped into an unconscious heap at Bernard's feet. Bernard brushed his hands together then walked back to the door. It swung open as he was about to reach out for the handle. Doyle stood in the doorway, a baseball bat clenched tightly in his right hand.
'It's O K,' Bernard reassured him. 'He won't touch the girl again tonight.'
Doyle peered at the crumpled figure. 'Bastard. I was ready to take his head off when Rosie told me what had happened.'
'You know him?'
'Never seen him before,' Doyle replied then held open the door for Bernard. 'Thanks for helping her. Most people around here would have just looked the other way.'
'Is she your girl?' Bernard asked as they walked back to the bar room.
'Just a friend. A good friend.'
The waitress who had been covering for Doyle behind the bar eyed the baseball bat questioningly when he returned.
'I didn't have to do anything,' Doyle replied, placing the bat under the counter again. 'This gentleman took care of the situation.' He looked at Bernard. 'The least I can do is buy you a drink.
'A Diet Cola if you have it,' Bernard replied then
eased himself onto the stool beside Rosie. 'Are you alright?'
She nodded. 'I don't know how I can ever thank you. If you hadn't come along when you did...' she trailed off as she struggled to hold back the tears.
'Would you like another drink?' he asked, indicating her empty glass.
'Please,' she replied softly then looked at him for the first time since he had sat down. 'I don't even know your name.'
'Marc Giresse,' he replied, quoting the name on his passport.
'I'm Rosie Kruger.' She looked round as Doyle returned with the Diet Cola. 'I was just saying, if you hadn't sent Mr Giresse out when you did I hate to think what would have happened to me.'
'I didn't send him out,' Doyle replied. 'I was about to come out myself.'
Rosie and Doyle looked at Bernard simultaneously.
'I was at the table behind you,' Bernard said to Rosie. 'I saw what happened when that guy tried to pick you up. Then when he followed you down the corridor I thought I'd better make sure you were alright.'
'How did you know about my father and my uncle?'
'I overheard you two talking,' Bernard replied with a sheepish grin. 'It's a bad habit of mine. I tend to do it when I'm bored.'
'I'm sure glad you did,' Rosie replied with a smile.
Doyle's eyes flickered to the nearest table behind Rosie. It was occupied by a young couple in their early twenties. Although he didn't know them, he could
have sworn they had been there for the past hour. And they were sitting on the only two chairs at the table. He looked at Bernard, frowned, then glanced round sharply when he heard someone calling him from the end of the counter.
'A drink for the lady, when you have a minute,' Bernard said as Doyle turned to go.
'Sure,' Doyle replied then went off to serve the customer.
'Giresse?' Rosie said thoughtfully. 'Is that French?'
Bernard nodded.
'You don't sound French. You don't look it either. You're very swarthy.'
'My father was French. I was born in Tarabulus.'
'Where's that?' she asked.
'The Lebanon.'
A sly smile touched the corners of her mouth. 'You're not a terrorist, are you?'
'Sure,' Bernard replied then shook his head. 'You Americans never cease to amaze me. Everyone has to be neatly packaged into defined groups. If you're Russian you must be a Communist. If you're Colombian you must be a drug dealer. If you're Libyan or Lebanese you must be a terrorist.'
'I was only joking,' she said with a grin.
'I know. I only wish I could say the same about your politicians.' Bernard took a sip of the Diet Cola then leaned his elbows on the counter. 'I'm a humble businessman, that's all. Meat packaging - far less glamorous than being a terrorist, I'm afraid.'
'Do you know... any terrorists?'
'You meet lots of different kinds of people in the
Lebanon,' Bernard replied then dismissed the topic with a vague flick of his hand. 'Are you a runaway?'
The question caught Rosie by surprise. Normally she would have clammed up at that juncture. She made it a point to tell people as little about herself as possible. She never shared her inner thoughts with anyone, not even her friends at school who had come to regard her as something of an enigma. Yet she felt completely at ease with Bernard. It was a feeling she had never had before, not even with Kenny, and he was probably the best friend she ever had. She felt as if she could trust Bernard. And she had never trusted anyone before in her life. Part of her was frightened. It was a new experience for her to want to open up to someone, especially a man; but another part of her was relieved to have found a kindred spirit she could confide in.
'Sorry, I didn't mean to pry,' Bernard said, noticing her distant expression.
'No, you weren't prying,' she replied with a quick smile. 'I guess I am a runaway. I left home tonight.'
'It's a start,' Bernard said with a smile. He held up his glass. 'Welcome to the club.'
'Were you also a runaway?' she asked excitedly.
He nodded.
'I knew it. A kindred spirit,' she said softly to herself.
'Pardon?'
'Nothing,' she said then looked up as Doyle returned with her bourbon. 'Mr Giresse was also a runaway. Small world.'
'Very small,' Doyle replied tersely then placed the
bourbon in front of her. His eyes darted towards Bernard. There was something about the man he didn't trust. And his instincts were rarely wrong. 'Where you from?'
'Beirut,' Bernard replied, holding Doyle's stare. He suddenly smiled. 'How much is the drink?'
'I'm paying for Rosie's drinks tonight,' Doyle replied quickly.
'Please, I insist,' Bernard said then took a five-dollar note from his wallet and placed it on the counter. 'Have one yourself.'
'No, thank you,' Doyle replied and left the note on the counter when he walked off to serve another customer.
'What's wrong with your friend?' Bernard asked, slipping the note back into his wallet.
Rosie shrugged. 'He gets like this sometimes. I suppose I would, too, if I had to serve all the creeps that come in here every night.'
'Thank you,' Bernard retorted.
'You know what I mean,' she replied then saw the smile on his face. 'Stop teasing me.'
His face suddenly became serious. 'Have you got somewhere to stay tonight?'
She instinctively looked across at Doyle. 'I was hoping Kenny could put me up for a few days until I'd sorted things out with my parents. But he can't. He's got someone staying with him. There's a couple of friends I know who might be able to give me a bed for the night. I'll try them.'
'And what if they can't?'
She shrugged. Til find a flop house somewhere. I've
got a few bucks on me. But don't tell Kenny: I told him I was broke.'
'That's crazy. You can't go walking around New York by yourself at this time of night. Look, I've got a spare room. You can use it if you want.'
'Thanks, but...' she trailed off with an awkward shrug. 'I mean, I don't even know you.'
'Likewise,' Bernard replied. He bit his lip thoughtfully. 'I'll tell you what. Call your friends and see if they can put you up for the night. If they can't you can either stay at the flat or else I'll give you some money and drop you off at a hotel.'
'Why are you doing this?'
'My father raised me. I never knew my mother. He was the only family I had. He died when I was fourteen. So I ran off to Beirut to avoid being put into an orphanage. The first night there I was accosted by three men. I managed to get away but,' he paused and touched the scar on his cheek, 'they left me with a memento. It looks a lot better on me than it would on you. You got off lightly in the alley tonight. Don't push your luck.'
She pondered his words then glanced at the pay phone in the corner of the bar. 'You got any quarters?'
Bernard rifled through the change pouch in his wallet and handed her three quarters. 'Is that enough?'
She nodded then climbed off her stool and crossed the room to the phone. She dialled the first number: no reply. Then she tried the second. It was answered by a man. Three's company, she said to herself and hung up. When she turned round she found Doyle standing in front of her.
'Here, take this,' he said, pushing a ten-dollar note into her hand.
'What's this for?'
'Taxi fare to my place. You can stay there tonight.'
'But what about that guy?'
'He'll understand,' Doyle replied.
'Have you phoned to tell him I'm coming over?'
'I tried but he's not in. He'll be at a club.'
'I appreciate the offer, Kenny, but I can't stay with you guys. It wouldn't be right.'
'Why not?' Doyle demanded defensively. 'You can pad out on the sofa.'
'It just wouldn't be right,' she replied with a shrug and slipped the money back into his pocket.
'So where are you going to stay?'
'I'll find a crash pad somewhere,' she said, trying to reassure him.
'I heard that Lebanese guy offer you a room at his place. Don't go, Rosie. There's something pseudo abopt him.'
'Yeah, what?' she demanded.
'I don't know. It's just a gut feeling, that's all.'
'Oh, really?' she retorted sharply. 'He's been a perfect gentleman ever since I met him. And you don't find many of them in this dive.'
'He's trouble, Rosie.'
She shook her head angrily. 'You've been acting weird ever since he started talking to me. What's really bugging you, Kenny? Are you jealous that we're getting along so well?'
'Jealous?' Doyle replied in disbelief. 'Grow up, Rosie. I'm worried about you, that's all.'
'Yeah, well, don't bother. I can look after myself.' She spun on her heels and walked back to where Bernard was sitting. Til take you up on that offer of a bed if it's still going.'
'Sure,' Bernard replied.
'Can we go, now?'
Bernard looked round at her. 'Now? It's only eight thirty.'
'Then let's go somewhere else.' She glanced up at Doyle as he returned behind the bar. 'This place has got distinctly chilly in the last couple of minutes.'
Bernard shrugged. 'You'll have to recommend somewhere. I'm a stranger in these parts.'
'I know lots of places,' she retorted then glared at Doyle before striding out of the bar.
Bernard watched her leave. It was beyond his wildest expectations. All he had intended to do was keep tabs on her in case he needed a hostage after the hit on Mobuto. Whitlock's niece, the perfect weapon to foil UN A CO. His American contact had told him where to find her. He didn't know his name. He only knew him by his codeword, Seabird.
No, he couldn't have asked for it to have turned out better. He pushed the Diet Cola away from him and climbed off the stool. It was then that he noticed Doyle watching him. He allowed himself a faint smile of satisfaction then slipped the five-dollar note under Rosie's glass and left the bar.
Whitlock closed the door behind Eddie and Rachel Kruger then returned to the lounge and slumped dejectedly onto the sofa.
'You did your best, C.W.,' Carmen said, massaging his shoulders.
'It wasn't enough, was it?' Whitlock replied. 'Between us we must have been to every bar within a mile radius of Times Square. Nothing.'
'That could be a good thing in itself. If someone is shielding her then she'll probably have a bed for the night.'
'God, I hope so,' Whitlock said then got to his feet and moved to the balcony where he looked out over the illuminated New York skyline.
'It's almost midnight, C.W.,' Carmen said from the doorway. 'We've both got to be up early in the morning.'
'I know,' Whitlock replied but made no attempt to move away from the railing.
'You've done everything you could to find her. She's on her own now.'
'I still say we should have called the police.'
'We've been through this already. Eddie and Rachel decided against it. We have to respect that. She's their daughter, not ours.'
'If she was our daughter she wouldn't be in this mess,' Whitlock retorted.
'Wouldn't she?'
Whitlock looked round sharply at her then conceded the point with a shrug of the shoulders.
'Come on, let's go to bed.'
'Take care of yourself, kid,' Whitlock said softly then went inside and closed the sliding door behind him.
Robert Bailey was obsessed with security. He drove to work in a bulletproof Mercedes 5ooSL, changing his route daily. His personal bodyguards were always armed. His wife and two teenage daughters were ferried about by an armed chauffeur. And his house in the Georgetown suburb of Washington was a virtual fortress. Tripwires lined the top of the perimeter wall and armed dog-handlers patrolled the grounds twenty-four hours a day. Closed-circuit television cameras had been installed in every room and were monitored by guards from a control centre in the basement of the house-every room, that is, except his study.
It was a soundproof, windowless room at the end of the corridor on the second floor. The only access was through a sliding metal door which could only be activated by punching a code into the bellpush on the adjacent wall. He changed the combination daily. Nobody, not even his family, was allowed inside the room. It contained his personal computer, which was linked to computers at both the Pentagon and the CIA headquarters in Langley. Hundreds of secret programs that had been built up by the CIA over the years, including data sensitive enough to topple the heads of half a dozen European governments if they were ever to fall into the wrong hands. With this in mind, he had devised more security measures to thwart any would-be intruder that managed to get past the guards. The computer itself could only be activated by an access code known solely to Bailey. If the incorrect code was programmed in it would activate a canister of lethal nerve gas which was