Time of the Assassins (15 page)

And now that the other two were dead, it was up to Kolwezi and himself to prove themselves to Columbus, even if it meant they would be killed in the process. They were ready for that-as long as Mobuto died with them. Then Ngune could take power and they would become the martyrs that had helped to create a new generation of power in Zimbala. And if they survived, Ngune would decorate them publicly
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for their bravery. Whatever the outcome, Mobuto had to die...
Sibele had been searched when he entered the building and the number on his invitation had been checked against a list. It had been bought legitimately from a tout in St Nicholas Park. There had only been five hundred tickets printed and, on Mobuto's specific instructions, three hundred and fifty of those were to be sold to the public. All the money would go to help the children of Harlem. Had all the tickets gone to the wealthy black socialites of New York, as had initially been the plan, then he could never have got into the building. It was ironic that Mobuto had orchestrated his own death. The gun, a Beretta, had been smuggled into the building a week ago by a janitor who had been handsomely rewarded for his trouble. He had waited until the toilets had been searched by the police then taped the gun under the cistern for Sibele to collect minutes later. He had tucked the Beretta into the belt at the back of his trousers then taken his seat early to ensure that he was close to the stage. He had been sitting there for over an hour but he knew Mobuto had arrived at the school: it would only be a matter of minutes before he entered the hall...
The double doors at the back of the hall were thrust open and the menacing figure of Masala entered. There were some anxious whispers from the audience but the appearance of the principal behind him seemed to calm the situation. Most of the audience recognized Mobuto immediately from the exposure he had received on national television and they watched him walk down the aisle with the rest of the delegation and
climb the stairs leading onto the stage. The principal gestured to the chair nearest the podium and Mobuto smiled briefly before sitting down. The community leaders took their seats, leaving the chair next to Mobuto vacant for the principal. Whitlock and Masala sat at the rear. Whitlock glanced towards the wings. Rogers gave him a thumbs up then peered through the curtains at the audience before turning and moving back to the door.
The principal moved to the podium. He looked out across the sea of faces then cleared his throat. 'May I straight away welcome you all here today. I had a speech all prepared to introduce our guest to you but, thanks to the efficiency of the American press, I doubt there's anyone here who doesn't know the entire life history of Mr Mobuto by now.'
There was a ripple of laughter. Mobuto remained impassive as he stared at the floor.
'Mr Mobuto has graciously agreed to answer any questions you may have after he has finished his speech. So without further delay, please give a warm Harlem welcome to the new President of Zimbala, Jamel Mobuto.'
That was Sibele's cue. As the applause echoed around the room he drew the Beretta and sprung to his feet. The woman beside him screamed. Masala knocked the principal out of the way and felled Mobuto, shoving him to safety behind the podium before Sibele could get off a shot. Women and children began screaming as chairs were kicked aside in the stampede for the back doors. Whitlock drew his Browning but couldn't shoot at Sibele for fear of
hitting someone in the audience. Sibele looked towards the gallery which had been closed for renovations. There was no sign of Columbus. Where was he? He said he would be there. Something must have gone wrong. Sibele turned back towards the stage. He was on his own. Whitlock had reached the edge of the stage when Sibele swung the Beretta on him and fired. The bullet hit Whitlock in the arm. The Browning spun from his hand. Sibele ran towards the stairs leading onto the stage. Rogers swung out from behind the curtain and fired twice as.Sibele reached the top of the stairs. The bullets took Sibele in the chest, punching him off the stage. He crashed into the front row of chairs, scattering them across the floor. Rogers leaped off the stage and kicked the gun away from Sibele's outstretched hand. He pressed his Smith & Wesson into Sibele's neck and felt for a pulse.
'Well?' Whitlock asked from the edge of the stage, his hand clutched over his arm.
'Dead,' Rogers replied then frowned anxiously. 'Areyou OK?'
Whitlock nodded and hurried over to where Mobuto lay. 'Sir, are you alright?'
Tm fine.' Mobuto got to his feet and winced as he looked at Whitlock's blood-soaked sleeve. 'You're losing a lot of blood. You need to get to a hospital.'
'The bullet went straight through. It looks a lot worse than it is.'
The principal and the community leaders ventured out from behind the curtains and looked from Sibele's body to Whitlock's injured arm.
'How did he get in here with that gun?' the principal
demanded. 'I thought the police had searched everybody who came in here today.'
'They did,' Whitlock replied. 'It was obviously an inside job.'
Two uniformed policemen appeared at the back of the hall, alerted by the sound of gunfire.
'Call an ambulance,' Rogers shouted to them. 'And close those doors. The press aren't to get in here under any circumstances until the body's been removed.'
'Yes, sir,' one of the policemen said and closed the doors behind them.
Whitlock used his handkerchief as a tourniquet then glanced out across the now deserted hall before focussing his attention on the gallery. Why had Sibele looked up there? Was that where the sniper should have been? But the door leading into the gallery was being guarded by a uniformed policeman. Had that put the sniper off?
'You also saw it,' Masala said behind him.
Whitlock nodded.
There was a knock at the door and a breathless policeman entered the hall. He glanced at Sibele's body then looked up at Whitlock. 'We've been trying to reach you but you weren't replying.'
Whitlock instinctively looked down at the receiver on his belt. The wire connected to the earpiece had been ripped from the socket, probably when he fell. He looked up at the policeman. 'What is it?'
'The SWAT team have cornered the getaway driver a couple of blocks from here. They're awaiting your instructions.'
Whitlock turned to Rogers. 'Get over there right
away. We need him alive. Make sure the SWAT team know that. If they are forced to shoot, tell them to maim, not kill.'
'I'm on my way,' Rogers said and jumped nimbly off the stage.
'Wait, I'm going with you,' Masala said and looked to Mobuto for his consent.
'Go on. And remember what Mr Whitlock said. Don't kill him.'
Masala nodded and followed Rogers from the hall. They were immediately besieged by the press but neither man said anything as they shoved their way through the extended microphones. Rogers told the uniformed police on the portico to get the press out of the building then walked with Masala to the main gates where an even larger crowd had gathered after word had spread through the neighbourhood of the shooting. A member of the SWAT team was waiting for them.
'What's the situation?' Rogers asked.
'We spotted him in a sidestreet. The description of the car and the registration number match the bulletin you sent through to us earlier. The street's been cordoned off but we haven't approached the car. He's just sitting there.'
'Let's go,' Rogers said.
The three men ran the hundred yards to where a crowd of onlookers had gathered around the mouth of the sidestreet. A police car was parked at an angle to the road, making it impossible for the Buick to get out without ramming it. Another police car was similarly positioned at the other end of the street. Half-a-dozen
members of the SWAT team were positioned on the roofs overlooking the street, their rifles trained on the car. The lieutenant in charge of the SWAT team was waiting for them. Rogers told him what Whitlock had said and he immediately passed the instructions on to his men.
'What do you suggest we do?' the lieutenant asked.
Til try and speak to him,' Rogers replied.
'The car could be booby-trapped,' said the lieutenant.
Rogers shrugged. 'I've got to take that chance. The longer we make him sweat it out, the more chance there is of him cracking. We need him alive, remember?'
The lieutenant nodded.
Rogers stepped out in front of the police car and took off his jacket. He carefully unholstered his Smith 8c Wesson, held it up for Kolwezi to see, then handed it to Masala.
'Are you crazy?' the lieutenant said in amazement. 'He could gun you down.'
'If he does, don't kill him, disable him.''
The lieutenant sighed deeply then stepped back and spoke into his radio, telling his men that Rogers would be going in unarmed. Rogers walked slowly towards the Buick, his arms held out away from his body. He reached the front of the Buick and indicated for Kolwezi to open the driver's window. Kolwezi wiped the sweat from his face with his hand then wound down the window. He levelled the Walther at Rogers and ordered him to approach to within five feet of the window. Rogers complied. He looked up at the
nearest of the SWAT snipers on the roof above them. He was at least fifty yards away from the car - out of earshot.
'We can talk - they can't hear us,' Rogers told him in Arabic. 'Sibele's dead.'
'And Mobuto?'
'No.'
'What about Columbus?'
'He couldn't get into the building,' Rogers lied. 'It was too well guarded. But there was no way to get a message to Sibele before he went into the hall. He didn't stand a chance.'
'Twice we have failed,' Kolwezi said bitterly. 'Mobuto lives a charmed life, just as he did when his father was in power.'
'Don't worry, your deaths won't be in vain. Mobuto will die tomorrow.'
'Columbus?'
Rogers nodded then glanced across at Masala and the lieutenant. 'I'm supposed to be trying to persuade you to surrender.'
'Go now, my friend.'
Rogers turned sharply on his heel and began to walk back towards the police car.
Kolwezi calmly pressed the barrel of the gun against the roof of his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Carmen had left her receptionist to lock up and rushed over to the hospital after Whitlock had rung to tell her that he was there. Although his arm was heavily bandaged he had assured her that it wasn't a serious wound. He knew the lie would at least put her mind at
rest. It did hurt like hell, though. The doctor had given him a prescription for sleeping tablets which they had picked up on the way back to the apartment. He had eaten a light dinner then retired to bed early, determined to be back at work the following morning.
She was busy washing up when the telephone rang. She wiped her hands on the dish towel and answered the extension in the kitchen.
'Carmen?'
'Rosie?' Carmen countered in surprise.
'Yeah,' Rosie replied.
She had dropped the 'aunt' and 'uncle' routine at their insistence. Uncle Clarence! Whitlock had hated it. Now she just called him C.W.
'Rosie, where are you?' Carmen asked anxiously. 'Your parents are going out of their minds with worry. You must call your mother -'
'No,' Rosie cut in firmly. 'That's why I called you. Tell her I'm fine. I'll call her in a few days.'
'Where are you staying?'
'With a friend.'
'Why not come and stay with us for a while?' Carmen suggested. 'You don't have to see your parents until you want to. But at least they'll know you're safe.'
'Well...,' Rosie replied. Til call you tomorrow at work and we'll sort something out.'
'Is that a promise?'
'Sure. My money's run out. I'll call you, OK?'
'OK.'
The line went dead. Carmen replaced the receiver then looked in on her husband, wondering if he had
heard the telephone. He was fast asleep. She smiled then closed the bedroom door and returned to the kitchen to finish washing the dishes.
Rosie picked up a pizza from the pizzeria near the callbox then went back to the apartment. She opened the door and saw Bernard's leather jacket on the chair in the hall. He was listening to the news on the radio in the lounge.
'When did you get in?' she asked from the doorway.
'About twenty minutes ago,' Bernard replied with a smile.
'How was your day?'
'Don't ask,' he said then got to his feet and pointed to the box in her hand. 'What's the pizza?'
'Ham and mushroom. Is that OK?'
'Great. I'm starving.' Bernard made room for the box on the coffee table. 'And how was your day?'
'I went out soon after you left this morning,' she said, opening the box. 'I only got back now.'
'Where did you go?' Bernard asked.
'I took the subway to Fifth Avenue. I spent the day window-shopping. Not much else to do there with five bucks in your pocket.'
Bernard smiled then helped himself to a slice of pizza.
'I rang my aunt just before I got the pizza.'
'Your aunt?' Bernard asked suspiciously, the pizza slice hovering inches from his mouth.
'Carmen. She suggested I go and stay with them from tomorrow. I reckon it might be a good idea. It's not that I don't appreciate what you've done for me. I
really do. But she is family. I only wish my parents were as liberal as my aunt and uncle.'
'And you're going to move in with them tomorrow?'
'Yeah, I think so. We've always got on great. Is there something wrong?'
'No, I think it's a good idea. And anyway, I'm heading back to Beirut in a couple of days.' Bernard's mind was racing: Carmen, Whitlock's wife. If Rosie moved in with them he could kiss his hostage goodbye. It only complicated matters. Why couldn't she have called them the next day? By then he would know if he needed her. He would have to play it by ear. It was the only way.
The doorbell rang.
Bernard frowned. Was it the courier for the rifle? He wasn't expecting him for another couple of hours, and he wasn't expecting anyone else. He wiped his hands on a paper napkin then got to his feet and answered the door. Two uniformed police officers stood in front of him.
'Good evening, sir,' one said, touching his cap. 'Are you Marc Giresse?'
Bernard nodded slowly. 'Yes. What's the problem, officer?'
'May we come in?'
'Yes, of course,' Bernard replied, opening the door for them.
'I'm Officer Deacon,' the spokesman said once they were inside. 'And this is Officer Cummings.'
Bernard noted that their badges were genuine. 'You still haven't told me what the problem is.'
Deacon was about to speak when Rosie appeared from the lounge. He glanced towards her. 'Are you Rosie Kruger?'
She glanced at Bernard, her eyes wide and fearful. 'Yes,' she stammered.