the fence the gunman had already crossed the twenty-yard clearing and disappeared into a derelict warehouse. Whitlock clambered over the fence and landed nimbly on his feet. He straightened up then noticed the gunman's Walther ?5 lying at the edge of the clearing. He must have lost it when he fell to the ground. Whitlock doubted he would have another gun but he still approached the warehouse with professional caution.
He reached the open doors and peered in. It took his eyes a few seconds to get accustomed to the gloom then he darted inside and ducked down behind a rusty skip close to the door. He looked around slowly then carefully scanned the catwalk that criss-crossed the warehouse above him. No sign of the gunman. He slipped out from behind the skip and moved slowly across the concrete floor, the Browning gripped tightly in his hand, his eyes continually darting about him. He reached the other side of the cavernous room and paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Where the hell was he?
A shower of dust sprinkled his face but before he could react the gunman leaped onto him from a ledge on the wall. They both fell heavily to the ground and
the Browning went spinning from Whitlock's hand. The man lashed out with a rusted chain but Whitlock managed to roll clear before it struck the ground where he had been lying. Whitlock kicked out at the man, catching him on the leg so that he overbalanced and fell against the wall. The chain clattered noisily to the ground. Whitlock sprung to his feet and caught him on the side of the head with a stinging haymaker then followed up with two brutal body punches that dropped him to his knees. The man clutched his stomach in agony then noticed the fallen Browning out of the corner of his eye. He grabbed it and turned on Whitlock who managed to deflect it before he fired. They struggled for possession of the gun. It slipped from the gunman's hand, landing at his feet. Whitlock shoved him back onto a tarpaulin in the corner of the warehouse and scooped up the Browning. He levelled it at the gunman then let his hand drop to his side. The man had been impaled on the rusted spikes of a security gate that had been discarded underneath the tarpaulin.
Whitlock swallowed back the bile in his throat and crossed to where the gunman lay, his shirt soaked in blood. He felt for a pulse then, letting the gunman's arm drop, he bolstered the Browning before walking back slowly towards the doors. As he reached them he heard the first of the police sirens in the distance. He dusted off a box and sat down to wait for them.
Kolchinsky was waiting in the foyer when Whitlock got back to the hotel. 'How's the leg?' were Kolchinsky's first words.
' O K,' Whitlock replied with a grim smile. 'It didn't need stitches. But I got a tetanus jab as a precaution. Thank for clearing everything for me with the N YP D. I had visions of being stuck in a cell all night.'
Kolchinsky patted Whitlock on the shoulder. 'Come on, Mobuto's waiting to see you.'
'How is he?'
'Remarkably well under the circumstances,' Kolchinsky replied as they walked to the lift. 'You wouldn't believe someone had just tried to kill him. He's acting like it never happened.'
'Acting being the operative word,' Whitlock retorted as the lift door parted.
'You really don't like him, do you?'
'As a person, no. But he's obviously genuine about bringing democracy to Zimbala. And that makes all this worthwhile.'
They rode the lift to the thirtieth floor and were immediately challenged by a uniformed policeman as they stepped out. They both held up their passes and were allowed through. The entire floor had been booked by the Zimbalan delegation although only ten rooms were being used. It was a security measure.
Another policeman challenged them outside Mobuto's suite and again they had to produce their passes. Kolchinsky knocked on the door. It was opened on the chain by Masala who immediately unlocked it to allow them in. They were ushered into the
He reached the open doors and peered in. It took his eyes a few seconds to get accustomed to the gloom then he darted inside and ducked down behind a rusty skip close to the door. He looked around slowly then carefully scanned the catwalk that criss-crossed the warehouse above him. No sign of the gunman. He slipped out from behind the skip and moved slowly across the concrete floor, the Browning gripped tightly in his hand, his eyes continually darting about him. He reached the other side of the cavernous room and paused to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Where the hell was he?
A shower of dust sprinkled his face but before he could react the gunman leaped onto him from a ledge on the wall. They both fell heavily to the ground and
the Browning went spinning from Whitlock's hand. The man lashed out with a rusted chain but Whitlock managed to roll clear before it struck the ground where he had been lying. Whitlock kicked out at the man, catching him on the leg so that he overbalanced and fell against the wall. The chain clattered noisily to the ground. Whitlock sprung to his feet and caught him on the side of the head with a stinging haymaker then followed up with two brutal body punches that dropped him to his knees. The man clutched his stomach in agony then noticed the fallen Browning out of the corner of his eye. He grabbed it and turned on Whitlock who managed to deflect it before he fired. They struggled for possession of the gun. It slipped from the gunman's hand, landing at his feet. Whitlock shoved him back onto a tarpaulin in the corner of the warehouse and scooped up the Browning. He levelled it at the gunman then let his hand drop to his side. The man had been impaled on the rusted spikes of a security gate that had been discarded underneath the tarpaulin.
Whitlock swallowed back the bile in his throat and crossed to where the gunman lay, his shirt soaked in blood. He felt for a pulse then, letting the gunman's arm drop, he bolstered the Browning before walking back slowly towards the doors. As he reached them he heard the first of the police sirens in the distance. He dusted off a box and sat down to wait for them.
Kolchinsky was waiting in the foyer when Whitlock got back to the hotel. 'How's the leg?' were Kolchinsky's first words.
' O K,' Whitlock replied with a grim smile. 'It didn't need stitches. But I got a tetanus jab as a precaution. Thank for clearing everything for me with the N YP D. I had visions of being stuck in a cell all night.'
Kolchinsky patted Whitlock on the shoulder. 'Come on, Mobuto's waiting to see you.'
'How is he?'
'Remarkably well under the circumstances,' Kolchinsky replied as they walked to the lift. 'You wouldn't believe someone had just tried to kill him. He's acting like it never happened.'
'Acting being the operative word,' Whitlock retorted as the lift door parted.
'You really don't like him, do you?'
'As a person, no. But he's obviously genuine about bringing democracy to Zimbala. And that makes all this worthwhile.'
They rode the lift to the thirtieth floor and were immediately challenged by a uniformed policeman as they stepped out. They both held up their passes and were allowed through. The entire floor had been booked by the Zimbalan delegation although only ten rooms were being used. It was a security measure.
Another policeman challenged them outside Mobuto's suite and again they had to produce their passes. Kolchinsky knocked on the door. It was opened on the chain by Masala who immediately unlocked it to allow them in. They were ushered into the
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