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Alistair Maclean - Time Of The Assassins

by Alastair MacNeill

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ALISTAIR MACLEAN'S TIME OF THE ASSASSINS

Alistair MacLean, who died in 1987, was the best-selling author of thirty books, including world famous novels such as The Guns of Navarone and Where Eagles Dare. Of the story outlines he was commissioned to write by an American film company in 1977, two, Hostage Tower and Air Force One is Down, were, with Alistair MacLean's approval, published as novels written by John Denis. Time of the Assassins is the fourth of the outlines to be published as a novel since Alistair MacLean's death, following the highly successful Death Train, Night Watch and Red Alert.

Alastair MacNeill was born in Scotland in 1960. His family having moved to South Africa when he was six years old, he showed a growing interest in writing, winning several school competitions, and returned to Britain in 1985 to pursue a full-time writing career.
PROLOGUE

On an undisclosed date in September 1979 the Secretary-General of the United Nations chaired an extraordinary meeting attended by forty-six envoys who represented virtually every country in the world. There was only one point on the agenda: the escalating tide of international crime. Criminals and terrorists were able to strike in one country then flee across its borders, secure in the knowledge that pursuit would breach the sovereignty of neighbouring states. Furthermore, drafting extradition warrants (at least for those countries that had them) was both costly and time-consuming and many contained loopholes that lawyers could exploit to secure their clients' release. A solution had to be found.

It was agreed to set up an international strike force to operate under the aegis of the United Nations' Security Council. It would be known as the United Nations Anti-Crime Organization (UN A CO). Its objective was to 'avert, neutralize and/or apprehend individuals or groups engaged in international criminal activities'.. Each envoy then submitted a curriculum vitae of a candidate their Government

considered suitable for the position of UN AGO Director, and the Secretary-General made the final choice.

UN A CO's clandestine existence came into being on 1 March 1980.
ONE

It was dark by the time he reached his destination. He got out of the taxi, paid the driver, then wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He had forgotten how humid it could get in Beirut at that time of year. He waited until the taxi had driven off before crossing the road to the Windorah, a small bar run by Dave Jenkins, an Australian who had named it after his birthplace in Queensland. Well, he assumed Jenkins still ran it. He hadn't been back to Beirut in four years. He pushed open the door and went inside. Nothing had changed. The two large propeller fans still rotated slowly above the room, the prostitutes still mingled with the foreign journalists and Jenkins was still behind the counter. Their eyes met.

Jenkins shook his head in disbelief. 'Well, I'll be damned. Mike Graham. What the hell brings you back to Beirut?'

'Business,' Graham answered, his eyes flickering slowly around the room.

'Lookin' for somebody?'

'Yeah.'

'Russell Laidlaw?'

Graham turned back to Jenkins, his eyes narrowed. 'He told you I was coming?'

Jenkins shook his head. 'An educated guess, that's all. He's the only old friend of yours I know who comes in here every night. What time did he say he'd meet you?'

'Eight,' Graham replied, glancing at his watch. It was seven fifty.

'That's when he usually gets here. You want a beer while you wait?'

Although Graham rarely touched alcohol, he could do with a beer in the heat. 'If it's cold.'

'Comin' up,' Jenkins replied then bent down to open one of the fridges under the counter.

A prostitute caught Graham's eye but he shook his head before she could get off her bar stool. She gave him an indifferent look then turned her attention to another potential customer.

'One Budweiser, ice cold,' Jenkins said, placing the bottle and a glass in front of Graham. He held up a hand when Graham reached for his wallet. 'It's on me, Mike.'