Free Prime Target by Hugh Miller Page A

pocket. ‘But mistakes cannot be rectified afterwards, as they say in the supermarkets.’
    â€˜What do you want with us?’
    â€˜You
are
Professor Sonnemann? Professor Karl Sonnemann?’
    â€˜Yes, yes,’ Karl snapped. ‘So what of it?’
    â€˜I have a message,’ the young man said.
    His face became very grave. He took his hand from his pocket. He was holding a long, straight butcher’s trussing needle.
    â€˜This is for Yitzhak Brenner.’
    He thrust the needle deep into the side of Karl’s neck. Charlotte screamed. Karl felt nothing. He was only aware that suddenly his control of himself was gone. Charlotte pulled her arm free of Karl’s and ran to the taxi rank.
    The young man did not follow. He stood staring into Karl’s shocked face. The eyes were already glassy. His whole frame trembled as arterial blood left his body in a surge, draining him of life. He let out a rasping breath, his mouth foaming as blood surged from his neck down over his fine woollen overcoat.
    Charlotte was at the rank, howling and pleading. Karl sank to his knees, coughing blood. His face looked waxen and artificial.
    Two taxi drivers were coming, both of them running. The young man wiped his fingers on the shoulder of Karl’s coat. He turned, pressed his elbows to his sides and started to run. He ducked round a corner and disappeared into a throng of pedestrians.
    One taxi driver tried to follow him. The other knelt by Karl. He was on his back on the pavement, completely still, the big needle jutting from his throat.

7
    The following morning Sabrina Carver took an early flight to Washington DC. It was her intention to interview, as casually as possible, the known friends and associates of Emily Selby, with a view to gaining the kind of insight the records didn’t show. Ahead of her visit UNACO administration made an appointment for her at the White House, where she hoped to talk to Emily’s former colleagues under the guise of a police investigator. Her laminated ID card, exquisitely printed in muted, solemn colours, identified her as an officer of the United States National Central Bureau of the International Criminal Police Commission. It was the stiff-necked official way of declaring she was an agent of Interpol. At White House Reception she was met by a brisk young woman who showed her to a visitors’ waiting room. There, after a few minutes, she was joined by the Information Officer’s number-two assistant, Kevin Riley. He was a firm man, entrenched in his procedures.
    â€˜White House security regulations demand that you stay in this room at all times during your visit,’ he told Sabrina. ‘If you leave the room for any reason whatsoever, you must be accompanied by a member of White House Security. Of course, we will do all we can to accommodate you within the rules governing your visit here.’
    â€˜Thank you.’
    â€˜Since your people emphasized you’re not here on official investigative business, we’ve let people make up their own minds whether they want to be interviewed or not. Three colleagues of Mrs Selby have shown a willingness to talk to you. The first should be along shortly. Naturally, we want to do all we can to clear Emily’s name of any shadow.’
    The first to arrive was Janice Cleary, a short, overweight woman in her forties. Janice wore the kind of perfume that surrounded her with a cloying miasma. She wheezed as she sat down and took a moment to rearrange her voluminous clothing. When she spoke, her voice had a high, childish register.
    â€˜I was probably Emily’s closest friend, professionally,’ she told Sabrina. ‘Four years ago we worked on the Herzog project together. I think our friendship cemented around that time.’
    â€˜What was the Herzog project?’
    â€˜It was named after the President of Israel at that time, Chaim Herzog. He was looking for a solid basis for an Arab-Israeli