“Checking our route?”
“For about the fifth time. I never leave anything to chance. I’ve been flying a long time, and that’s why I’m still here.”
“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “I’d definitely like to be at Kilbeg by eleven. I’ve spoken to Colonel Belov within the last few hours and the car will be in place.”
“We’ll have to leave no later than seven then.”
“Fine by me.” She sipped some coffee. “Where are my cases?”
“On the bed in the next room.”
“Did you open them?”
“Of course not.” He tried to sound indignant. “Not my business. I’m not interested in what you’re up to. Like I said, I’m an in-and-out man. I’m getting paid well over the odds for this one, and that’s all that interests me.”
He was lying, she knew that, but she nodded calmly and sipped some more coffee. “Good. I think I’ll lie down for a while.”
“You do that.” As she went to open the door to the other room he said, “You know, it’s funny, but I seem to know you from somewhere.”
She turned and shook her head. “Not possible, Mr. Carson. You see, I’d have remembered you,” and she went into the bedroom and closed the door.
Curry’s case with the priest’s cassock was not needed now and she pushed it under the bed. She examined the other, placing the nun’s habit on the bed, taking out the AK-47 and Beretta, removing the clips, then reloading them. There were two spare clips for each and a capacious shoulder bag in soft black leather. She took the two thousand pounds from her raincoat pockets and put them in the bottom of the suitcase under the nun’s habit, placed the AK-47, its butt folded, in the shoulder bag, then dropped the bag back in the suitcase.
She put the suitcase against the wall, then took off the raincoat and lay on the bed in her tracksuit, her right hand on the Beretta beside her. The light was so dim that she left it on. In any case, she didn’t want total darkness in case she saw him again, that shadowy figure with the arm raised and the gun. In spite of herself, her eyes closed and after a while she slept fitfully.
And across the Atlantic at Andrews Air Force Base, a black sedan drove across the tarmac and pulled up beside the waiting Gulfstream. It was three o’clock in the morning in England, but with a five-hour time difference, only ten at night in America. Patrick Keogh was quite alone except for an Air Force driver, and the base commander got out and opened the door for him.
“Nice and private, this plane, Senator, as requested, but the crew are Air Force.” There were three of them, all wearing rather anonymous navy-blue airline uniforms. “Captains Harris and Ford take care of the flying and Sergeant Black takes care of you.”
Keogh shook hands with all three and turned to the base commander. “Many thanks.”
“Your luggage is on board and you’re cleared for immediate take-off, Senator.” The base commander saluted. “Good luck, sir.”
Keogh went up the steps into the luxurious interior of the Gulfstream, found himself a seat, and strapped in.
Sergeant Black checked him out. “I’ve got full meal facilities, Senator. I believe your wife suggested the menu. Anytime you like once we’re airborne, just say the word.”
“Sounds good to me,” Keogh said.
The engines had already fired and Black went and strapped in himself. A few moments later, the Gulfstream roared down the runway, lifted off, and started to climb.
Grace came awake with a start and stared up at the ceiling. A gray light filtered in and rain pattered against the pane. She realized she could smell cooking, got up and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment. She put the Beretta in one of her tracksuit pockets, moved to the door and opened it.
Carson had a frying pan on the stove, and he turned and smiled. “Eggs and bacon. Best I can do, but you’ll need something inside you.”
She was surprised to find that she felt hungry and checked her watch. It was six-fifteen. She opened the door and looked outside at the relentless rain.
“It looks rough. Will there be a problem?”
“Not really,” he told her and dished out the bacon and eggs on two metal plates. “A bit bumpy to start, but we’ll soon climb above it. There’s bread and butter there and tea in the pot. Help yourself.”
At about the same time, Dillon and Hannah Bernstein arrived in Cavendish Square and were admitted to Ferguson ’s flat by Kim, who vanished at once into the kitchen. Ferguson appeared from his bedroom fastening a Guards tie.
“Ah, there you are. Have you had breakfast?”
Hannah glanced at Dillon. “Hardly, sir, we knew you were anxious for an early start.”
“Very conscientious of you, Chief Inspector. We’ll beat the traffic to Gatwick. Time enough to have breakfast at one of the airport cafes.”
“Jesus, but you’re a thoughtful man, Brigadier,” Dillon said.
“Aren’t I? Which is why I told Kim to make us a nice pot of tea.” At that moment the Ghurka came in with a tray. “There you are,” Ferguson said. “Help yourselves while I finish dressing,” and he went out.
It was soon after that the Cessna Conquest roared along the runway at Coldwater and lifted into the rain. Carson was sitting in the pilot’s seat, a chart spread on the right-hand seat. Grace sat in a seat at the rear of the cabin, her suitcase wedged between two seats on the other side.
She looked out of the window and saw only rain and heavy cloud. The plane rocked from side to side and was buffeted by a crosswind as they turned and climbed. After a while they broke out through the cloud, but there was no sunshine, only a great vault of gray.
The buffeting had stopped now and they seemed to have leveled out. “Curtain up,” she said softly. “First act.” She leaned back and closed her eyes.
At precisely nine o’clock the Lear Jet lifted off at Gatwick and started to climb. Ferguson sat on the right of the gangway, Hannah Bernstein on his left. Dillon sat opposite her facing them.
The phone rang and Hannah Bernstein answered it. She listened, then said, “Thank you,” and put it down.
“What was that?” Ferguson said.
“The Yard. The River Police have recovered Grace Browning’s BMW but not her.”
“Oh, she’ll come up eventually,” Ferguson said, “and we’ll have a lovely funeral, half of show business crying into their hankies.”
“If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, that is rather callous,” Hannah told him.
“That’s as may be.”
“As for me, I’d be happier if I’d seen her laid out on the slab,” Dillon said. “It’s my superstitious nature.”
“Now that is being melodramatic,” Ferguson told him. “Go and do something useful. From what the pilot tells me the weather at Shannon isn’t marvelous. Go and check with him. You’re the flyer.”
Dillon unbuckled his seat belt and Ferguson took a Times from the pile of newspapers he’d purchased at Gatwick and opened it.
After a while he said, “Here we go. Coroner’s inquest on Rupert Lang today.”
“Shouldn’t Dillon have been there, sir?”
“I got an exclusion order from the Home Office. Defense of the Realm and all that, so the Coroner has agreed to accept Dillon’s written statement. I wrote it myself. Rather good. Dillon was acting as a security guard, Lang suggested they go for a ride on the motorcycles, and it went tragically wrong.”
“What about the shepherd, Sam Lee?”
“All that lout can say is what he saw. They were riding along the track and Lang lost control and went through the gate. Funeral is tomorrow. St. Margaret’s, Westminster.”
“I should think that will be quite a turnout,” Hannah said.
“Good God, yes. They’ll all be there. The PM and the Cabinet, Leader of the Opposition, not to mention officers from the Grenadiers and the Parachute Regiment. After all, he was a hero,” Ferguson said. “MC and all that, brave officer. They’ll see him out in style.”