Now he stood next to the parked, cooling Moiré and considered Ego’s advice. He leaned towards the microphone in the helmet, which he had secured to the petrol tank. ‘Bike, change to green,’ he said. ‘Do it gradually, over the next hour.’
David walked into town. The pedestrians cut unpredictable zigzags in front of him. After only two days on the bike, he had forgotten how to walk in a crowd.
Inside the first shop, the owner’s smile froze on contact. To be sure, David had a thickening beard and grimy clothes. His head was bowed to avoid surveillance cameras. And he paid cash. Physical money was risky, but he had to assume that the credit card, issued in the name of David Harrison, had been blown since his escape from The Poor Players. Prudently, his passport carried a different name.
He abandoned his old coat in a public toilet and walked on. He purchased new clothes and, item by item, left their predecessors about the city centre. In a gentleman’s outfitters he bought a suit. In another he bought a beige briefcase, a pair of tinted glasses, a shaving kit, some paper overalls, a wedding ring, and a startlingly expensive belt. In each shop he lamented the loss of his bank card and shrugged wistfully at the need to carry so much cash. The shopkeepers made clicking noises and were sorry to hear that, sir, and said no more. Finally, he bought some aftershave and a universal storage crate for the bike. At the invitation of the last sales assistant, he stuffed his shopping into the box. Both he and the assistant stared at the crumpled suit for moment.
‘Travel iron, sir?’
‘Can’t hurt.’
Shopping completed, David returned to the bike. The universal box was not as universal as its manufacturers had enthused. It took fifteen minutes to attach. He rode away with his new clothes and a bike that was nearly green. He rode away a different person.
Different enough?
He was still a man on a bike.
‘Ego,’ he said, pulling out into traffic.
‘David.’
‘Does it strike you as odd that I haven’t been captured?’
‘Yes, you have been lucky to an extent, but it is not surprising that you have evaded capture. Though there is an All-Points Bulletin out for your arrest, the description is rather average. I have read two more espionage novels in the past hour and, judging by these, I do not believe that the British police have the manpower to find you unless you make a serious mistake: that is, break the law. They do not know your location, your destination, your purpose; nor do they have a current physical description. If you continue to ride under the speed limit and use minor roads, your chances of reaching locker J327 are good.’
David snorted. ‘I’m sure I broke the speed limit once or twice.’
‘No, you did not.’
‘Maybe up near Sheffield. I was going pretty fast.’
‘I have global positioning and accelerometer data that proves you have not broken any speed limits.’
He turned onto the southerly road. In the sunshine, his visor darkened. ‘You’ve saved me,’ he said glumly.
‘I do not understand.’
‘Like a data file. Saved.’
‘It is a precaution designed to provide an objective source of information in the event of a trial. It will guard against tampering. Perhaps I may also act as a black box if you have an accident. The probability of my survival is far greater than yours.’
‘Ego, how much battery life do you have?’
‘Eight weeks.’
‘Switch off for now.’
‘I am still monitoring radio stations and Internet sites.’
David revved the engine and accelerated. It was time to break the speed limit. ‘Switch off. Now.’
Chapter Twenty
Saskia reached into the pocket behind the driver’s seat and found a blister pack of travel sickness pills. Three seemed a good number; four a better one. She crunched them to a bitter dust. Her head still pounded. Jago was beside her, gripping the handle above the door, unconcerned as the back tyres locked briefly. The two police officers in the front of the car shared a smile. In the back, Jago gave Saskia a nudge and flourished his eyebrows.
The airport was ten kilometres from the station. In the early evening traffic, it would take half an hour. The co-driver activated the siren intermittently but they were soon slowed by congestion.
‘How are you armed, Saskia?’
‘This,’ she said, showing her gun.
‘I should have got you something more modern from the armoury. Like a bow and arrow.’
‘A revolver is preferred for…ideological reasons.’
‘You surprise me.’
Silence as Saskia counted the kilometres.
When they reached the airport, Jago said, ‘Straight through, they’re expecting us.’ The car drove into a huge, fenced enclosure where private planes were parked in rows, then stopped hard.
‘This is where you get off,’ said the driver. He reached back to shake Jago’s hand, but the DI had already left the car.
Saskia shook it on Jago’s behalf. Her smile was crooked.
Outside, the cold air was rank with fumes. Lights defined the terminal building, the roads, and the fences. As she watched, a jet landed with mesmeric slowness. Its exhaust blurred the air. She felt the vibration in her belly.
‘Saskia, get a shift on,’ Jago called, jogging backwards.
They climbed into a small four-seater aircraft. Jago settled in the back and Saskia sat next to the pilot. It was too dark to see his face. ‘Put these on,’ he said. He handed Saskia a pair of headphones. ‘Sam Langdon.’
‘Saskia Brandt.’
‘Did we make it?’ rasped Jago.
‘Your timing is impeccable,’ said the pilot. He gunned the engine. Through her headphones, Saskia heard him say, ‘Control, this is Golf Tango Foxtrot Two-One-Two requesting clearance for take-off, over.’ There was no audible reply. ‘Roger, Control, I’m taxiing to runway two, over.’
‘We appreciate this,’ Jago said.
‘No problem. I was flying back anyway.’
Saskia relaxed. The darkness was reassuring. ‘There’s a blanket under your legs,’ Sam said as they rolled forward. ‘Careful not to touch the control column.’
‘Foodibles?’ Jago asked.
‘Behind you.’ Langton turned to Saskia. ‘Latest weather report shows poor visibility over the southeast. There’s a low pressure front moving north. Expect a bump in the night.’ He switched on a red reading light and noted the time in a paper logbook. He held the column between his legs.
‘How long to Heathrow?’ she asked.
He laughed. ‘We’re not going to Heathrow, sweet heart.’
‘Oh?’
‘I’d need to sell the plane just to afford the landing. No, we’re going to Farnborough.’
Jago tapped her shoulder. ‘Sandwich?’
Saskia looked around. Obligingly, Jago peeled back the white bread to display the filling. Sliced sausages.
‘English sausages?’
‘The finest. Plenty of brown sauce.’
‘What is brown sauce?’
‘Good question.’ Jago took a bite. ‘Must be one of the fun things about foreign travel. New foods.’
Langton said drily, ‘How long have you two been married?’
‘Too long.’ She tapped his log book. ‘Please tell me where Forbrough is.’
‘Farnborough,’ the pilot corrected. ‘Three hundred miles to the south. In new money, five hundred kilometres. They expect us for 9:00 p.m. Sit back.’
She watched the runway lights stream by as they took off. The acceleration made her drowsy. She became aware of a crowd of English nonsense voices inside her head. All ths and ruhs. She fell asleep in their company.