‘And you’re still not going to tell me exactly what it was all about? I’m assuming it was something for MI6 since Peter got you involved.’
The restrictions of the Official Secrets Act meant he wasn’t supposed to confirm or deny, but he knew that after nine years together Nina would read his expression easily enough. ‘Someone needed my help, and I helped them,’ was the best he could manage. ‘The world’s a better place for it, trust me.’
‘I do trust you, Eddie, you know I do. But I don’t like being kept out of the loop.’
‘I know, and I’m sorry. I really am.’
She finally thawed, giving him a small smile. ‘The main thing is that you’re back. Come here. Give me a kiss.’
He did so, embracing her. ‘Glad to be home.’
‘I’m glad too.’ Her smile widened into a grin. ‘Because our daughter has a smelly diaper that needs dealing with.’
Eddie sighed. ‘Yep. Welcome home.’ He released the redhead and started for Macy’s bedroom.
‘Eddie,’ said Nina, the concern in her voice halting him. ‘This thing… it’s finished, right?’
‘Yeah,’ he assured her. ‘It’s all over.’
1
Deputy US Marshal Art Garrison peered through a porthole at the empty azure sea thirty-seven thousand feet below, then looked back at his prisoner. Younger and cockier men would have made a sardonic comment about it being the last good view the shackled man would ever have, but the craggy team leader merely gave him a cold stare, getting a sneer in response, then turned away.
It had taken almost two years of legal wrangling for Philippe Mukobo, a native of the Democratic Republic of Congo but whose reign of terror had bloodied several other central African nations, to be turned over to the custody of Garrison and his two fellow marshals. Mukobo was high on Interpol’s most-wanted list for numerous crimes including mass murder, rape and drug running, but the diplomatic weight of the United States had decided for which he would stand trial — and where.
The Skyblue Airlines 747-8 was on its way from Paris to New York. Mukobo’s lawyers had fought a long but ultimately futile battle at the European Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg to prevent his extradition for the murders of a group of American aid workers six years prior. All avenues now exhausted, the warlord was being taken in chains to face justice.
The thought brought a brief smile to Garrison’s stern face. Mukobo was a monster, plain and simple, and he would finally get what he deserved. Life without parole in a federal penitentiary was the best he could hope for; execution was more likely. Though the plane was heading for New York, his trial would take place in nearby New Hampshire. Partly because three of his victims were from that state, but also because it maintained the death penalty. Those pushing for Mukobo’s prosecution wanted every possible sentencing option.
He glanced at his watch. Four hours before landing; halfway across the Atlantic. Garrison permitted himself to relax a little, leaning back in the comfortable business-class seat. The Justice Department had booked every seat on Flight 180’s upper deck to isolate Mukobo from the other passengers, any displaced travellers getting upgrades to first class courtesy of Uncle Sam. Pricey, but less so than despatching a US government jet solely to transport one prisoner.
A quick check on his team. Radley was behind him, guarding the spiral staircase down to the main deck, while Szernow sat by the cockpit door. Should anything happen, they were ready for it.
Another look through the porthole. The sky was clear. It would be a smooth flight.
‘You okay, Pierre? You look a bit airsick.’
Pierre Noret, the 747’s co-pilot, laughed to cover his nervousness. ‘I’m okay. Thirsty, that’s all.’ He looked at his watch, then drained a plastic water bottle.
The plane’s captain, Paul Watley, nodded. ‘Call one of the girls, have them bring you some more water.’
‘No, I’m okay.’ Noret stood. ‘I have some in my bag.’
‘Don’t get lost,’ said Watley with a chuckle.
Noret smiled thinly, then headed aft. Despite its size, the 747 was designed to be flown by just two pilots; he and Watley were the only people in the cockpit. With the reinforced door locked, the only way for anyone else to gain access was if one of them allowed it.
There was a small crew rest area at the cockpit’s rear. The Frenchman entered, collecting his bag. He suddenly felt hot, sweat prickling his skin. Nervousness became nausea as he took out a fountain pen. It appeared perfectly ordinary, if pricey, but airline pilots were well known for ostentatious accessories. Certainly this one had drawn no attention at the security check.
Noret carefully removed the cap, realising his fingers were trembling. Calm, calm. If he aroused Watley’s suspicions, his only hope of making a fresh start free of his mounting debts and rapacious ex-wife would be over before it even began.
His hands steadied. He slowly turned the pen’s body. A slim needle extended from the nib. The Frenchman hesitated, then tipped the pen downwards, as he had been instructed. A tiny dewdrop of colourless liquid swelled on the silver sting’s point.
One last tense time check, then he headed forward, the pen clutched in his right hand like a dagger. Watley, reading the news on an iPad, didn’t look around at him. Noret advanced on the American, eyes fixed on his target: the right side of Watley’s neck, just above his collar. He would only get one attempt…
The captain sensed the co-pilot’s approach. ‘When we land, it might be worth you seeing the company doctor.’ He turned his head. Noret froze. ‘You really didn’t look well — and God, you look even worse now! Are you sure you’re okay?’
Noret felt sweat sting his eyes. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ He didn’t dare move, terrified of drawing attention to the object in his hand.
Watley gave him a look of concern… then returned his attention to the iPad. ‘Just so long as you—’
The Frenchman lunged, stabbing the pen’s tip into the pilot’s neck. There was a flat phut as a gas injector forced its contents into Watley’s bloodstream.
The captain gasped and jumped up. ‘What was — what the hell?’ He stared at the pen as the Frenchman drew back. The needle was still clearly visible, its tip red with blood. He clambered from his seat, Noret fearfully backing away. ‘What did you…’
Watley staggered, clawing at his co-pilot… then crumpled to the cockpit floor.
Noret stared at him, breathing heavily, before checking Watley’s pulse. He was unconscious, but alive. The sedative had worked as promised.
He dragged the taller man back into his seat and fastened his belt, then went to the engineering consoles and switched the circuit breakers to cut off power to a specific system: the satellite link connecting the aircraft’s wi-fi and telephone services to the outside world. Now, the only working communication channel was via the cockpit radio.
There was one more breaker to open. He hesitated, then tripped it — deactivating the cockpit voice recorder. There would be no audio record of what was about to happen.
Noret returned to his own seat and belted up. Wiping away sweat, he redonned his headphones and tuned the radio to a memorised frequency. ‘Dragonfly, Dragonfly, do you hear me? This is Papillon. Do you hear me?’