'We have little choice. But be wary. Watch your back at all times.'
'Yes, sir,' replied Rostov.
'You know what the Americans call counter-intelligence?'
'Dante's Inferno. With ninety nine circles.'
'Exactly. It'll be strange,' said the Director, 'working this close with them. Ten years ago we were at each other's throats. Now we're allies. But where, my dear Alexei, is the real enemy?'
Ch. 29
There was no delay and the twin engined, wide bodied Boeing screeched onto the runway exactly on schedule.
Tucker had slept for most of the flight and was now sleepily gazing out of the window, frantically trying to bring his senses into focus as the plane taxied in.
'Please stay seated until the seat belt light goes out,' a stewardess shouted at Adam, who had stood up before the aircraft left the runway so that he could take his overcoat from the upper lockers. His weapons were in the suitcase in the hold, cleared through security at San Diego by the local Agency operatives.
'Okay,' replied Adam as he continued dragging his belongings from the shelf.
'Please sit down, sir.'
'Okay,' repeated Adam, finishing his task. He grinned cheekily at her and sat down, his coat and case draped across his lap. His duty was to protect Trimmler and he wanted to be ready in case the scientist was the first off the aircraft.
'Rebel without a cause,' quipped Billie.
'The lost generation. That's me,' he replied.
Adam's instincts were correct and Trimmler had elbowed his way through the other passengers, dragging his wife by her arm, as he became the first passenger off the plane once it had docked. The Englishman wasn't far behind, his passage far less strenuous and impolite.
The other two caught up with Adam at the baggage carousal, where he stood under the exit sign, watching Trimmler anxiously waiting to retrieve his suitcases.
'Why the rush?' said Tucker. 'He had to wait for his cases.'
'I hope he doesn't get his before yours arrives. Otherwise he's going to get away from here without you,' said Adam.
'Shit. I better go and tell him to wait for us.' Tucker turned to Billie. 'Transport ready?'
'Yes,' she answered. 'Two company cabs. They'll be outside.'
'Okay. I'll go with Trimmler. You two follow.’
There were two cabs parked side by side at the entrance. In the style of New Orleans they were large American cars, not the compact or special square bodied that were used in most cities. Like most New Orleans cabs, and like the city itself, they were of a shabby appearance, old in design, a reflection of a greater age past. One was a blue 1988 Chevrolet Impala, the other a white 1976 Cadillac Fleetwood with a 1927 Chevrolet Qouta Trophy mascot on its bonnet, a cast zinc model of Lindbergh's Ryan monoplane supported by the spirit of Victory.
They both bore the logo of the Mayfair Cab and Taxi Company.
Billie walked up to them as the driver from the blue car got out. He was black, in his early sixties, and his name, Marius Beiderbecque, was painted on the rear wing of the car in a classic Gothic style.
'Miss Billie,' he greeted warmly.
'Hello, Marius,' she smiled back. 'This is Adam Nicholson. He's with us.'
'Mister Adam.'
'Hello.'
'Put the cases in Frankie's cab, please,' said Billie. 'We'll travel with him. We've got three more. They're getting their cases. You take them.'
'To the Hilton?' asked Marius as he opened the trunk of the white Cadillac and put the cases in.
'That's the one.' Billie walked to the driver's door of the Cadillac and spoke to the driver. His name, Frankie Mistletoe, was emblazoned on the side of his cab, in the same style as that on the blue Chevrolet. 'Any problems?' she asked Frankie.
'No. Apart from a ticket happy cop who tried to move us.'
'This is …'
'I heard. Hi Adam. I'm Frankie.'
'Hello Frankie,' Adam came up to the car.
'You English?'
'I am.' As Adam leant forward he realised the driver was a cripple, his wheelchair folded and wedged in the passenger seat next to him, his hunched back pushing his head forward towards the windscreen. His hands were arthritic, his fingers arched stiffly. On the steering wheel there was a large plastic knob with which he steered the car. The column gearshift, an automatic box, had a long L shaped extension which made gear changing simple. He was no more than thirty years old.
'You never seen a cripple before?'
'Not one that drives cabs.' Adam tried to lighten the situation. He was annoyed with himself. The driver had surprised him and he let it show.
Frankie laughed. 'Best driver in New Orleans,' he drawled.
'Bet you get the biggest tips.'
'Damn right. Works every time. Get in, limey.'
Adam climbed into the back of the car leaving Billie to wait for the other three.
'Now I don't want you worrying about me,' Frankie continued. My right foot's my good foot. Works the accelerator and the brake.'
'If you got here to pick us up, then I'm sure you'll get us to wherever we're going.'
'Well said. What you clutching there?' Frankie asked. 'Got to be important, the way you hanging on to it.'
'I've heard about the muggings in this town. I'm carrying twenty hand grenades, a sawn off shotgun, three Kalishnikovs and a rocket launcher.'
'In this game nothing surprises me. Nothing.' The two men laughed, sharing their humour. 'I've been to England, you know. Oxford. You been to Oxford?'
'Yes.'
'Pretty place. I toured all round. About seven years ago. Spent two months there. Pretty country. But Oxford, that was the prettiest of all. What're you doing here, with our people?'
'Helping out.'
'That right? You must wonder what someone like me's doing here.'
'It crossed my mind.'
'Crossed your mind. Huh! More likely smacked you across your face. Ha! You heard of the Mayfair Cab and Taxi Company.'
'Billie told me. Big company. Across America, in most of the large cities. It's used by the Agency who put agents in as drivers.'
'Great network. Amazing what you pick up in a cab.'
They saw Tucker and the Trimmlers come out of the terminal entrance and Billie walk towards them.
'That them?' asked Frankie.
'Yes.'
'Good, we can get going. And don't let this body fool you, limey. It's supporting a brain up here…' he tapped his forehead as he spoke, '…that's smarter than you think. You just call when you're in the shit, and I'll save your arse every time.'
'You're on.'
The drive into New Orleans was slow, the traffic heavy.
New Orleans is a faded city, shabby in its disrepair and peeling past. Known as 'Big Easy' and sometimes 'Sin City', the city conjures up images of carnival, jazz, voodoo, sex and fun set against a Caribbean Gallic heritage in a predominantly Anglo Saxon culture. This confusion of spirit was once described as a cross between Port-Au-Prince, Haiti and Patterson, New Jersey with a culture not dissimilar to Genoa, Marseille, Beirut and Egyptian Alexandria. This is reflected in the names of the various city boroughs, Algiers, Arabi, Gretna, Westwego, Bridge City, Cajun County and the French Quarter.
Its aura of decadence is a true reflection of its poverty. And where there is poverty, there is invariably crime. Paid-for sex, paid-for drugs, paid-for violence and paid-for eroticism is the currency of the city, openly on display amongst the swirl of tourists on the look-out for that which is unattainable in the suburban homes, but openly on display where it can be watched from the safety of the crowd on the pavement.