Tom pulled in at 11:55 and parked between a maroon Toyota Land Cruiser and a leprous ‘56 Ford Fairlane with the trunk lid removed to create a mini- pickup. The rusty hinges were still in place. He walked through the beer section and on toward the aisles of French wines, stacked on skids in their marked, wooden cases. A man in work clothes was holding a bottle of red Bordeaux and shaking his head from side to side.
He was wearing faded jeans, workman’s shoes with thick soles to protect against rocks and nails, and a stained tee-shirt with a Harley logo on the front and patriotic slogan on the back. His forehead was furrowed with lines of sawdust and dried sweat and his unkempt moustache was spackled with droplets of dry wall mud. His shopping cart contained two cases of Bud, a six pack of Michelob, and a cardboard box of Almaden Rhine Blend. Tom approached him from the opposite side of the display.
“Can you believe this?” the man said. “The wife makes me buy wine for her and her friends. Look at this one here: $67.95 a bottle. Who in the hell would pay that for just one bottle?” He returned the bottle to its wooden box; Jack noticed a large mole on his left wrist. His nails were lined with grime.
“And such a small bottle,” Tom said.
“Damned right,” the man said, shaking his head, nodding and walking away. He pushed his cart toward the opposite end of the store, where the Coke and Pepsi were stacked, paused, picked up another nearby bottle of wine, shook his head, mumbled something under his breath, and moved on.
Tom stayed where he was, inspecting various bottles and checking prices. Finally he walked over to the aisle where the man had stopped on his way to the soda. The bottle he had checked was a split of 2016 Sauternes with a discount price of $39.50, a card carrying a rave notice from Parker, and, now, a set of passports and two tickets to London, two to Edinburgh and, in a second folder, two to Bordeaux.
Tom slid the envelope inside his jacket and took out his wallet in a single motion. He opened the wallet, slipped out two twenties and a five, paused for a moment, picked up the Sauternes and headed toward the checkout. He looked down the long aisle toward the soda. The man in the Harley tee-shirt was nowhere in sight.
Chapter Nineteen
Over New England
Sunday, 8:50 p.m.
The pilot headed up the seaboard before turning to cross the North Atlantic. Twenty minutes past New York Tom got up to stretch his legs and wash his hands before dinner. The toilets in Business class were occupied so he turned around and started down the aisle toward the one at the front of tourist class. Two rows behind him on the opposite side of the aisle was a man in a beige Armani suit, starched white shirt and muted Armani tie; the gold and diamonds of his Rolex were visible at the edge of his French-cuffed sleeve and he was wearing a gold wedding band with a Florentine finish and split-lens reading glasses. His brief case was open and he was going through some papers. Tom looked more closely this time. Something about him looked vaguely familiar, something around the eyes and nose.
Once in the toilet Tom pulled back his hair, touched his incision, combed his hair carefully—the site was still tender—then opened his belt and tucked in his shirt. The scent of the airline cologne was already thick in the air. As he rebuckled his belt he thought about the man in 12C. Suddenly something sparked. He rinsed his face in cold water, washed his hands with the almond-scented liquid soap, combed his hair a second time, and left the toilet, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could.
As he walked back up the aisle toward his seat in row 10 he looked at the man’s left wrist. There was the mole. This time the hands were scrubbed cleaner than a surgeon’s and the nails were trimmed and filed. They even looked as if they might have had a coat of clear polish. No work shoes, no greasy jeans, no Harley shirt this time. No moustache and no shaving nicks. Nice work, at least in the makeup department.
“Guess what,” Tom said, as he eased himself back into his seat.
“What’s that?” Diana answered.
“Two rows behind us is the guy who slipped me our passports and tickets back in Virginia. He’s in disguise, if that’s not too strong a term to use to describe an Armani suit.”
“Maybe he’s our chaperone.”
“Maybe he’s watching us to find out what we can learn and who we can locate. If he’s on our side, why didn’t he make contact? There were no plans for a chaperone. Someone suspicious might assume that he was part of another club, that he had bumped our contact in Chantilly, and now has other plans for us.”
“He can’t follow us too far. By now we’ve had the chance to notice him. He should peel off when we get to Heathrow and either go home—mission accomplished—or let someone else pick us up for awhile.”
“Right. But if he stays with us we have to take him out. We can’t be sure what side he’s on and we can’t take a chance in the interest of professional courtesy.”
“I’ll take him. He won’t be expecting that,” Diana said.
“What do you mean?”
“When we get to Heathrow we’ll have a long walk through the airport. The place is bigger than O’Hare. It’s not hard to break free of your group. We’ll take our time getting off, then we’ll let the rest of the passengers from this flight get ahead of us. We’ll futz around with our carry-ons, walk a little further, and then go into one of the bathrooms out by the distant gates. We’ll take our time, stay in the bathroom for a full ten minutes. If he’s still with us when we come out, I’ll take care of him. Everybody else will be making their way toward the arrivals hall or the connecting corridors to other terminals.”
“What do you mean, ‘take care of him’?”
“You’ll see.”
“I’d like to know first.”
“Then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises. Let me handle him.”
She shrugged and nodded in reluctant agreement.
His legs were stiff as they got off the plane and he balanced himself with the handrail in the jetway. Diana noticed but didn’t say anything. The jetway led to a quiet set of hallways with steps leading to the upper level. It was the middle of the night on their body clocks but early morning in London, with leaden skies, gray haze hanging in the air from Kent to Berkshire and heavy dew on the dark green grasses lining the highways and runways.
They were in the middle of the crowd when they came into the terminal corridor. Again it was quiet, with an occasional workman buttoning his coveralls and preparing for the day. The walls were bright, the directional signs a garish black and yellow, the gray and red carpeting clean but bland, contrasting with the rubberfaced expressions on the models in the advertisements. Harvey’s Bristol Cream! Schweppes, Ah! Blood Brothers-Still! The Mousetrap! Simply Harrods! Burberry’sBurberry’sBurberry’s!
Diana stopped at a bench at the side of the corridor. She changed the strap on her purse, lengthening it, and slipped it over her head and under her arm. Then she opened the bottom of her carry-on bag, took out a handful of kleenex, folded them, and slipped them into her pocket. By then all but a handful of the passengers from their flight had passed them. They merged into a blur of hats and jackets and carry-ons, working their way toward the Arrivals Hall like a sleepless, aging army.
She and Tom made small talk in the corridor, walking at a leisurely pace. She bumped him gently with her arm—joking, relaxed. When they got to the second set of toilets she stopped, said something to him, waited for his nod, and then turned off to go to the women’s. He walked a few steps further and went into the men’s. The disinfectant smells hit him the moment he stepped on the tile floor and he remembered his first trip to England in the late nineties: the cologne dispensers at face level on the walls, the urinals with Armitage Shanks logos, the white Durex machines, the electric rent-a-razors in Victoria Station which people actually used, backpacking tourists huddled with the remnants of the empire and pinstriped businessmen . . . the acrid
smell of Rothman’s . . . . He had to stay focused, keep the memories from rushing in and distracting him from what he had to do. His head was throbbing slightly now, probably from lack of sleep and the skimpy airline meal. He had passed on any alcohol and tried to drink more water than he craved, but he was still lightheaded.
The women’s toilet was deserted. Diana checked her lipstick, combed her hair, and rinsed off her hands, patting them dry with a paper towel. If someone was waiting for her in the corridor she didn’t want him to hear the masking sounds of an electric hand dryer. It might tempt him to make an opportunistic move. She checked her watch. Four minutes. She walked out into the corridor. The man in the Armani suit was standing against the wall, pretending to check his ticket. His attaché case was between his feet.
Diana approached him. “Excuse me,” she said. “Do you have any change in British sterling?”
“What do you need?” he asked. His head was turned slightly away from her’s.
“I need 50p, but the machine will take 20p and 10p pieces.”
He went through the motions of checking the change in his pocket, put it back, and said, “Sorry.”
The crisp dollar in her hand slipped through her fingers. She bent over to pick it up. He leaned down in a halfhearted attempt to help as she grabbed the handle of his attaché case and swung it upward, catching him directly on the center of his chin with the steel-reinforced corner. His head exploded in a flash of silver and black as the circuits crossed and popped. As his legs went limp she gave him a second thump for insurance, this one across the base of his neck. He fell toward the women’s toilet, tried to find his footing, and lurched against the doorframe, collapsing at the entrance. She dragged him the rest of the way, propped him in the corner of the wheelchair stall, checked for his wallet, found none, and left him there.
When she returned to the corridor she picked up his attaché case in the doorway as Tom walked out of the men’s. “Where did you get that?” he asked.
“From our friend. I thought we might find something interesting inside.”
“Where is he?”
“Resting comfortably. Let’s get out of here.”
The case was locked but Tom worked the catch with the tip of the nail file that had past unnoticed in his carry-on. Inside was a change of shirt, socks, and underwear and a passport in a matching ostrich case. “Very nicely coordinated,” he said, slipping the passport into his pocket and sliding the attaché case behind a janitor’s cart and leading her down the corridor past the parallel gates.
“Will you do me a favor?” Tom asked.
“Of course. What?”
“Don’t ever do that again.”
“Do what?”
“Play the Lone Ranger.”
“You weren’t feeling well,” she said. “Your legs were stiff and you kept touching your head with your fingertips. You didn’t want to say anything about it, but I knew.”
“I mean it,” Tom said.
“I had the advantage of surprise.”
“The Chief told me you played on college teams.”
“Yes, I did.”
“They don’t use guns or razors in college sports. Out here they do.”
“You were walking unsteadily,” she said, as they made their way down the corridor. “Circumstances change. Don’t you expect me to adjust to them?”
“At the least you should have waited. I could have been there as backup.”
“Right,” she said. “I just . . . I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
“I don’t want you hurt either,” he said, his eyes searching hers as she held her expression. “I work for you.”
“We work together,” she answered.
Chapter Twenty
Aeroport de Bordeaux
Monday, 12:15 p.m.
She could hear the mock “Merci” just before he put away his phone. She was standing behind a pillar with their carry-ons, looking at the winery posters which blanketed the walls of the airport, a wide-eyed tourist off for a romantic weekend. Her eyes lighted on Chateau Brane-Cantenac’s. The four-foot bottle floated above the plane of the poster, the gold script below recounting the glories of the Margaux appelation and the special glories of this particular example. Watching the people in the airport she noticed how careful they were in protecting their luggage and handbags.
Tom returned, picked up most of their carry-ons, smiled, and put his arm around her. Together they began walking toward the car rental desk. He was smiling and trying to exude a sense of release, a vacationing American thinking of the sunshine and the wine, anticipating a long drive through the French countryside. Diana was tossing back her hair and straightening the knot on her scarf. Outside, the sun was bright, the sky dotted with scattered clouds. The poplars in the distance were visible through the large airport windows, swaying silently in the midday winds, marking the horizon.
“Interesting news,” he said, maintaining his smile. “For starters, our friend, one William Church, is an employee of the United States Government, not a murderous representative of a crime family or some hostile foreign power.”
“I’m sorry I hit him so hard,” Diana said.
“There’s more,” Tom said.
“Oh?”
They got in line at the rental desk. He took her by the hand and leaned forward. To any observer he was thinking of her, thinking of their trip together, wondering what it might bring.
“We were working with the FBI,” he said, still smiling, “but William Church does not work for the Department of Justice; he works for the Treasury Department.”
“Secret Service?” she asked, her eyes probing, searching.
“Yes, Secret Service,” he answered, his look responding to hers.
She thought for a moment and then answered her own question. “Assigned to the White House.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. The presidential protection unit, though that’s a large group and people rotate in and out of actual service. It could be someone on special assignment.”
“What is a Secret Service agent doing following us to London?”
“Exactly the question I asked,” Tom said, holding his lips close. “The president is not scheduled to make any trips to Europe so Church wouldn’t be here as part of an advance party. And in any case he wouldn’t be dressed like a Beverly Hills lawyer.”
“He must have been sent by the president.”
“Or by somebody who wanted to avoid attention by keeping this in the family. The politics among the intelligence agencies is worse than that in a prep school English department.”
“That means that David’s death is a part of something much larger.”
“Possibly, but not necessarily,” Tom said.
“Possibly?”
“Possibly,” he said.
They stopped at a winery at 1:20 and pulled over a second time to pick up some bread, fruit, cheese and bottled water at a village store. They were driving west toward Les Eyzies. The sun was still bright in the afternoon sky, the vines tightly grouped in orderly lines abutting the highway. At 3:00 they drove into Bergerac. “How about a bathroom break?” Tom asked.
“You go ahead,” she answered. “I’m fine.”
He pulled into the railway station parking lot and entered the toilet at the west end of the building. The room was deserted. He splashed his face and rinsed his hands with tepid water, passing up the communal ball of soap on the steel post, and dried his hands on the driest corner of a revolving towel. Then he combed his hair and walked over to the china urinal. A moment after he got settled a man in a green shirt and black jeans walked in and stood beside him. His hair was dark brown, flecked with gray. “Nice day for a drive through the Dordogne,” the man said. “A lot more fun in a red convertible than in a tiny Ford sedan.”
He was medium height, but thick, with worry lines
around the eyes and mouth that were accented by a recent tan. He looked like a bureaucrat who moonlighted as a bouncer.
“I take it that you’re Walt,” Tom said. “And by the way, what is actually going on here?”
“Not much,” the man said. “We had a friend along to keep an eye on you and your girl friend but she decided to take him out. Left him to cool off in a Heathrow toilet. That’s not what I call interagency cooperation.”
“How were we supposed to know he was on our side?”
“Fair question.”
“He’s with the Secret Service.”
“Yes . . . well, they wanted to keep tabs on this one.”
“Why?”
“If I knew I’d tell you.”
“Come on Walt, let’s not dance around. This is your plan and setup. They’d tell you something.”
“I mean it, Detective. I don’t know. All I can do is guess.”
“Go ahead then, guess.”
“Maybe this is bigger than you thought.”
“We’ve already figured that out, Walt. And call me Tom.”
“I said maybe. I wouldn’t draw any heavy conclusions from this. It probably doesn’t mean anything. Those people are so jumpy these days they run after everything. When you requested special passports through your PD it set off bells and whistles. With the current level of trust in Washington we’re lucky we didn’t have to deal with three or four other agencies as well. The moment we cleared our own operation with the Director we found out that the White House was planning to intervene. Bureaucratic ESP.”
“You mean bugs and wiretaps.”
“And probably some overt leaks.”
“Well they aren’t intervening now. Listen Walt, do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Tell the government that whenever they want to bring in a backup they should bring in the first team. We may need them.”
INTO THE DARK : A TOM DEATON NOVEL Page 10
