Gutenburg shrugged his shoulders. ‘Even if he does, what use is the information to Lawrence? He’s hardly going to phone up his pal Zerimski, a few days before he’s due to arrive in Washington on a goodwill visit, to le
t him know that the man they hanged for planning his assassination wasn’t a South African terrorist hired by the Mafya after all, but a CIA agent carrying out orders that had come directly from the White House.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Dexter. ‘But as long as Jackson and the Fitzgerald women are out there, we still have a problem. So I suggest you deploy the best dozen agents we’ve got to track them down, and as quickly as possible - I don’t care what sector they’re working in or who they’re assigned to. If Lawrence can prove what really happened in St Petersburg, he’ll have more than enough excuse to call for someone’s resignation.’
Gutenburg was unusually silent.
‘And as it’s your signature at the bottom of every relevant document,’ continued the Director, ‘I would, alas, be left with no choice but to let you go.’
Small beads of sweat appeared on Gutenburg’s forehead.
Stuart thought he was coming out of a bad dream. He tried to recall what had happened. They had been picked up at the airport by Tara’s mother, who had been driving them towards Washington. But the car had been stopped by a traffic cop, and he had been asked to wind down his window. And then … ?
He looked around. He was on another plane, but where was it going? Tara’s head was resting on his shoulder; on her other side was her mother, also fast asleep. All the other seats were empty.
He began to go over the facts again, as he always did when preparing for a case. He and Tara had landed at Dulles. Maggie had been waiting for them at the gate …
His concentration was broken when a smartly dressed middle-aged man appeared by his side and leaned over to check his pulse.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Stuart quietly, but the doctor didn’t reply. He carried out the same cursory examination on Tara and Maggie, then disappeared back up to the front of the plane.
Stuart unfastened his seatbelt, but hadn’t enough strength to stand up. Tara had begun stirring, while Maggie remained resolutely asleep. He checked his pockets. They had taken his wallet and passport. He tried desperately to make some sense of it. Why should anyone go to these extremes for a few hundred dollars, some credit cards and an Australian passport? Even more strangely, they seemed to have replaced them with a slim volume of Yeats’s poems. He had never read Yeats before he met Tara, but after she had returned to Stanford he had begun to enjoy his work. He opened the book at the first poem, ‘A Dialogue of Self and Soul’. The words ‘ I am content to live it all again, and yet again were underlined. He flicked through the pages, and noticed that other lines had also been marked.
As he was considering the significance of this, a tall, heavily built man appeared by his side, towering menacingly over him. Without a word, he snatched the book from Stuart’s hands and returned to the front of the plane.
Tara touched his hand. He quickly turned to her and whispered in her ear, ‘Say nothing.’ She glanced across at her mother, who still hadn’t stirred, seemingly at peace with the world.
Once Connor had placed the two suitcases in the hold and checked that all three passengers were alive and unharmed, he left the aircraft and climbed into the back of a BMW whose engine was already running.
We continue to keep our side of the bargain,’ said Alexei Romanov, who was sitting next to him. Connor nodded his agreement as the BMW drove out through the wire gates and began its journey to Ronald Reagan National Airport.
After his experience at Frankfurt, where the local CIA agent had nearly spotted him because Romanov and his two sidekicks did practically everything except publicly announce their arrival, Connor realised that if he was going to pull off his plan to rescue Maggie and Tara, he would have to run the operation himself. Romanov had finally accepted this when he had been reminded of the clause agreed by his father. Now Connor could only hope that Stuart was as resourceful as he had appeared to be when he had quizzed him on the beach in Australia. He prayed that Stuart would notice the words he’d underlined in the book he’d slipped into his pocket.
The BMW drew up outside the upper-level Departure entrance of Washington National Airport. Connor stepped out, with Romanov a pace behind. Two other men joined them and followed Connor as he strolled calmly into the airport and over to the ticket counter. He needed them all to relax before he made his next move.
When Connor handed over his ticket, the man behind the American Airlines desk said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Radford, but Flight 383 to Dallas is running a few minutes late, though we hope to make up the time en route. You’ll be boarding at Gate 32.’
Connor walked casually in the direction of the lounge, but stopped when he reached a bank of telephones. He chose one with occupied booths on either side. Romanov and the two bodyguards hovered a few paces away, looking displeased. Connor smiled at them innocently, then slipped Stuart’s international phone-card into the slot and dialled a Cape Town number.
The phone rang for some time before it was eventually answered.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Connor.’
There was a protracted silence. ‘I thought it was only Jesus who could rise from the dead,’ said Carl eventually.
‘I spent some time in purgatory before I managed it,’ Connor replied.
‘Well, at least you’re alive, my friend. What can I do for you?’
‘First, as far as the Company is concerned, there will be no second coming.’
‘Understood,’ said Carl.
Connor was answering Carl’s last question when he heard the final call for Flight 383 to Dallas. He put the phone down, smiled at Romanov again, and headed quickly for Gate 32.
When Maggie eventually opened her eyes, Stuart leaned across and warned her to say nothing until she was fully awake. A few moments later a stewardess appeared and asked them to lower their tray tables. An inedible selection of food appeared, as if they were on a normal first-class flight.