"No, no. You'll be in a big car, you'll have a driver. You won't want to know a scruff bum like me."
It was meant lightly. It was just talk, just Colt trying to lift the man.
But in Bissett's answer there was an urgent, passionate sincerity.
"I'll always know you, Colt, for what you've done for me. I am going to tell them that they owe my being there to you. I will make certain that you are properly rewarded…"
"You'll be in your posh compound, Dr Bissett. You'll have taken off."
"Whatever you need, I'll get for you."
"I don't need anything."
"Whatever, a car, a house of your own, anything. "
Colt drove into the long-term car park. He meandered towards a free space. The roar of aircraft engines spilled into the car.
"Everybody has to want something."
"Not me, Dr Bissett."
"Possessions, what you have, what's important to you."
"I own nothing…"
"Nothing?"
"… only myself."
Colt smiled, like it wasn't important. Of course, it would be important to Bissett because he had walked out on his job, and his oath, and his country, and his wife and boys, for $175,000 per annum. But that wasn't Colt's problem, never had been, and he wasn't about to make it his problem now. He reached across Bissett and opened the glove compartment, and took out the Ruger. He saw that Bissett gaped.
"What's that…?"
"It's a close-quarters handgun, Dr Bissett."
"What for, for heaven's sake?"
"For our protection, yours and mine."
"But I didn't know… "
Colt climbed out of the car. He locked his door. He watched as Bissett locked the passenger door. He had the Ruger in the plastic bag. He would palm the bag to Namir or Faud at the check-in desk.
He took Bissett's suitcase, and his own grip, and he led the way towards the stop where the buses for the terminals pulled in.
" I ' m sorry, Major Tuck. The whole village will be sorry."
He wanted her out of the room. He wanted to be alone with his wife, the last time. The District Nurse had slipped her fingers over the sunken eyes. At long last, it was over.
She was at the door. She said that she would go down to the kitchen and make a pot of tea. The wind beat around the rafter beams, surged under the eaves of the roof.
"Colt…?"
"Gone, clear of them, but he was here when she needed him."
"That's something to be thankful for, Major."
" W e can be more thankful that he's gone."
There had been the shots in the night. Obviously not for Colt, otherwise that American wouldn't have come back. The District Nurse had told him old Brennie's dog had been killed, didn't know where nor how.
She left him alone in the quiet of the room. He heard her going down the staircase.
He yearned for his son. But Colt was gone, and he could only pray, as he knelt by his wife's bedside, holding her hand, through his tears, for the boy's safety.
As they hurtled out of the tunnel under the runway into the airport, Rutherford said, "Once more into the breach, old thing, and this time, as you heard the man say, let's do it right." Outside Terminal Three, they pulled into a space vacated by a taxi and jumped out.
"We'll walk, Bill. When we get inside, we may even saunter.
You look so like a policeman you had better stay a pace or two behind. We don't want to attract attention. Lock up, will you?"
"I'll catch up. And James – good luck."
He was thinking of Frederick Bissett. He walked towards the doors of the terminal. He was thinking of the hunted and frightened little man who had sat across the room from him, Bissctt of H area, and he remembered the explosion of emotion.
Wife trouble, eh?
Erlich was at his shoulder.
He went inside.
He saw Namir 50 paces away through the shifting melee of travellers on the concourse. He saw Namir stop and turn and look around him and over the sea of heads, as if he was searching for the familiar face.
Bissett was right against him, as if he were frightened of being left behind.
Colt said, "Our friends are here, Dr Bissett, all in place."
Erlich walked behind Rutherford, edging their way through queues of passengers and their luggage. There was a pier of airline stands between them and the Iraqi Airlines desk.
Rutherford was looking to his right. Rutherford was looking so goddam hard that he walked right into an Asian who must have had everything he owned piled on a baggage trolley. Man and trolley rocked and stayed upright. He'd never seen it, because he was looking right. .. Erlich looked right. A taller man, back to them, fair hair cut short. A shorter man facing them, dark curly hair, heavy spectacles, and looking like he was scared shitless of flying. Two men, tall and short, would have been Arabic. The two Arabic men seemed to be reassuring him.
He heard Rutherford say, "That's him, the little one with the black hair and glasses. See the minders? Watch my back, will you?"
Rutherford going forward.
Passengers, airline people, cleaners, parting a way for him.
Rutherford starting to charge, Erlich jogging to stay with him.
Rutherford shouted, " D r Bissett… "
Didn't have to shout. What had he shouted for? Just had to keep walking…
"Stand where you are, Dr Bissett…"
It was then he saw Colt. He saw what the kid in the Kifisia suburb had described, and what the police photograph had shown, and what Hannah Worthington had said she had seen.
He saw Colt.
The shorter guy, curly hair and heavy spectacles, he'd frozen.
The two Arabs, they'd melted. One yell, one warning shout and they were gone.
Colt was bigger than he had expected him to be. More solid in his shoulders, and more presence than he had thought of him as having. He saw a tanned and open face with the anger starting to work on it, the killer of Harry Lawrence. Words in his head, flywheel fast. The shorter guy, dark curly hair and heavy spectacles, was reaching for Colt, as if that was his only salvation, and Colt had his fist in a plastic bag. And people walking round them and wheeling trolleys past them, and kissing goodbye. Erlich saw Colt's gun, saw it snaking out, coming up. Lethal Assault in fucking Progress. He saw a. 22 calibre pistol with silencer.
He had seen Colt…
Rutherford going forward. Colt going left. Colt taking the shorter guy with him.
He had the revolver out of his hip holster.
Safety off. Isosceles stance. Isosceles stance and Turret One, because Colt was coming across his aim, and dragging the guy with him.
Deep in his lungs, hard down in his gut, Erlich yelled.
"Freeze, F. B. I., freeze."
Pandemonium around him. Men and women and children throwing themselves at the shined floor of the concourse.
The gun was coming up, Colt's gun. Colt had five paces to the pier. Colt would have gained the cover of the pier if he hadn't been dragging and heaving on the arm of the man with the dark curly hair.
And Rutherford was charging for the guy, like there wasn't a gun. And Rutherford was…
Erlich fired.
And Rutherford was going…
Erlich fired.
And Rutherford was going down onto the concourse…
Erlich fired.
Rutherford was on his face on the shined flooring… Couldn't see Colt, couldn't see the guy with the dark curly hair. Could only see the corner of the pier and the cringing people.
He had fired three shots, like they had taught him. He heard nothing, and they had lectured him that his ears, in Condition Black, would be dead to the screaming and bawling around him.
He could see the mouths of the people, prised open for screaming, shouting.
He saw the heave of Rutherford's shoulders, and then the stillness.
He saw the first trickle, blood, slip from Rutherford's mouth.
17
It was strange ground for Colt. He had been through the airport, right, but as a passenger. He had never reconnoitred Heathrow.
He gave way to his instinct.
He stampeded out through the electronic glass doors, forcing Bissett in front of him.
He had learned many times the lesson of flight. Distance was critical. The first minute of flight was vital, the first five minutes were more vital, the first 30 minutes were the most vital, and the key was distance.
Into the first minute… Following his instinct and praying for luck. He had no plan. He came out of the glass doors and into the cold night air. If the American was there, then the other one must have been there too. And if those two were there, then there must have been others, and chances were, they were armed as well. Christ, they'd been blown all ends up. Anyway, they must all have been shattered by the accident. And who was it, the man who was shot, who had been shouting for Bissett? As he heaved Bissett along, across the taxi lane, there was a double-decker bus cruising past the terminal. He ran round the front of the bus, clinging to Bissett's elbow, and the Ruger was already gouging in the small of his back, tucked safe in the belt of his trousers. He jumped for the open platform at the tail of the bus, and he levered the dead weight of Bissett after him, his feet scrab- bling on the tarmac. The man was ash-pale. There would have been a conductor on the bus, must have been upstairs taking money.
There were eyes on them. Colt smiled, like he and his friend were just happy to have caught the bus. The bus turned away from the terminal and headed for the tunnel. There was his luck. He had his hand under Bissett's armpit, because he thought that if he let go his grip the man might spill down into the aisle of the bus.
Into the first five minutes, into the gaudy orange light of the tunnel. At the roundabout at the end of the tunnel, as they emerged, Colt saw the first police cars, the first blue revolving lights, and the first sirens, bullocking into the traffic heading into the tunnel and towards the terminals. Colt saw that the bus swung up the hill, going left. Distance was what counted. Past the fire station… He saw, out through the grimed windows of the bus, the lines of the cars in the long-term parks. The conductor was halfway down the steps to the upper deck of the bus. They were in traffic themselves, dawdling at perhaps ten miles an hour. Colt was on the tail platform. He didn't tell Bissett. If he had told Bissett then the man might have hung on to something. He had hold of Bissett's arm again, and he jumped, and he took Bissett with him. Colt was on his feet, and Bissett was sprawled, half on the pavement and half in the road, and there was a squeal as the car following the bus braked to miss them. They ran what would have been close to 150 yards, and all the time they ran Bissett was failing. They went into the long-term park.
Into the first 30 minutes… The car started. Colt had Bissett in the passenger seat. He told Bissett to take off his coat, shove it under the seat, and to help Colt get out of his own jacket, and put that too under the seat. He screamed the car towards the exit. Colt took a hand off the wheel and snatched Bissett's spectacles from his face. He paid off the attendant. He muttered something about leaving his passport at home, that was how he explained his coming out with only eighteen minutes on his ticket. There were more blue lights and sirens on the perimeter road, and a police van passed them, going up the wrong side, and then swerved at the airport exit filter to go half across the road. It was six, seven, minutes since they had crashed out of the terminal. Colt was calm. They would have had descriptions, clothes and hair and spectacles. Nothing he could do about the hair, and he had done something about the coat colours and something about Bissett's glasses. He saw the faces of the two young policemen who had been in the blocking van, and they didn't seem to know what they were at, and the one had his ear cocked to his radio on the collar of his tunic. Another minute, another 90 seconds, and they might not have made it out. He was waved through.
He didn't speak.
He wriggled in his seat, he moved his hip so that he could get the pistol clear of his belt, and he laid it on his lap. He heard the deep and sharp panting of Bissett's breath, like the man was in crisis.
Colt was hammering for the motorway.
If Erlich had gone faster, straight off, then he might have made it through before the block was set on the east side perimeter road, close to Cargo.
He had not gone fast. Rutherford was dead. Christ Almighty.
Dead before he could reach him, hold his wrist, his head. Oh no, oh Jesus..!
What he remembered of the terminal, coming out of the concourse, hitting the night air, with the big red bus pulling away in front of him, was that sound had slipped back to his ears. He had heard a woman screaming, and he had realised that he still held the Smith and Wesson in his hand, and he had heard the placid voice of the announcer over the speakers. There had been a woman screaming, and he had holstered the revolver, and the announcer had been giving the final call, last call, for passengers on Gulf Airlines to Bahrain and Dubai. He could remember that… He had shot a colleague, and they were calling for the passengers for the flight to Bahrain and Dubai.
He might have been delayed more, but he showed the uniformed officers his F. B. I. I/D. They wouldn't have gotten round yet to worrying about Bill Erlich. Their airwaves would have been full of Colt's description, and what Bissett was wearing… but he wasn't ready for thinking yet, because of the great sickness in his stomach and the numbness in his mind. He was William David Erlich, born May 7th, 1958, son of Gerry Erlich and Marianne (Erlich) Mason, Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and he could not think straighter than a bent dime because he had shot James Rutherford dead, and he had left him. So little of it that he could remember, the shooting. The blurred and fast-moving shape of Colt, "Freeze," he remembered his roar and the lumbering outline of Rutherford…
He had shot pretty Penny Rutherford's man. He knew where he had to go.
What Hobbes saw first was the slack line of the white tape.
He elbowed his way through the quiet and staring crowds. He flashed his card, he bent under the tape. They had not even covered the body. He was careful to avoid the three cartridge cases on the concourse floor. A dozen long strides from the body was a suitcase and a grip bag.
He asked what had happened.
He was told. There were two Branch men who had seen it all and had the crack of emotion in their voices.
The taller Branch man said, "It was really difficult, it was so quick. We didn't know what we were looking for until your man yelled out. There was a fair-haired man, mid-twenties. He had a smaller man with him, glasses and raincoat. They were with two Arabs… "
The other Branch man said, "They were close to the check-in on the delayed Iraqi flight. They train you for this, it's nothing like the training when it happens… "
" O h, God… " t h e taller Branch man mouthed.
"Spit it out," Hobbes demanded.
" W e had a photograph, about two weeks back. Iraqi link.
English… "
" O h, Christ," the shorter Branch man seemed to crumple.
"There's an all airport and all port watch."
Venom in Hobbes's voice. "Just go back to bloody sleep. He's Colin Olivier Louis T u c k. "
Hobbes walked away from them. The equation was sharp in his mind. Colt was with the Iraqis, Bissett was with the Iraqis, Colt was with Bissett. And wasn't life simple, when the light shone on it?
Hobbes spoke fast over his personal radio. He repeated himself three, four times, so that at Curzon Street there was no possibility of a further mistake. Colt was the name he gave over and over again, and the flat statement that he would strangle those responsible, himself and with his own hands, if every airport and every ferry port in Great Britain did not have the photograph of Colt out on the Emigration Desk.
He went back to the Branch men.
Hobbes gave the taller of them the name of Dan Ruane and his office number.
"I want him here. I want him here immediately… God, what a
shambles."
He was told what was in place, where the blocks had been set.
He was told it was 29 minutes since the shooting. He was shown where the fair-haired man with the pistol, Colt, had fled, taking Bissett with him, through the concourse door. He was told that the American had followed him out, gone after them.
He stood a few paces from the body. He could hear Barker's
" W e all get what we want, a good result" ringing in his ears. He wondered who Barker would send to break it to Rutherford's wife. There was a wife, because her photograph was in Rutherford's office. It would be a bastard of a job, telling the wife that probably no one from D Branch had met.
Hobbes knew precious little about firearms, but he matched the torn hole in the collar of Rutherford's jacket, and the two more holes in the centre of the back of the jacket, with the three cartridge cases that he had seen. It was what bloody well happened, wasn't it, when some bastard American was allowed to pretend he was on a backstreet in Chicago, and not in a crowded terminal at Heathrow.
It couldn't have been a nightmare from which he now awoke. No nightmare, because the crash of the firing was still in his ears, and the fleeting vision of the crouched marksman was still in his mind, and there was the tear in the knee of his trousers where he had fallen from the bus. Each time his fingers went back to the frayed edge of the material, to the bleeding, grazed knee, he knew, more certainly, that it was not a nightmare from which he could awake. They were off the motorway… He pieced it together in his memory, which was worse than a nightmare. Colt was talking with two of the men who had greeted him, who had both on each occasion been in the hotel at Paddington. Then he was ignored. There was some anxiety, something about the delay on the flight. And then his own name shouted. A man running towards him, and shouting his name. Colt's gun up, and Colt dragging him. The sight of the marksman going to the crouch with the handgun held out in front of his face. The other man shouting his name and running between them and the marksman, and the battering of the gun. He thought he had seen the running man fall. They had shot their own man…
Colt had brought the car off the motorway. They were past Crowthorne, past Bramshill. Close to Stratfield Saye where he and Sara had twice taken the boys to walk round the Wellington estate. Close to Stratfield Mortimer, where he had met Colt in the pub car park. He felt through the tear at the knee of his trousers, and his fingers were sticky from his own blood.
Condition black Page 32