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.
As he contemplated a fish that should have been left in the sea, Stuart whispered to Maggie and Tara, ‘I haven’t a clue why we’re here or where we’re going, but I have to believe that in some way it’s connected with Connor.’
Maggie nodded, and quietly began to tell them everything she had found out since Joan’s death.
‘But I don’t think the people holding us can be the CIA,’ she said, ‘because I told Gutenburg that if I was missing for more than seven days, that video would be released to the media.’
‘Unless they’ve already found it,’ said Stuart.
‘That’s not possible,’ said Maggie emphatically.
‘Then who the hell are they?’ said Tara.
No one offered an opinion as the stewardess reappeared and silently removed their trays.
‘Have we got anything else to go on?’ Maggie asked after the stewardess had left them.
‘Only that somebody put a book of Yeats’s poems in my pocket,’ said Stuart.
Tara noticed Maggie give a start.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, looking anxiously at her mother, whose eyes were now filling with tears.
‘Don’t you understand what this means?’
‘No,’ said Tara, looking puzzled.
‘Your father must still be alive. Let me see it,’ said Maggie. ‘He might have left a message in it.’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t got it any more. I’d hardly opened it before a heavy appeared from the front of the plane and snatched it away,’ said Stuart. ‘I did notice that a few words were underlined, though.’
‘What were they?’ asked Maggie urgently.
‘I couldn’t make much sense of them.’
‘That doesn’t matter. Can you remember any of them?’
Stuart closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. ‘”Content“,’ he said suddenly.
Maggie smiled. ‘”I am content to live it all again, and yet again“.’
Flight 383 did land in Dallas on time, and when Connor and Romanov stepped out of the airport another white BMW was waiting for them. Had the Mafya placed a bulk order? Connor wondered. The latest pair of thugs to accompany them looked as if they had been hired from central casting - even their shoulder holsters were bulging under their jackets.
He could only hope that the Cape Town branch was a recent subsidiary, although he found it hard to believe that Carl Koeter, with over twenty years’ experience as the CIA’s senior operative in South Africa, wouldn’t be able to handle the latest new kid on the block.
The trip into downtown Dallas took just over twenty minutes. Connor sat silently in the back of the car, aware that he might be about to come face to face with someone else who had worked for the CIA for almost thirty years. Although they’d never met, he knew this was the biggest risk he had taken since arriving back in America. But if the Russians expected him to honour the most demanding clause in their contract, he had to have the use of the only rifle ideal for carrying out such an assignment.
After another silent journey they pulled up outside Harding’s Big Game Emporium. Connor slipped quickly into the shop, with Romanov and his two new shadows dogging his every step. He went up to the counter, while they pretended to take a keen interest in a rack of automatic pistols on the far side of the shop.
Connor glanced around. His search needed to be quick, unobtrusive but thorough. After a few moments he was convinced there were no security cameras in the shop.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said a young assistant dressed in a long brown coat. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I’m out here on a shooting trip, and I’d like to buy a rifle.’
‘Do you have any particular model in mind?’
‘Yes, a Remington 700.’
‘That should be no problem, sir.’
‘It may need a few modifications,’ said Connor.
The assistant hesitated. ‘Excuse me for a moment, sir.’ He disappeared through a curtain into a back room.
<
br /> A few moments later an older man, also dressed in a long brown coat, appeared through the curtain. Connor was annoyed: he had hoped to purchase the rifle without having to meet the legendary Jim Harding.
‘Good afternoon,’ the man said, looking closely at his customer. ‘I understand you’re interested in a Remington 700.’ He paused. ‘With modifications.’
‘Yes. You were recommended by a friend,’ said Connor.
‘Your friend must be a professional,’ said Harding.
As soon as the word ‘professional’ was mentioned, Connor knew he was being tested. If Harding hadn’t been the Stradivarius of gunsmiths, he would have left the shop without another word.
‘What modifications did you have in mind, sir?’ asked Harding, his eyes never leaving the customer’s.
Connor described in detail the gun he had left in Bogota, watching carefully for any reaction.
Harding’s face remained impassive. ‘I might have something that would interest you, sir,’ he said, then turned and disappeared behind the curtain.
Once again, Connor considered leaving, but within seconds Harding reappeared carrying a familiar leather case, which he placed on the counter.
‘This model came into our possession after the owner’s recent death,’ he explained. He flicked up the catches, opened the lid and swivelled the case round so that Connor could inspect the rifle. ‘Every part is hand-made, and I doubt if you’ll find a finer piece of craftsmanship this side of the Mississippi.’ Harding touched the rifle lovingly. ‘The stock is fibreglass, for lightness and better balance. The barrel is imported from Germany - I’m afraid the Krauts still produce the best. The scope is a Leupold 10 Power with mil dots, so you don’t even have to adjust for wind. With this rifle you could kill a mouse at four hundred paces, never mind a moose. If you’re technically minded, you would be capable of a half-minute of angle at one hundred yards.’ He looked up to see if his customer understood what he was talking about, but Connor’s expression gave him no clue. ‘A Remington 700 with such modifications is only sought after by the most discerning of customers,’ he concluded.
Connor didn’t remove any of the five pieces from their places, for fear Mr Harding would discover just how discerning a customer he was.
‘How much?’ he asked, realising for the first time that he had no idea of the price of a hand-crafted Remington 700.
‘Twenty-one thousand dollars,’ Harding said. ‘Though we do have the standard model should you …’
‘No,’ said Connor. ‘This one will be just fine.’
‘And how will you be paying, sir?’
‘Cash.’
‘Then I will require some form of identification,’ said Harding. ‘I’m afraid there’s even more paperwork since they passed the Instant ID and Registration Law to replace the Brady Bill.’
Connor took out a Virginia driver’s licence he’d bought for a hundred dollars from a pickpocket in Washington the previous day.
Harding studied the licence and nodded. ‘All we need now, Mr Radford, is for you to fill in these three forms.’
Connor wrote out the name, address and Social Security number of the assistant manager of a shoe store in Richmond.
As Harding entered the numbers into a computer, Connor tried to look bored, but he was silently praying that Mr Radford hadn’t reported the loss of his driver’s licence during the past twenty-four hours.
Suddenly Harding looked up from the screen. ‘Is that a double-barrelled name?’ he asked.
‘No,’ replied Connor, not missing a beat. ‘Gregory is my first name. My mother had a thing about Gregory Peck.’
Harding smiled. ‘Mine too.’
After a few more moments Harding said, ‘That all seems to be in order, Mr Radford.’
Connor turned and nodded to Romanov, who strolled over and extracted a thick bundle of notes from an inside pocket. He spent some time ostentatiously peeling off hundred-dollar bills, counting out 210 of them before passing them across to Harding. What Connor had hoped would appear no more than a casual purchase, the Russian was fast turning into a pantomime. The sidekicks might as well have stood out on the street and sold tickets for the performance.
Harding wrote out a receipt for the cash and handed it to Connor, who left without another word. One of the hoodlums grabbed the rifle and ran out of the shop onto the sidewalk as if he had just robbed a bank. Connor climbed into the back of the BMW and wondered if it was possible to attract any more attention to themselves. The car screeched away from the kerb and cut into the fast-moving traffic, setting off a cacophony of horns. Yes, Connor thought, they obviously could. He remained speechless as the driver broke the speed limit all the way back to the airport. Even Romanov began to look a little apprehensive. Connor was quickly discovering that the new Mafia in the States were still amateurish compared with their cousins from Italy. But it wouldn’t be long before they caught up, and when they did, God help the FBI.
Fifteen minutes later, the BMW drew up outside the entrance to the airport. Connor stepped out and began walking towards the revolving door as Romanov gave instructions to the two men in the car, finally peeling off several more hundred-dollar bills and handing them over. When he joined Connor at the check-in counter, he whispered confidently, ‘The rifle will be in Washington within forty-eight hours.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it,’ said Connor as they headed towards the departure lounge.
‘You know the whole of Yeats off by heart?’ asked Stuart in disbelief.
‘Um, most of it,’ admitted Maggie. ‘But then, I do reread a few poems almost every night before going to bed.’
‘Darling Stuart, you’ve still got so much to learn about the Irish,’ said Tara. ‘Now, try to remember some more of the words.’
Stuart thought for a moment. ‘“Hollow“!’ he said triumphantly.
‘”Through hollow lands and hilly lands“?’ asked Maggie.
‘That’s it.’
‘So it can’t be Holland we’re headed for,’ said Tara.
‘Stop being facetious,’ said Stuart.
‘Then try to remember some more words,’ said Tara.
Stuart began to concentrate once again. ‘”Friend“,’ he said eventually.
‘”Always we’d have the new friend meet the old“,’ said Maggie.
‘So we’re about to meet a new friend in a new country,’ said Tara.
‘But who? And where?’ said Maggie, as the plane continued its journey through the night.
27
WITHIN MOMENTS OF READING the priority message, Gutenburg was dialling the number in Dallas. When Harding came on the line, the Deputy Director of the CIA simply said, ‘Describe him.’
‘Six foot, possibly six one. He was wearing a hat, so I couldn’t see his hair colour.’
‘Age?’
‘Fifty. Could be a year or two either way.’
‘Eyes?’
‘Blue.’
‘Dress?’
‘Sports jacket, khaki pants, blue shirt, penny loafers, no tie. Smart but casual. I assumed he was one of ours, until I noticed that he was accompanied by a couple of well-known local hoodlums, who he tried to pretend weren’t with him. There was also a tall young man who never once opened his mouth, but he was the one who paid for the gun - in cash.’
‘And the first man made it clear he wanted those particular modifications?’
‘Yes. I’m pretty sure he knew exactly what he was looking for.’
‘Right - hold on to the cash. We may be able to identify a fingerprint from one of the bills.’
‘You won’t find any of his prints on them,’ said Harding. ‘The young man paid, and one of the hoodlums carried the gun out of the shop.’
‘Whoever it was obviously wasn’t willing to risk taking it through airport security,’ said Gutenburg. ‘The two thugs must simply have been couriers. What name did he sign the forms in?’
‘Gregory Peck Radford.’
‘Identification?’<
br />
‘Virginia driver’s licence. The address and date of birth all tied in with the correct Social Security number.’
‘I’ll have an agent with you in under an hour. He can start by e-mailing me any details you have on the two hoodlums, and I’ll need a police artist’s computerised sketch of the main suspect.’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Harding.
‘Why not?’
‘Because the whole transaction was recorded on video.’ Gutenburg couldn’t see Harding’s smile of satisfaction as he added, ‘Even you wouldn’t have spotted the security camera.’
Stuart continued to concentrate. ‘“Find out“!’ he said suddenly.
‘” I will find out where she has gone”,’ said Maggie with a smile.
‘We’re going to meet a new friend in a new country, and he’ll find us,’ said Tara. ‘Can you remember anything else, Stuart?’
‘“All things fall…”’
‘”… and are built again”,’ Maggie whispered as the man who had snatched the book out of Stuart’s hands reappeared by their side.
‘Now listen, and listen carefully,’ he said, looking down at them. ‘If you hope to survive - and I don’t give a damn either way - you will follow my instructions to the letter. Is that understood?’ Stuart stared into the man’s eyes and didn’t doubt that he looked upon the three of them as just another job. He nodded.
‘Right,’ the man continued. ‘When the plane lands, you will go directly to the baggage area, pick up your luggage and pass through customs without attracting any attention to yourselves. You will not, I repeat not, use the rest rooms. Once you’re through customs and in the arrivals area, you will be met by two of my men who will accompany you to the house where you’ll be staying for the foreseeable future. I will meet up with you again later this evening. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ said Stuart firmly on behalf of the three of them.
‘If any of you is stupid enough to make a run for it, or tries to enlist any help, Mrs Fitzgerald will be killed immediately. And if she’s not available for any reason, I get to choose between you two.’ He looked at Tara and Stuart. ‘Those were the terms Mr Fitzgerald agreed.’
The Eleventh Commandment (1998) Page 24