A Different War mg-4

by Craig Thomas

  Midday, Heathrow, and one of them was no more than ten yards from him, moving parallel and without concealing his interest, even signalling to the other man. They wanted him to know they were close.

  Gant had shaken them off in Oslo by raising the alarm, swamping the maintenance hangar with airport police. It had cleared the area around him, giving him the time and space to catch the morning flight to London. He needed to see Burton, explain Strickland and the-pausing to catch their reflections in the windows of the bookstall, he felt as if struck by a fist. The newspaper headlines, the pink Financial Times bearing a picture of Burton and someone who looked Eurasian celebrating a new transatlantic leasing partnership between Artemis Airways and the Skyliner.

  Disorientated, he could not be certain if it was the headline that disturbed him most, or the smaller item on the front page of the Herald Tribune… Hero's Arrest Sought, and himself staring back at him from the newspaper.

  In the reflecting window, one of the two men tailing him waved at him with a rolled newspaper, the briefest gesture, the clearest meaning. We know you, we have you… Gant suppressed a shiver. He felt rocked by tiredness and the news item, so that he snatched clumsily at the Herald Tribune and began reading it as if oblivious to the immediate danger.

  FBI warrant Mclntyre, then former Vietnam hero… It was Vance's financial affairs, and the accusation that he had left America to avoid interrogation; charges of conspiracy, bribes… Yes, Agent Mclntyre added that Gant was… He thrust the newspaper untidily back into the rack and turned away. The Burton story was emblazoned in other headlines Whiz-Kid Bounces Back… Delighted with Deal… Great Future Ensured… Burton and his lovely wife, Charlotte, pictured last night… Turning away, he felt himself already struggling in deep water against a riptide, even before he glimpsed the tail who had waved his newspaper grinning at him.

  Angrily, he snatched Vance's mobile phone from his pocket, swivelling on his heel as he did so yes, the second man, no attempt at indifference, they were determined to pressure him, like another bill falling on his doormat the moment he was declared bankrupt… He punched out the number Burton had given him and waited. The concourse seemed airless, its crowds devouring his oxygen.

  Thanks for screwing Vance's airplane!" he snapped even before Burton spoke.

  "Who is this?" he heard, but Burton already knew.

  "It was sabotage, Burton. I know the guy, I saw him on security videotape. The name Strickland mean anything to you?"

  "Gant? No, it doesn't who is he?"

  "One of the guys who's ridden off into the Badlands, Burton — just a nobody who downed two of Alan's airplanes. Maybe he was supposed to set you up for the deal you've just done? I wouldn't know!"

  "What the hell do you mean by that?"

  "Listen to me, Burton. You said you wanted answers. You were there when the guy died. I got the answer. The guy was screwed. Is that really what you wanted to know?"

  "You mean… it was deliberate? It was—?" Burton seemed winded. The two surveillance men had moved, but remained easily visible, unnerving Gant.

  "It can't have been sabotage—"

  "I'm telling you it was!"

  "Look, Gant, I'm sorry you've had to read it in the papers I don't want you to think I turned my back on Alan easily. I didn't. But, as you said, Alan is dead, his company and his airliner are finished. I had to do what I've done. I have thousands of people depending on me. I did what was for the best."

  After a long silence, Gant murmured: "Sure."

  "Are you continuing to pursue this?" Burton asked.

  The two men were still plainly visible. Did they belong to French counterintelligence, like the team in the hangar, like the man whose ID he now carried in his pocket? Edouard St. Cloud, agent ofDST. DST was it a French government thing?

  "Yes," he snapped, as if challenged.

  "Very well I'll pay your expenses, whatever they are. And I will listen to what you have to say, anything you discover. I — er, I must cut you off now, Gant. I have a waiting room full of people—"

  "OK-I'll get back to you."

  He cut the connection, continuing for a moment to stare at Vance's mobile phone, the one he had picked up from the sand on that headland overlooking the second crashed 494. The two-man team continued to hover about him like wasps.

  Taxis. He saw the sign, a black arrow pointing the way. He moved they followed.

  French counter-intelligence. He had tried to think it through on the flight from Oslo, but the ego had fought him, insisting on his scope for solitary action. The surveillance team, the newspaper headlines, had stripped him of that shallow confidence, and what he had entertained on the aircraft was now an imperative. This was local, it was European. He needed to talk to Aubrey, even if the old guy had retired along with Reagan and Thatcher, and the people who had run him in the Company. He needed advice and maybe hard to admit an operational controller. Hero's Arrest Sought… Screw you, Jack.

  He followed the arrows, the two men behind but not moving in, content to wait, watch. He had made one call from Oslo, to someone who owed him favours who was still in Archives at Langley. Where can I find

  Strickland?… Don 'tgive me that, they always keep tabs By midday, British time.

  He hadn't called him yet. Maybe he had been warned off, or was just dismissive because he, too, had read the headlines. Mclntyre had, on the surface, a watertight case against him. Vance had, damn him, wired him money. A Federal employee was on the take from big business. The Post would have put a half-dozen reporters on the story by now. He was news.

  Gant grimaced as he emerged into the cool midday light. A queue of tourists and businessmen at the taxi rank, a line of black cabs. The two men kept their distance, unhurried in their movements. The place was too public for them to try anything… Maybe they just wanted to see what he did, where he went, who he saw. The roar of a big jet taking off, the slamming of taxi doors.

  He joined the queue. The men hesitated, then hung back, as if they were determined to show him he was under no immediate physical threat.

  Just contained, controlled.

  He had to locate Strickland, he was the key. The bomb maker for whoever. Could Aubrey help? He shook his head, not knowing.

  The passenger in front of him, freshened with aftershave but with the back of his jacket deeply creased, got into a taxi, then it was his turn. He paused, his hand on the cab door. The two men smiled but did not move. He got into the taxi, a chilly sensation between his shoulder blades.

  "Central London I'll tell you where."

  The driver nodded and the taxi drew away from the kerb. He glanced back through the rear window. The tail-men were getting into the next cab. They'd follow him into London. He would have to lose them there before he made for Aubrey's place.

  Aubrey an old man, retired. What could he do? The people following Gant wanted him dead The signals of his success littered the ornately inlaid side table, one or two of them scattered on the intricate Persian carpet. And yet he was unable to suppress a fury that he knew originated in anxiety, in the possibility of failure.

  "Whichever shadowy master you are serving in the Elysee or the Quai d'Orsai or wherever, Roussillon, exposure is equally damaging to everyone involved in this affair!" David Winter-borne stormed.

  The Frenchman was seated uncomfortably, primly on a Sheraton chair.

  Fraser, Winterborne knew, was enjoying his discomfiture, even though he suppressed the signs of his pleasure.

  Twice twice!" Winterborne continued.

  "You let an amateur evade you even as you assure me that you believe Gant knows Strickland was involved!" The videotapes lay near the newspapers that blazoned the deal between Aero UK, Balzac-Stendhal and Artemis Airways. His own photograph was beneath many of the headlines, standing alongside Tim Burton and Bryan Coulthard. Early copies of the French press were equally enthusiastic, chauvinistic. Boeing was already mounting a counter-campaign in conjunction with the big American carriers. A transatlantic pr
ice war was in the offing and Skyliner was in the forefront of it.

  "And where is Strickland?" he continued, turning to Fraser, whose lolling posture on the chaise became the bolt-uprightness of a chastened schoolboy.

  "You must find Strickland he can't have just disappeared' "We're looking for him, sir."

  "Look harder' He turned his back on them, as if preparing for an appearance on the balcony overlooking Eaton Square.

  He had won. The daring of the fraud had kept Aero UK afloat for long enough, the sabotage had killed Vance Aircraft. Skyliner had saved Tim Burton, Europe's grand project had leasing orders beginning to flow in.

  Now these people Gant and Strickland and perhaps Marian threatened him.

  Somehow, Fraser and Roussillon had produced a whirlpool effect, drawing in people from their secret world. People opposed to him.

  "Fraser, you say there is an FBI warrant for Gant's arrest can that be used?"

  "I've made some enquiries, sir. The agent of the Bureau most closely involved is a man called Mclntyre. I've met him. He's dim and vindictive former Company man. He's persecuting Gant, not to put too fine a point—"

  "Can it beusecf?"

  "If Gant returns to the States, Mclntyre will put him out of harm's way. I'd bet on' He turned on them.

  "Why has Gant involved himself?"

  "Vance, probably. He was married to the daughter. He has a farm boy's view of the world. You know the Yanks, sir. They all hate big government, big business, out in the boondocks."

  "And he's dangerous?"

  "He has no proof of anything," Roussillon offered, brushing a dark lock of hair from his forehead.

  "Hardly thanks to you!"

  The Frenchman's cheeks reddened with affront.

  "I do not work for you, M'sieur Winterborne. I am not your paid man!"

  "You would find it hard to persuade your service or your government that their interests differ from mine, Roussillon. Effectively, you take my instruction." The Frenchman's eyes were polished with hatred.

  "If Gant has no proof, then he can do little harm. Especially as a convict. But meanwhile, Gant is in London, not Washington. Can he find Strickland, Fraser? How well does he know him?"

  "Not well. I don't think he knows where to start."

  "Not good enough. We do not know Gant well enough." He was suddenly tired of his anger. In his study and his secretary's office, his calls were being held, his business suspended. He should not have to be concerned with this menial and degrading litter-collection. Gant and Marian and Strickland, blowing like infuriating bits of paper in the breeze of the affair, eluding his pointed stick.

  "What do you suggest Fraser?"

  "Gant's still under surveillance even if he thinks he evaded us using the taxi-dodge in Piccadilly. There'll be plenty of opportunity to settle—" The ringing of a mobile phone interrupted Fraser.

  Disconcerted, he removed it from his pocket.

  "Fraser." He listened. Winterborne watched his features feign a retention of the easy confidence with which he had spoken. Then, his cheekbones slightly reddened, he looked up as he switched off the phone.

  "Well?"

  "Gant. He he's arrived at Aubrey's place."

  "Aubrey? What does he want with that damned old man? Eh, Fraser what does he want with him?" Like the two men in the room, Aubrey came to him in the moment of his triumph to remind him of something that already seemed as distant and unimportant as a childhood misdemeanour.

  "Aubrey can't do anything, sir—"

  "You have that in writing?" he snapped.

  "You have it from Aubrey himself?"

  He turned away. Aubrey would learn of the sabotage… What could or would he attempt, armed with that knowledge? Surely the forces of inertia, euphoria, government would all weigh on him, rendering him silent. No one, no one at all, saving Gant and perhaps Marian, would act. And Marian was hobbled by the same pressures that would constrain Aubrey. She had to be… which left Gant. Only Gant. Looking for Strickland, just as they were. If the two found each other… "Don't lose Gant," he warned.

  "Not for a moment. At the first chance, make certain you kill him."

  Aubrey's mood was almost that of a diarist, comfortable amid the flickering quarrel between Marian and her father. He was no more than intrigued by Marian's drama once the initial shock at her appearance, her weariness, had diminished.

  She herself had shaken off trauma by means of defiant anger.

  "Do you realise what you're saying, Tig!" Giles growled.

  "You're talking about David Winterborne, for heaven's sake! Why for what possible reason would David take such risks, go to such lengths?

  Good God, you're practically accusing him of attempted murder with this story of some builder's daughter!"

  "Daddy they are behaving like gangsters! Is that what you would tolerate?" Marian threw back, her cheeks flushed, her hands flinging her hair away from her face. Her forehead was pale, the skin beneath her eyes dark. To Aubrey, she looked like some wild prophetess.

  Perhaps she was… And yet Giles must be correct, surely, despite his own suspicions and David's wariness of him and the clandestine meetings at Uffingham. Once one brought it all under Giles' honest, direct gaze, it did seem tinged with the fantastical.

  "Well, Daddy?" Marian asked again, all but taunting her father. She had inherited all his moral sense and more; in her it had led to scepticism, rather than Giles' optimism.

  "Children…" Aubrey murmured good-humouredly.

  "I blame you, Kenneth, for much of this," Giles snapped at him.

  "You've always encouraged Tig's capacity for suspicion, for lifting up stones. And I think you're doing it now!" His features broke into a smile and he waggled his hand to fend off any witty riposte.

  "You know what I mean, Kenneth. And I'm right, however pompous I might sound."

  "Is he?" Marian challenged.

  "Are you about to dismiss Banks' daughter, the cheque in the post Michael Lloyd's murder?"

  "And Fraser," Aubrey murmured soberly.

  Giles, probably as an antidote to reflection, helped them to more coffee, then took his cup to the window, where he remained, looking out, statue like Marian's smile towards his back was warm, grateful.

  "Well?" she queried.

  "And Fraser, indeed. And me." At the window, Giles' shoulders flinched.

  "Yes, Daddy," she could not help triumphing.

  "Even you think I've stirred something up

  "But not David," he protested without turning.

  Aubrey waved her to silence, then said: "We can't go that far, I agree." Marian frowned, shaking her head. Giles visibly relaxed his posture.

  "But there are all the signs of—" He broke off in irritation as the doorbell sounded.

  "All the signs of a gigantic swindle for some purpose or other." His voice sharpened, quelling Marian's contemplated outburst. He heard

  Mrs. Grey's voice answering the video entry phone A moment later, she entered the drawing room.

  "I'm sorry to interrupt, Sir Kenneth." She glanced deferentially towards Giles Pyott, her attention slipping at once to the cafetiere which, against her better judgement, she had been requested to use. There's a gentleman, an American by his voice, who wishes to see you urgently. He's at the door now a Mr. Gant. Do you—?" She paused, ambushed by Aubrey's surprise and by the evidence that Giles' astonishment was as great.

  "I — er, Mrs. Grey, you'd better show him up," Aubrey flustered.

  "Yes, please let him in at once."

  "Very well, Sir Kenneth." She was already suspicious of anyone who could ruffle the calm waters in which she habitually swam.

  "Kenneth—?" Giles began apprehensively.

  "None of my doing. A coincidence worthy of a Victorian novel, perhaps?"

  "Kenneth, the man is in very great trouble. This isn't coincidence. If you had read your Times assiduously, you'd know there's an FBI warrant for his arrest on charges of—" '-being on the payroll," Gant murmured from
the doorway.

  "Hi, General Sir Kenneth." He shrugged childishly, self-deprecatingly, so that Aubrey saw him as a caricature of some prodigal son disclaiming any part in the wasting of the family fortune. He struggled to his feet with the aid of his stick. Marian's amusement was the equal of her curiosity, her glance studying Gant.

  "Mitchell, my dear boy!" Aubrey's effusiveness was overdone. Gant's stare hardened.

  "You look comfortable here, sir I'm interrupting…" There was an edge of sarcasm to the remark. Gant turned to Pyott.

  "It's just bullshit, sir. I wasn't on the take."

  "Just helping your former father-in-law?" He turned to Marian, whose arch expression disarmed.

  "Yes, I was," he replied with studied, affected politeness.

  "He was being screwed, begging your pardon, ma'am."

  "I apologise, Major." Marian stood up.

  "I don't think you need score any more baskets Marian Pyott," she added, holding out her hand. He shook it perfunctorily but warmly.

  "My daughter," Giles murmured.

  "Pleased to meet you, ma'am."

  "I take it this is not a social call, Mitchell sit down. Mrs. Grey, more coffee, please. Sit down, sit down—" Aubrey showed Gant to an armchair, on which he perched like some quiescent but alert hunting bird. He looked out of place, yet somehow self possessed.

  "You're looking well if tired," Aubrey added gauchely, as if he had forgotten his own self-assurance in Gant's presence.

  Interesting, Marian thought. Intriguing. It was, in a strange way, rather like being shown Daddy's medals as a girl, romantic and also a potent reminder that her father had a past that stretched back for years before her birth. This was Aubreys equally real past, personified by this confident American in his weekend clothes.

  Aubrey studied Gant. It was as if the man rendered what had been, for Aubrey, a dispassionate debate into something altogether more interesting. He shook the thought aside. The sense of his professional life was uncomfortable, like a waistcoat become too tight or old-fashioned.