‘I’ve been offered a huge amount of money, more than a million, to write a book,’ Janet said. ‘“I was going to marry a reincarnated monster”, that sort of thing.’
‘Are you going to do it?’
‘Be a revenge of sorts.’
‘You want revenge that much?’
‘Yes,’ she said, shortly, positively. There was another moment of silence. ‘You frightened?’
‘Yes. You?’
‘I’ve got more reason than anyone to be. I’ve seen him in action.’
Although it was an FBI plane and the transfer between legal jurisdictions was under Bureau control it was the US Marshal’s Service which officially took Harold Taylor into American custody aboard the aircraft in the private section of Heathrow airport. It was done totally unannounced, without any of the court journey hysteria. Taylor was smuggled from the still besieged prison in a closed, unmarked van initially without police escort; and when it slotted into place it was discreet, the two cars again unmarked and the solitary motorcyclist using neither siren nor flashing lights.
There were six marshals and because they were armed they did not physically disembark on to British soil. While their commander signed official acceptance of the prisoner, two more immediately hand- and ankle-cuffed Taylor, although not with the complete manacle chains which were laid out in readiness.
The aircraft was a Boeing 737, but without the conventional interior. There was a central conference area, with side desks equipped with telephones. Two held television sets. There were also five easy chairs, set against the bulkhead. The next cabin was given over to a communications centre, manned by an operator. There was a secure area at the very rear, with airline-style seats but with arm and leg mountings to which Taylor’s hand-and leg-cuffs were attached. Taylor docilely allowed himself to be tethered, at once pressing the armrest button to recline his seat back as far as possible and closing his eyes: there was no useful performance to give here. Beyond the conference room and its adjoining galley and bar, to the front of the plane, were two executive office suites, also with telephones, and a final area, just before the flight deck, with three made-up bunks on each side of the bulkhead.
The rest of the Americans boarded half an hour after Taylor and his now departed English police and prison warder escort. As the agent now in official charge Powell went at once to the rear, to check upon his prisoner. Taylor kept his eyes shut, although he was obviously not asleep. The chief marshal, a former Green beret, said, ‘Can’t see what all the fuss is about.’
Powell said, ‘I hope you don’t.’
The group had spread themselves around the conference section, the largest area available, by the time Powell returned along the aircraft. The pilot came back immediately after take-off. His name was Al Jones, he was a Texan and he said at once there was a lot of bad feeling in the state that Taylor couldn’t face the death penalty.
‘People know about the deal before, the governor would never have got re-elected.’
‘You’re going to get your trial and your excitement,’ promised Powell.
‘He really do that stuff with his face?’
‘He’s a hell of an act,’ said Geoffrey Sloane. Bitterly he added: ‘I wasn’t called. So it was a waste of time my being dragged into it.’
Everyone except the pilot knew the protest was at being identified by Taylor. The Texan promised that the bar was stocked and there were food boxes, cold meats, salad and fruit, for them to help themselves, and said, ‘Think I might take a look-see in the back. You think he might do it during the flight?’
‘Al,’ said Sloane, the irritation obvious in his voice. ‘You know what happens if he gets to know you? Thinks you’re an enemy? He kills you, cuts you up, in his next life. You get to die.’
Jones smiled, although uncertainly. ‘You mean it’s true? You believe him?’
‘We believe him,’ said Powell. ‘We wish we didn’t.’
‘Maybe I won’t go back,’ said the man.
‘Best you don’t,’ said Powell. It was difficult to believe how very recently he would have been embarrassed at a conversation like this.
The forensic expert volunteered to be bar steward, serving himself a large Scotch first. The rest of the men took beer. There was hardly any conversation. Westmore kept drinking but the specially recalled Lobonski and Sloane stopped after one beer. Both settled in easy chairs, closing their eyes but not sleeping. No-one considered using the bunks. The pilot came back from time to time with flight details.
‘We’re going to get quite a reception,’ he said, on the third visit. ‘I thought we’d go into Andrews Air Force base, for security, but it’s to be Dulles, for everyone to see.’
‘I’ve been told,’ said Powell.
‘Director’s going to be there himself.’
‘I heard that, too.’
Clarence Gale was patched through when they were an hour out of Washington. Powell took the call on one of the side desk telephones.
‘How’s it going?’ demanded the man.
Powell closed his eyes at the inanity of the question. ‘How it should.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘Pretending to sleep, in the secure area.’
‘He manacled?’
‘Hand-and ankle-cuffs.’
‘I want him fully manacled when he arrives.’
Powell sighed. ‘OK.’
‘There’s going to be a press conference. I want you beside me.’
‘OK,’ said Powell again, careless if the contempt sounded in his voice.
‘Everyone’s to stay in the plane until I come aboard. Understood?’
‘Understood,’ said Powell. As he made his way to the rear of the aircraft Powell wondered, cynically, if Clarence Gale had allowed himself to be photographed holding the pointless conversation. When he told the marshal in command about the manacles the man said they’d intended to do it anyway.
Taylor wasn’t pretending to sleep any more. He said, ‘You and Amy together?’
Powell was glad he was half turned away from the man, hoping his reaction didn’t show. ‘No.’
‘Lot of body language between you, in court.’
Powell turned to confront the man. ‘All in your mind … whichever one you’re using.’
‘I’m never wrong.’
He had to turn the conversation! ‘Then how come you’re in chains, on your way back to life in a penitentiary? I got to keep reminding you of that?’
There was just the slightest familiar tightening around the eyes. ‘You and Amy got me, didn’t you? You and her, working together.’
‘Which is what we do. And did. Worked together to catch you. Which was easy.’
‘It won’t be, next time.’ Should he tell the arrogant bastard?
‘Think about it!’ demanded Powell. ‘You committed suicide, as Maurice Barkworth—’
‘To get back quicker,’ interrupted Taylor. He would! He’d terrify the motherfucker.
‘You’re a failure. Always caught!’
‘It doesn’t matter! I can always come back!’
‘You’re twenty-five. I’m going to see to it that you’re wrapped in velvet for the next forty years at least. Solitary confinement, so another Jethro Morrison can’t get to you. Food tested. Doctors’ checks, all the time. You’re going to be the most cosseted man in the world. And when you die, years from now, it’s going to be about a decade before you reincarnate. And by then I’ll have seen to it that everyone you want to harm will have disappeared.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘Forty years in a federal prison? Hell of a long time.’
‘Not if I do commit suicide. And then possess next time, not wait to reincarnate. I can, you know. Possess someone. That would screw your timetable, wouldn’t it?’
‘Packed in velvet. Watched every minute of every day, like the freak you are.’
‘Good act, Wes.’
Powell ached to get away but was determined not to give Taylor th
e satisfaction. ‘You think I’m frightened of you?’
‘I know you’re frightened of me. You’ve every reason to be. You know why I wouldn’t make a statement without you? Wanted to see who you were; what you were like. Always necessary for me to know the targets. I expect a lot of people who got in my way this time – people like you and Amy, everyone on this plane who know I’ll punish them – will go insane. Lose their minds before they lose their lives. What about that, Wes? You think you and Amy will go mad?’
‘No,’ said Powell, as strongly as he could. ‘You’re not going to send me mad.’
The pilot’s landing announcement broke the confrontation. As Powell turned to leave Taylor said, ‘But I do frighten you, don’t I?’
Powell turned, at the door. ‘You don’t frighten me. It’s what you are that frightens me.’
‘Good!’ mocked the other man. ‘That was the truth. Denying you and Amy are together wasn’t. It wouldn’t have saved her, even if it had been.’
At the pilot’s invitation Powell went on to the flight deck for the Dulles landing, astonished at the scene he could see through the window. From their approach height it appeared they were coming into the only cleared space amid a seething, ant-like mass stretching out from the perimeter, engulfing the car parks and the approach roads, a solid mass of people. There was an odd impression at the touchdown, a surge of movement – people raising their arms, beseeching, praying, kneeling, weeping – but no immediate sound above the whining engines as the aircraft taxied to where it was directed. Only when the engines were turned off could the noise of so many people be heard; it was even greater when Jones opened his flight deck window. The comparison came at once to Powell, who’d taken Ann to Niagara Falls during their honeymoon. But that was scarcely an analogy. This was a much greater, continuous sound, thousands upon thousands of voices making up a deafening, numbing roar. The entire perimeter of their parking area was ringed by three solid lines of arm-linked soldiers and National Guardsmen and police and when the aircraft finally stopped those lines bulged inwards from every side as the crowd attempted to surge forward.
Powell was aware of Jones demanding permission to take off and of the control tower’s reply that so many people had inundated the airport that it had already been closed to all commercial traffic and that there was insufficient runway length left for him to leave.
Incredibly the three-strand line held. A limousine, followed by two television vans, appeared along the narrow lane kept open to the terminals and control tower buildings and a set of old-fashioned, platformed disembarkation steps, not the normal Dulles elevated passenger carrier, was manoeuvred into place. The copilot and flight engineer swung the door inwards and the noise became even louder.
Harold Taylor appeared from the rear of the aircraft, shuffling in his ankle restraints now linked by chains to those tightly locking his hands, in turn tethered to his thick, leather and chained waistband. A marshal was attached, either side, by a further linking chain.
Too late Powell realized that Amy was sitting in the seat next to the door to the rear security area, She hurried up when Taylor emerged but stopped as the man spoke and Powell saw her already pale face blanch.
Powell pushed by the man and his guards, physically reaching out to Amy. ‘What did he say?’
‘That next time he’s going to possess someone already living … that we won’t escape.’
Powell couldn’t think of anything to say, and before he could any words were impossible above the roar from outside that filled the aircraft when the doors were opened. The space was abruptly filled by the urgent figure of Clarence Gale, swathed in the odd, almost heavenly light of the television strobe lights behind. His normally stick-thin body was bulged by a protective bulletproof vest.
The Director thrust out his hand to Powell, who automatically responded, and then gestured to the rest of the FBI personnel. He looked finally to the chain-encased Taylor, who smirked and said ‘Boo!’
‘You’ve got nothing to laugh about,’ said Gale, beckoning Powell to the chained group’s other side for them to emerge on the step’s platform at the same time. Powell obediently slotted himself into place. He smiled ruefully at Amy, who grimaced back.
The noise reached an even more deafening crescendo as they emerged. It was impossible for them to see, because of the lights glaring up at them. They halted at Gale’s arm wave, posing there. Powell wondered how five of them, three chained together, were going to be able to descend the steps without looking ridiculous.
The shots were never heard.
Powell was aware of the marshals thrusting back into him and of suddenly losing any feeling in his left arm and of the splattered wetness of Taylor’s blood. One of the marshals was also hit, swinging the group around towards Powell who was suddenly confronted by Taylor’s body – but that was all: most of the head upon which two faces had once appeared had gone. As he fell backwards, towards the plane, Powell saw Amy, screaming soundlessly, and she was covered with blood, too. He reached out, but couldn’t get to her. He realized it wasn’t an aimless scream – her mouth was forming the same word, over and over again, and then he knew what it was.
Amy was saying ‘Who?’ and what she was asking was who would Harold Taylor choose immediately to possess, not giving them any time, any place, to hide.
THE END
A Biography of Brian Freemantle
Brian Freemantle (b. 1936) is one of Britain’s most prolific and accomplished authors of spy fiction. His novels have sold more than ten million copies worldwide, and have been optioned for numerous film and television adaptations.
Born in Southampton, on the southern coast of England, Freemantle began his career as a journalist. In 1975, as the foreign editor at the Daily Mail, he made headlines during the American evacuation of Saigon: As the North Vietnamese closed in on the city, Freemantle became worried about the future of the city’s orphans. He lobbied his superiors at the paper to take action, and they agreed to fund an evacuation for the children. In three days, Freemantle organized a thirty-six-hour helicopter airlift for ninety-nine children, who were transported to Britain. In a flash of dramatic inspiration, he changed nearly one hundred lives—and sold a bundle of newspapers.
Although he began writing espionage fiction in the late 1960s, he first won fame in 1977, with Charlie M. That book introduced the world to Charlie Muffin—a disheveled spy with a skill set more bureaucratic than Bond-like. The novel, which drew favorable comparisons to the work of John Le Carré, was a hit, and Freemantle began writing sequels. The sixth in the series, The Blind Run, was nominated for an Edgar Award for Best Novel. To date, Freemantle has penned fourteen titles in the Charlie Muffin series, the most recent of which is Red Star Rising (2010), which brought back the popular spy after a nine-year absence.
In addition to the stories of Charlie Muffin, Freemantle has written more than two dozen standalone novels, many of them under pseudonyms including Jonathan Evans and Andrea Hart. Freemantle’s other series include two books about Sebastian Holmes, an illegitimate son of Sherlock Holmes, and the four Cowley and Danilov books, which were written in the years after the end of the Cold War and follow an odd pair of detectives—an FBI operative and the head of Russia’s organized crime bureau.
Freemantle lives and works in London, England.
A school photograph of Brian Freemantle at age twelve.
Brian Freemantle, at age fourteen, with his mother, Violet, at the country estate of a family acquaintance, Major Mears.
Freemantle’s parents, Harold and Violet Freemantle, at the country estate of Major Mears.
Brian Freemantle and his wife, Maureen, on their wedding day. They were married on December 8, 1956, in Southampton, where both were born and spent their childhoods. Although they attended the same schools, they did not meet until after they had both left Southampton.
Brian Freemantle (right) with photographer Bob Lowry in 1959. Freemantle and Lowry opened a branch office of the Bristol Ev
ening World together in Trowbridge, in Wiltshire, England.
A bearded Freemantle with his wife, Maureen, circa 1971. He grew the beard for an undercover newspaper assignment in what was then known as Czechoslovakia.
Freemantle (left) with Lady and Sir David English, the editors of the Daily Mail, on Freemantle’s fiftieth birthday. Freemantle was foreign editor of the Daily Mail, and with the backing of Sir David and the newspaper, he organized the airlift rescue of nearly one hundred Vietnamese orphans from Saigon in 1975.
Freemantle working on a novel before beginning his daily newspaper assignments. His wife, Maureen, looks over his shoulder.
Brian Freemantle says good-bye to Fleet Street and the Daily Mail to take up a fulltime career as a writer in 1975. The editor’s office was turned into a replica of a railway carriage to represent the fact that Freemantle had written eight books while commuting—when he wasn’t abroad as a foreign correspondent.
Many of the staff secretaries are dressed as Vietnamese hostesses to commemorate the many tours Freemantle carried out in Vietnam.
The Freemantle family on the grounds of the Winchester Cathedral in 1988. Back row: wife Maureen; eldest daughter, Victoria; and mother-in-law, Alice Tipney, a widow who lived with the Freemantle family for a total of forty-eight years until her death. Second row: middle daughter, Emma; granddaughter, Harriet; Freemantle; and third daughter, Charlotte.
Freemantle in 1999, in the Outer Close outside Winchester Cathedral. For thirty years, he lived with his family in the basement library of a fourteenth-century house with a tunnel connecting it to the cathedral. Priests used this tunnel to escape persecution during the English Reformation.
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