by Tom Barber
If the plane was full before she could book a seat, she had a serious problem. McGuinness would find her somehow. He always did.
She waited for her turn to feed her train ticket into the machine to exit the platform and looked around the busy station in bewilderment, wondering where to go next. To her relief, she spotted an information desk in the middle of the concourse; she walked over and asked the guy behind the counter where the train to the airport left from.
He pointed towards the platform for the Heathrow Express and she turned, then froze in absolute terror.
Although he hadn’t seen her, McGuinness was just coming through a ticket barrier from another platform.
He must’ve been on the train right behind hers, and his had been on time.
Not realising how close he was to his target, McGuinness had just arrived from Oxford and was looking at the departing flights board from Heathrow that Paddington put on display to assist people going to the airport.
He glanced around the train station, but saw no sign of the kid. He knew he wouldn’t be so lucky that she would just walk into view. If she was even in London in the first place. She might never have left Oxford, in which case he’d have to go back, despite knowing his description was probably already doing the rounds. She’d pay for that.
His cell rang, and he saw it was an international call; the people from Baltimore who’d hired him. He’d changed SIM cards to a back-up after being told by the man Marco that the previous number had been compromised and that the police now had it. McGuinness had sent them the new number once the old SIM had been destroyed.
‘We’re seeing action on BBC World news,’ Marco told him. ‘Is she dead?’
‘I think her handler is,’ McGuinness answered.
‘But she isn’t?’
‘She got away. But I’m feeling she’s gonna try to come back to the States.’
‘Why?’
‘She’s got no-one else to go to here. Her instinct will be to go home, somewhere familiar. Those two cops in New York, the man and woman, protected her before. She’ll run to them.’
‘We’ll put people on Kennedy and Newark. I’m offering you up good cash to get this done and you keep failing. We end up doing it ourselves, I’m not paying you shit.’
‘I don’t fail. I’ll get her. What’s the story with that pair in New York? Where are they?’
‘My guys haven’t seen the blond guy for a few days.’
‘And the kid’s mother?’
At the D.C. hotel, Vargas walked across the empty lobby quickly, the staffer on night-duty at the reception desk nodding to her as she passed, and she pushed the button for the elevator, taking it to the 2nd floor. When she reached the room, she buzzed herself in and entered, letting it close behind her, wanting to gather her stuff then leave for the airport immediately to get down to New Orleans.
But a moment after she walked in, she saw her TV was on, set to BBC World, the volume so low she hadn’t heard it from the corridor.
The screen was showing a helicopter feed of the shooting in Oxford, but that wasn’t what had caught Vargas’ attention.
She was staring instead at the woman sitting in the corner of the room.
She was somewhere in her late forties with deep scars all over her face and was leaning back in a chair near the window.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ the stranger asked.
Recognising who she was immediately from the damage on her face, Vargas’ hand snapped to the holster on her hip, but a larger palm caught her wrist and she felt a gun pushed into the back of her neck.
‘Vincent tells me you and he have been having some conversations,’ Bianca Stefani said from her seat. ‘I mean, he did after one of my boys followed him here and saw him with you.’
Vargas stared at Carla Lombardi’s mortal enemy, the aftermath from the most recent attempt to kill the dead woman’s youngest daughter playing out on the TV.
‘You’ve kept us up all night, bitch,’ Stefani told Vargas, rising from the chair. ‘And you got no idea how much I dislike waiting for things I want.’
FORTY TWO
Knowing she daren’t risk taking the Heathrow Express now in case McGuinness spotted her, Issy realised she needed to find an alternative way to get to the airport. Heart racing, she followed the signs for the London Underground and ran down the stairs onto the busy concourse. She found a large map on a wall but was dismayed to find it looked completely different from the much more familiar layout back in New York City, an intricate web of different colored lines and station names she didn’t recognise.
She glanced nervously around her, checking all the time for the man pursuing her, but couldn’t see any sign of him; she then turned with her back to the wall beside the map and looked at the crowds of people passing by. Quickly, she checked the money Chalky had given her, then came to a decision. She knew she had to book her ticket and find a way to alter her appearance, guessing her description would’ve have been circulated to police all over Oxfordshire and possibly here in London too. She couldn’t risk being stopped at the airport. And the subway here was too confusing. A car would be so much easier.
Pulling her England rugby cap low, she made her way cautiously back up the stairs, ready to run like hell if she saw McGuinness, but she couldn’t see him in the crowds.
Remembering that night on Long Island, when the knife had grazed her cheek as she turned at the last second, she turned right at the top of the steps and following the signs, walked swiftly in the direction of the taxi ranks, feeling so exposed it took every ounce of willpower not to start running, waiting any second for a knife from somewhere to slam into her neck or face.
But she made it outside, and less than three minutes later, she was sitting in a black cab being taken to a shopping mall the driver had recommended. She’d rather have gone straight to Heathrow, but knew she had to do this first.
Once they’d pulled up outside the Westfield shopping mall ten minutes later and she’d paid the fare, she walked inside and after quick look around, found what she wanted; a drug store called Boots. She’d been in one before in Oxford with Chalky, the English equivalent of CVS or Duane Reade. She bought what she was looking for, then locked herself in the disabled toilet of the mall, praying that no-one would disturb her.
With the door secured, she placed a small bottle of shampoo on the shelf and then opened a packet of brown hair dye. After studying the instructions, she put on the little plastic gloves that came with the product before carefully mixing the liquids and then slathering it all over her hair. Once she was satisfied she’d covered it all, she checked the clock on her phone to start timing.
While the dye did its thing, she took a brown eyeliner and pale pink lipstick out of the Boots bag. Vargas didn’t let her wear makeup yet, but Issy had seen it in the store and decided it would help make her look older. She’d seen Vargas apply it, as well as watching online tutorials about using the products, so knew what to do. After she’d run the eyeliner above and under her eyelashes carefully, she looked at her reflection. It seemed OK; then she applied the lipstick, which she thought tasted horrible and felt odd on her lips. She’d put on too much, so rubbed it off and started again, but more carefully this time.
Once finished, she studied herself in the mirror, pleased with what she’d achieved, deciding that overall, the makeup made her look closer to fifteen than almost twelve. Her natural skill with the products also meant she didn’t look like a kid playing dress-up.
Then, with nothing else to do, she checked her phone, and waited. Although it was single occupancy, she felt horribly vulnerable being stuck in the small toilet; the sense of being trapped and isolated was overwhelming, with nothing to do but check her watch. Every second was another opportunity for McGuinness to be waiting for her the moment she opened that door, ready to cut her throat or shoot her in the head. He seemed to be almost psychic in knowing where she was.
The seconds crawled by, but then she remembered she sti
ll hadn’t bought her ticket so used the remaining time to purchase one to New Orleans using Chalky’s card, the mall’s Wi-Fi much stronger than that on the train. To her great relief, it processed, and the time was 1:09pm, the flight now leaving in two and a half hours.
When the time for her hair was up, she used the washbasin to start rinsing out the dye. The emergency bag beside her was one Chalky had put together, and inside was a change of clothes, a different baseball cap and sunglasses. They’d played around with some different looks, which she’d enjoyed, and although none of the outcomes would survive a determined check, they were enough to avoid a passing glance, or so they’d both hoped. The attack in Oxford would’ve made the news, and she didn’t know how long the trick play of her going to Nottingham would last.
After she was satisfied she’d washed all the dye out, she used paper towels and then the hand dryer to dry her hair, which now it was shorter didn’t take long. Still slightly damp, she combed it out and when she studied herself again in the mirror, turning her head from side to side, she saw the dye had worked, her hair now darker again which she hoped made her less recognisable.
On her left hand, she saw Take Tablet still scrawled there, Chalky having written it this morning in the café before McGuinness appeared and left her running for her life. She felt sick again and closed her eyes, a wave of fear and worry for Chalky washing over her, wishing he was here with her. Then she thought of Vargas and Archer, so far away, and several tears did spill down her cheeks.
You can do this. Wiping her eyes, she flushed to pretend she’d been using the facilities for normal activities just in case someone was outside, stuffed her old ball cap in the trash, then put the new one on and exited the toilet. She went through the store towards the exit, hurrying past a person in a wheelchair and a line of people waiting for the restroom, all of whom gave her accusatory looks as she left.
She stopped near the exit, people flowing past her as they came and went, looking for signs of the police or the tall man, but saw neither. Then her eyes went back to a clothing store, and with it she suddenly realised something: she had no luggage. She’d used Chalky’s card in Oxford to withdraw the most he’d told her a machine would allow on his account, £300, but she still had £240 left. Enough for what she needed.
Five minutes later, she walked out of the store with a new bag, two sets of jeans, shorts and t-shirts inside, the tags cut off at her request by the salesperson who’d rung up her order, the clothes paid for in cash. Showing up to Heathrow with no hand baggage or a suitcase was a potential pitfall she needed to avoid. She exited the mall, her eyes under the red Liverpool FC hat on her head searching nervously for McGuinness, and stood waiting for another black cab to pass with its light on. The driver who’d dropped her here had told her where to wait and that she’d find one before too long. He was right; one pulled up moments later.
‘Where you going to, love?’ the driver asked, a big burly man who had the same build as her uncle when he was alive. However, unlike her uncle, this man had a kind face.
‘Heathrow, please. Terminal…Five.’
‘You all alone?’ he asked uncertainly, looking past her.
‘I’m flying out to meet my dad,’ she said, smiling with as much confidence as she could muster, and the man grinned.
‘Alright, we’ll get you there quickly,’ he said, his suspicions dissolving. A street camera on a post nearby captured the girl getting into the vehicle, but no-one in the Met was monitoring that feed.
Yet.
‘Who tried?’ the young Baltimore mob cugine called Roberto asked, as Vargas was escorted downstairs to their car in the basement of the D.C hotel. They’d taken the precaution of using one of the stairwells to avoid being seen by the public. She had a gun jammed against the middle of her back, and was very sure the man holding it wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. ‘I knew the brat was alive, but I never heard the backstory.’
‘Some crew from Florida,’ Marco replied, continuing some conversation they seemed to have been having before she walked into her hotel room. ‘Hired people from New York, then went in to finish it themselves when NYC couldn’t get the job done. Happened in some dump tenement block in Harlem.’
‘Tooled up?’
‘With an arsenal.’ He jabbed Vargas with the pistol shoved into her back. ‘Ain’t that right? You were there.’
‘And this kid made it out?’ Roberto asked.
‘Against the odds. She had protection. This bitch was one of them.’
Walking in front of them, Stefani’s eyes glittered. ‘Call McGuinness. Tell him to track down the kid but hold back on wasting her until I say so.’
‘Why?’
‘Killing her quickly ain’t enough. She’s Carla’s, so I got a plan for her. I didn’t know she had a new family.’
She turned and looked back at Vargas as they reached the basement.
‘Let’s see how bad she wants you to survive.’
‘Where are you going today, young lady?’ a female check-in agent at Heathrow’s Terminal 5 asked Isabel, the eleven year old girl standing as tall as she could manage in front of the desk. She’d tried to get a self-service machine to print off her boarding pass, but to her concern the screen had told her to go to a desk to complete check-in. She guessed it was for extra scrutiny because of her age.
‘New Orleans,’ Issy told her, wearing her cap back to front so the woman could see her face.
As the check-in agent took her passport, she glanced down at the girl, giving her the same look that the taxi driver who’d brought her here had earlier. ‘Travelling all alone?’
‘Mom’s in New York,’ Issy said, trying to recapture that innocent enthusiasm that had convinced the cabbie. I’m so happy to be going there, I couldn’t possibly be lying to you. ‘I’m meeting my dad in New Orleans. They’re divorced,’ she added as an afterthought, hoping the additional detail would add weight to her lie.
The BA agent swept the false American passport through the scanner connected to her computer, looking at the screen and tapping some keys. ‘Why were you in the UK?’
‘Camp.’
‘Where?’
‘Oxford,’ she said smoothly, before inwardly wincing, realising she’d just tied herself to a city where there’d been a shooting and a lot of police activity in the past few hours. ‘Summer high school program,’ she added, remembering reading one of the brochures inside the pub when Chalky was on his phone.
‘Cutting it short?’
‘Visiting my dad for a few days. It’s his birthday tomorrow.’
‘Your ticket’s one way. Did your dad mean to book a return? Surely you’ve got to get back to camp?’
‘We’re not sure how long I’m staying,’ she said, keeping her smile in place but kicking herself again.
‘What happened to your cheek?’ the agent asked as she continued tapping keys on her computer. Her eyes came up and lingered on the stitched-up cut.
‘Accident with a kitchen knife,’ Issy replied smoothly, knowing the closer to the truth the better.
‘You don’t mind me saying, you seem a little young for fifteen.’
‘Thanks, ma’am. Something every girl my age likes to hear.’
The woman stared down at the girl uncertainly, her instincts telling her something wasn’t quite right. She studied the young girl’s body language carefully, checking to see if she looked away or seemed otherwise uneasy. But Issy maintained eye contact and smiled back guilelessly. Naturally, the gate agent wasn’t aware she was working at a disadvantage, with absolutely no idea of the things the young girl in front of her had already seen and experienced in her short life. Other children might have been intimidated and overwhelmed by this situation but Isabel Lombardi, now Vargas, wasn’t, displaying an inner strength she’d inherited from both her parents.
That confidence sealed the deal. The check-in agent printed off her boarding pass, scribbled the gate number on it, then handed the ticket over. However, as Isabel t
ook it, she noticed the woman held onto it for a second, her eyes studying the child.
‘You’re all set, Olivia. Have a good flight.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, giving her a beaming smile. ‘Sure I will.’
She left the desk, feeling the woman’s eyes stay on her. If they took her in, it wouldn’t be the worst thing, but they wouldn’t understand who they were dealing with in McGuinness. They’d think she was just a kid exaggerating, but Issy had seen what he could do first-hand and knew how dangerous the guy hunting her was.
She walked behind the agents’ desks and went towards the security section, then risked the quickest of glances back at the woman who’d checked her in. She was now talking to a family of five, laden with bags and hats sporting the Union Jack, maybe passengers on the New Orleans flight too.
The agent didn’t turn to look back at her.
So far, so good.
FORTY THREE
Half an hour later, hundreds of passengers for the afternoon British Airways flights had passed through the check-in section of Departures and like Issy, headed on for the security inspections. A few individuals were appearing late as always, most often a businessman travelling light or people who’d been caught in traffic, but the bulk of the crowds had thinned.
Now things had quietened down in her area, the female BA gate agent who’d checked Isabel in was sitting behind her kiosk, no passengers currently waiting for her. She looked distracted. Someone spoke to her, but she didn’t respond.
‘Earth to Mary,’ her fellow agent called Jason said, rising off his swivel seat and walking over, stretching. ‘I’m going to Costa. You want a cuppa?’