A Devil Is Waiting - Jack Higgins [86]
Henri, holding the umbrella over his head with one hand, pushed the wheelchair with the other to the Mercedes under the overhang. He opened the trunk, took out the two bags, then closed the wheelchair and placed it inside.
Someone said, “Can I help you, sir?”
Henri turned as a man moved out of an exit tunnel a few feet away, wearing a peaked cap, yellow oilskins streaming. He half turned, looking toward the Lear, and Henri saw that he had “Airport Police” on his back and he was holding a radio.
“And what exactly is going on here, sir?”
“Such a shame,” Henri said as if to himself.
“What is, sir?” the policeman asked.
“Oh, life,” Henri said. “Everything going so smoothly one minute and a total fuckup the next.”
He took a silenced Walther from his right-hand raincoat pocket and shot the policeman in the heart, hurling him back against the next vehicle, a Toyota service van. He’d dropped his radio to the ground, and Henri stamped on it, picked it up and threw it several cars away, then went round to the rear of the Toyota and found that the door was unlocked. He opened it, dragged the body round and heaved it inside, slamming the door shut, then he returned to the Mercedes, picked up the bags, and returned to the Learjet, where the engines were already rumbling.
Owen, headphones and mike on as he talked to control, glanced over his shoulder and, seeing him enter, closed the door. He received permission to move and felt a sudden elation as Henri eased into the left-hand seat.
They taxied to the end of the runway, paused, rain drumming against the fuselage, then, on the instruction from the control tower, took off, climbing fast to thirty thousand feet, leaving the rain behind and leveling at forty, setting a general course southwest.
Henri had put on the copilot’s headphones and mike. “How far?”
“Four thousand miles, perhaps a little more.”
“How long would you say?”
“Depending on weather, particularly wind, eight hours.” Owen laughed. “I told you we’d manage okay at Frensham. You worry too much.”
“Tell that to the policeman who turned up out of nowhere back there and wanted to know what we were getting up to.” His laugh was ugly, and he shook his head. “No, I was forgetting. You can’t speak to him.”
“Why not?” Owen’s question was automatic.
“Because I double-tapped him in the heart.”
Owen shoved the Lear on autopilot and turned to him. “You killed him?”
“He wanted to know what was going on, so what did you expect me to say? We’re just kidnapping a British Army officer, so mind your own business and clear off?”
“What did you do with the body?”
“There was a Toyota service van parked next to the Mercedes. I put the body in the back.”
“Was that the best you could do?”
“Better than sticking it in the boot of the Mercedes. I stamped on his radio and threw it as far as I could along the line of parked cars. A number of the owners must be up there flying. No reason to connect us particularly. It could be anyone.” He got up. “I’m going to go check the woman, then I’ll find the brandy and make some coffee.”
Owen, filled with despair, said, “Damn you, and damn that interfering cop.”
His mobile phone sounded. He took it out, sat there looking at it, and Henri said, “Now, I wonder who that is. Probably your master’s voice all the way from Rubat. Aren’t you going to tell him the good news?”
Owen glared at him helplessly, then answered. Ali Selim said, “There you are, Owen. I’ve been waiting to hear from you. Where are you? Do I hear aircraft noises? Are you flying?”
Owen took a deep breath. “Yes, Henri and I have just left Frensham and are on our way in the Lear. Kelly decided he wanted no further part in the matter at hand and did a runner on us.”
“How unfortunate for him. Someone should have told him that there’s no place to hide. So, what news of Captain Gideon?”
“We’ve got her. She’s deep in a Seconal-induced sleep in the back of the cabin.”
Ali Selim