Twice a Spy_ A Novel - Keith Thomson [30]
To the customs official, who looked on in horror, Drummond said, “When he comes to, please pass along my apologies.” Turning to Charlie, he added, “It was necessary, right?”
“I don’t know.” Charlie speculated that Marvin Lesser was Drummond. Or Drummond had been Marvin Lesser at some juncture. It was enough to process that du Frongipanier would almost certainly send them to prison now.
The customs official opened another drawer and jerked out a gun in a dusty leather holster. The revulsion twisting his face left little doubt about his intentions.
He needed to unsnap the holster in order to draw the gun. Trembling hands slowed him.
“Lights!” Charlie shouted, hoping his father had noticed the wall plate behind him and would understand.
Without glancing at the wall plate, Drummond reached behind his back and swatted the switch, plunging the room into what would have been complete blackness if not for the trickle of runway light through the air conditioner grate.
Hearing Drummond drop to the floor, Charlie did the same.
A gunshot thundered in the tiny chamber as a plume of flame revealed the customs official wielding a big revolver in two shaky hands.
The bullet bored through the wall to the left of where Drummond had been standing. Exterior light shone through the hole, illuminating a cloud of sawdust.
Du Frongipanier leaned forward, placing both elbows on the desk to brace the revolver, then aimed at Charlie. From less than ten feet away a miss seemed an impossibility.
With a heavy metallic clank, the thrown baton struck the barrel of the gun, evidently snaring the official’s gun hand as well. He screamed in pain as the gun dropped from his grip and banged against the floor.
While Charlie looked on, incredulous, Drummond whisked him out the far door.
Charlie ran after Drummond across a broad expanse of crumbling tarmac, a patchwork of shadows and spill of runway and instrument lights. In contrast to the jumbo jets screaming overhead toward the main airport, the little executive airport was dark and still, so still that it seemed possible that the unconscious guard and the customs official were the only other people present.
“Who’s Marvin Lesser?” Charlie asked.
“How should I know?” Drummond said defensively.
He was not on, yet his evasion software continued to fire: He distanced himself from the terminal, hugging the razor-wire fence separating the airport from the parking strip.
On his heels, Charlie made out an opening in the fence about a hundred feet ahead, near the charter company offices. Just then he heard a staticky version of du Frongipanier’s shout, “Ils visent le parking!” The sound emanated from Drummond’s suit pants.
Surprised, Drummond shot a hand into his pocket, withdrew a walkie-talkie, and eyed it oddly. Its provenance was less of a mystery to Charlie: Relieving an unconscious security guard of his communication device was probably second nature to the lifelong spy.
“They’re headed for the parking lot,” Drummond said.
“Who?” asked Charlie.
“Us.” Drummond tapped the radio. He understood French—who knew?
“Well, good, we can get a car,” Charlie said. “Right?” Even at his murkiest, Drummond could, in seconds, snap open the ignition barrel on the underside of a steering column, pluck the proper two from the tangle of wires, touch them together, and bring an engine roaring to life.
Drummond pressed the walkie-talkie to an ear and relayed, “They’ve sent men to lock the gate leading to the parking lot, and all of the exits from the airport.”
Sirens erupted with the distinctive hee-haw of European emergency vehicles.
A pair of police cars were racing from the main terminal. Parked planes popped out of the darkness, alternately red and blue, reflecting the cars’ light bars.
“It sort of begs mentioning that there are planes everywhere,” Charlie shouted through the chaos. Last week Drummond had demonstrated that he could fly a helicopter. “Can you get a plane started?”
“Simple as flipping a toggle switch or two. But I’m not a