His was the wrong name, the broken bone sticking through the skin of innocence that clothed the meeting. There was no reason none whatsoever for his appearance at that hotel. He was British, there were other Brits there, including David and Coulthard… but he was not a Commissioner of influence, he was a broken-backed former Cabinet dogs body who was enjoying his ride on the gravy train and his frequent appearances on TV. He enjoyed doling out largesse and that was about the sum of it. And he never joined causes, especially lost ones… He wouldn't, of his own volition, offer to mop up the blood after Aero UK committed hara-kiri, let alone lend himself to lobbying.
Otherwise, all appeared quite normal, innocent. Would it to Kenneth?
She must have the film developed-Michael. A friend's view of him, through the slit of a letter box, lying unmoving on the new carpet of the new apartment, dead of heroin poisoning. The Brussels Police Judiciare were confident that it was death by misadventure, nothing more.
The needle and the damage done… but, unlike the ageing rock singer who had coined that song title, Michael hadn't survived. Had someone not wanted him to?
They were definitely professional, his letter said. Not the sort of people the Commission employed and not just bodyguards, either… Then who were they? And would Kenneth have immediately asked that question or was she simply caricaturing the attitude of an intelligence officer?
Had Michael just messed up the dose? Or had someone decided on his eternal silence?
The sunlight ridiculed, but she could not entirely abandon the idea that Michael had set off an alarm somewhere and had, splashing carelessly and without heed in the shallows, summoned sharks.
The Grand Canyon swung beneath the 494 like a gaping wound, and he wanted to be able to study it with the impartiality of a surgeon. The repetition of Hollis' flight, minute after slow minute, had begun to unnerve him. He could find no detachment; assurance had seeped away, and his dead friend's voice kept on returning, like a phone call. It demanded things of him — answers, the airplane's safety, his own survival but the increasing challenge of Hollis' recollected voice found him unprepared. He had no answers… He imagined he could see the mules taking tourists from the top to the bottom of the canyon, pick out trailers and campers, even rafts on the Colorado's silver dribble. The vivacity of his imagination, the way it made the canyon rush at him, grow too close to the 494, unsettled. Behind his seat, Vance remained at the flight engineer's panels, his own bafflement as pungent and tangible as the sour smell of defeat. There was nothing wrong — nothing had occurred.
The short-duration flight that Hollis had undertaken had been a rehearsal for the full press flight. Views of the Grand Canyon, a river of champagne, small hillocks of canapes… and press acclamation in the following day's newspapers and on that evening's TV network and local news.
Hollis and his crew had fallen out of the sky less than another half-hour into the flight, making a final approach to Vance Aircraft they had had no warning and he would have just as little. There had been nothing wrong. Gant had listened to the cockpit voice recorder again and again, at least as much of it as had survived the crash, and he'd read the drafts and readouts taken from the flight recorders.
And learned nothing new, found no clue. The small clock in the centre of the main panel in front of him ticked on… twenty-eight minutes to the point of impact, and the 494 continued innocently above the Canyon.
Vance had arranged that each of the centres, Phoenix, LA, Peach Springs, Flagstaff, that Hollis had contacted during his flight would respond as they had previously done. Just as he would fly every mile of the flight, perform every action of the dead man'Vance
494 LA Centre. After leaving Peach Springs we understand you wish to head for thirty-point-five North, one-one-three-point-two West for some sightseeing, then rejoin at the GCN for Flagstaff and Phoenix at flight level three-zero-zero."
"Centre Vance 494," Gant replied, 'that is affirmative."
'494 Centre. Do you want to maintain your present level?"
"Centre 494…" His mouth was suddenly dry. Gant sucked his cheeks.
"We would like to descend to level six or seven thousand and make two or three orbits before climbing to level three hundred for rejoin."
Behind him, he sensed Vance listening as anxiously as a possessive, vain parent to a child's performance in a Nativity play.
Brace, brace, brace-Hollis from the cockpit voice recorder. From the grave.
'494 this is Centre. Your request approved. Don't descend below seven thousand feet on a QFE twenty-nine-ninety-three — we have local Canyon traffic below that altitude. We will advise local control of your intentions. QSY their frequency on one-eight-point-zero-five."
Thank you, Centre. 494 leaving level three-two-zero this time on a heading of three-two zero until clear of the airway."
Gant eased back the power levers, cancelled the autopilot and manually flew the slow, controlled descent. The airplane slid through the flight levels. Speed, two hundred and eighty knots. The Canyon was below the 494, at the centre of his orbit. He was aware of the silence of the aircraft's passenger cabin behind him. Only the crew had died.
Vance's dream hadn't caused a massacre of press and TV people We gone from near stall to ouerspeed, godammitHollis' voice again as the airplane betrayed him. What in hell did it mean? The 494 had fought him and won, caught him off-guard and killed him in minutes.
How?
Gant eased back the power and dropped thirty degrees of flap. Watched the airspeed slow towards a hundred and ninety knots.
"Prescott Centre 494 is with you at seven thousand feet. Starting our left-hand orbits."
"Roger, 494," he heard in his headphones.
"No known conflicting traffic. Be advised there is some local helicopter traffic in the Canyon. Quark seven-seven-four-six and keep me informed of your intentions."
The Canyon rotated like a map being turned on a desk as he rolled the aircraft gently into its orbit. The shadows of the coaming and roof eased across the instrument panel in unison. Gant selected autopilot to maintain the turn at his present altitude, imitating the pattern designed to most appeal to the press and the cameras that would have been in the passenger cabin. The slow orbit was so gentle no champagne would have been spilt, no canapes would have fallen on the thick carpet along the aisle.
He glanced behind him at Vance. The man's expression was unsettled. It was as if he had come across its desperate fervency in a gloomy church, stumbling across someone in a kind of despair who wanted to snatch a fragment of hope from the incensed air, from the altar, the candles.
The expression evoked memories of his mother and he thrust them aside.
Vance discovered his surveillance and shrugged angrily.
"Nothing you want some coffee?" Gant nodded. I'll go get it…"
Vance's voice seemed aware of time, as if each word he spoke marked off a second. They were maybe twenty-five minutes away fromVance opened the door of the flight deck, then his bulk hesitated. Gant smelt the sweetness of kerosene faintly on the air that flowed in from the empty passenger cabin.
Brace, brace, brace-near stall to over speed… "You smell it, too?"
Vance asked hoarsely.
"Yes."
"I–I'll take a look. Was there some mention…?" He closed the door behind him on the remainder of the question.
"Prescott Centre 494. Now leaving seven thousand for Flagstaff.
Request an altitude for rejoining the airway."
'494 Prescott. Rejoin at flight level three-ten."
Gant put the 494 into auto climb and checked the power management system as it adjusted automatically to optimal power settings. He heard the cabin door open and Vance slid into the co-pilot's seat, shaking his head.