He looked around him again, and up towards the ceiling, and nothing he saw looked like a trap.
So then he studied the bulletin board, both sides, and he smiled at the clerk at the information desk, just in case he had something to do with it. Then he turned his attention to the notices again, especially the folded paper napkin with the name JAY written on it. He touched it with a finger, ran the palm of his hand down it, feeling for a bump, maybe some tiny explosive device which would take off a couple of fingers or blind him in one eye. That sort of magnitude.
But there was nothing. He lifted one corner of the napkin, but the layers started to peel, and he had to take off another layer before he could make out that there was writing there. So then he licked his lips and hauled the napkin off the board in a single swift movement, so that the clerk looked at him quizzically. “All clear here,” Jay said, as if to himself. Then he unfolded the note, the note telling him to fly to London. It gave the name of a hotel, and said a message would arrive there for him in the name of Rowe.
Rowe: that was a nice touch.
One of his hired hands came up, removing his earpiece as he approached. “So?”
“So nothing, just a fucking note.”
They’d been all wound up. They’d been told of Reeve’s rep. Jay had wanted them ready for anything. They were going to go away frustrated, pent-up, needing to unwind.
“Everyone to the cars,” Jay said. “We’ll go back to the gym, maybe hit a bar later. I just got to make a call first.”
He went to the public pay phones and called Kosigin.
“Well?” Kosigin demanded.
Jay read the note out to him. “What do you want me to do?” he asked when he’d finished.
“Personally,” Kosigin said, “I want you to follow the instructions.”
“And what if I’m walking into a trap?”
“I thought you were clever enough to avoid traps?”
“I am, but I also don’t believe in walking into them in the first place.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
“I’ll go, but I want to take some men with me. It won’t be cheap.”
“It never is.”
“You want to come along for the ride?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You still want me to go?”
“Absolutely,” Kosigin said before hanging up.
Their conversation had gone exactly as Jay had known it would.
He looked around him for a sales desk, then walked over to the information kiosk.
“Which carriers fly to London?” he asked. He might have to try more than one. Could be difficult to make a block booking at such short notice…
PART NINE. BLOOD HUNT
TWENTY-THREE
THERE WERE POLICE ON DUTY at Heathrow, a lot of uniforms. Reeve would bet there were some plainclothes detectives around, too. Maybe they were looking for him. At this point, he could only trust to luck. Everyone deserved one lucky break per mission. They might have a description of him, but it would be pre-haircut. They couldn’t have a recent photograph; ever since his days in the SAS, Reeve had been camera-shy. The weekend soldiers sometimes wanted photographs, and he didn’t refuse. But before posing for their cameras, he would don a balaclava and dark glasses. The weekend soldiers loved it.
Reeve had a lot of planning to do. He wasn’t too happy about returning to Jim’s Saab, which he had parked in a long-term parking lot only a courtesy bus ride away from the Heathrow terminals. He didn’t know how clever the police would be; he didn’t think they would trace him as far as the Saab, but he couldn’t be sure. To add to this, the car was a liability, and might break down at any minute. But he had very little alternative. He didn’t want to rent a new car. That would mean handing over his credit card, and he guessed the police would be tracking its use. (They probably didn’t know about his secret bank account, and even if they did they might not want to freeze it: if he accessed cash or wrote a check they’d have another way of tracking his movements.)
The people at the parking lot, on the other hand, knew only the false name he’d given them. He’d paid cash up front-so probably there wouldn’t be a problem. But Reeve didn’t enter the single-story office straightaway. First he took a look around the lot. He could see the Saab. It wasn’t hard for him to spot among the shiny new Jags and BMWs and Rovers. The company had hemmed it in behind more expensive cars, reckoning them a better ad to potential customers. Reeve didn’t blame them-he was actually relieved the Saab had been hidden from view during his time away.
He walked into the office.
“Had a good trip?” the girl behind the desk asked.
“Yes, thanks,” he said. There was complimentary coffee on a table nearby, and he helped himself to a cup. There was powdered milk only, so he took it black. It was bitter, but it woke him up a bit.
“Now, Mr. Fleming, you didn’t specify a return date, so we’ve not been able to valet your car.”
“No problem. The dirt is the only thing holding it together.”
She smiled and filled in the rest of the form, which he had to sign at the bottom. He couldn’t recall what first name he’d given, but saw it printed at the head of the sheet. Jay. He’d called himself Jay Fleming.
“And here are your keys,” the receptionist said, handing them over.
“I think you’ll need to move a few of the other cars.”
“Oh, you’re blocked in. I’ll get Tom to see to it.”
Tom was outside, drinking tea from a flask. He wore overalls, a slicker, and Wellingtons, and was without doubt the valet. Reeve watched as he started up and moved a gleaming red BMW 635 and a silver Rover 200. He thanked him and trundled the Saab out of the parking lot and into the lanes of traffic. It was the start of what was going to be a long twenty-four hours.
He headed north, stopping only for gas and coffee and to read all the newspapers. He cursed the Saab’s lack of a radio-he needed to know whether the police had connected him to the Marie Villambard killing. McCluskey had mentioned Interpol interest, but that could have been a bluff. But when he stopped near the border and bought some Scottish newspapers, he caught his first mention of the story, relegated to an inside page. Police, it said, were “anxious to contact Scots climbing instructor Gordon Reeve.” There was no description, but they could have published one in a previous day’s edition. He stopped at a Little Chef to replenish his caffeine level, and telephoned Joan’s sister. Joan herself answered the phone.
“Joan, it’s Bob Plant here, any sign of Gordon?”
She recognized his voice immediately. There was a slight pause as she came to understand what was going on. (She’d had a crush on Robert Plant of Led Zeppelin at one time.) “Bob,” she said, “sorry, I’m not thinking straight.”
“Are you all right, Joan?”
“I’m fine. It’s just been a shock, with the police and everything.”
“They’ve been asking you questions?” He sounded like a solicitous friend.
“Well, they just want to know where Gordon is. You know they found his car in France, near where three bodies were found, one of them a woman’s.”
“Gracious.”
“They’re keeping watch on the house here, just in case he shows up.”
“They think he had something to do with the murders?”
“Well, Bob, what would you think if you were them? Gordon’s Land Rover burned out and no trace of him anywhere.”