‘Better get a shift on then.’ He nodded at the tech, hurried over to the helicopter and climbed in next to Chi-Chi, both now in the dark-blue coveralls of baggage handlers.
The pilot nodded and the door was closed as the rotors wound up and they lifted into the night sky.
‘That was quite a ride, uh?’ he shouted at Chi-Chi over the engine noise.
‘Sure,’ she yelled back. ‘I was good. Only vomited four times.’
He looked at her to make sure she was all right and, in spite of the slight pallor, he saw she was smiling.
In the distance the towers of Manhattan glittered against the night sky, and fifteen minutes later, they were over New York’s John F Kennedy airport, under local control, and being directed towards the International arrivals terminal on the air side. The pilot touched down just long enough for Chi-Chi and Bond to clamber out. They were greeted by two figures in similar baggage handler’s coveralls.
‘Indexer sends his regards,’ one of the men said, with little conviction.
‘The glossary’s been completed on time then?’ Bond replied with the prearranged question.
‘JAL 06’s down and taxiing in now. Your personal items are on our truck.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the train of baggage trolleys with its little electric truck out in front below the high, jetway where the usual arrivals crew waited for the 747, the engines of which could be heard as it headed towards the end of its long journey from Tokyo. The luggage, which had gone ahead packed in wing pods on the Tomcat that had brought Ed Rushia, was piled on the first trolley, and the supervisor spoke quietly as the Boeing’s engines got louder and louder in the background.
‘The cabin crew’ll deplane all passengers from the front door when it’s latched to the ramp,’ he told them. ‘We’ve arranged for one of the stewards to open up the rear door when two-thirds of the passengers are off. He’s being paid so he imagines it’s some scam we’re running – drugs or illegals. But once he’s opened up the door he’s been instructed to go forward and not to let any other crew members back there. We’ve got a set of steps ready to drive in and secure to the rear door. You just hang around with the lads who’ll be doing the unloading. When I give you the okay, get out of the coveralls, grab your hand baggage, and get up there.’
It took around fifteen minutes before they saw the rear door swing back and the motorised steps move forward. Four minutes later, Chi-Chi, carrying a Scribner’s Bookstore canvas bag, and Bond hefting a briefcase, both wearing their regular clothes, were at the back of the line of people who were the last to deplane. Bond had flipped his fingers into his breast pocket and pulled into view the top half of his JAL boarding pass given to him by the Scrivener earlier that day. They even thanked the members of the cabin crew at the door as they went out on to the ramp and began that long hike to immigration and customs.
At immigration they split up, Chi-Chi heading for the US Citizens’ zone and Bond for the non-US passports. It took about another half-hour for them to get through to the baggage carousels and the usual scramble for luggage, but by eleven forty-five they reached the far side.
Chi-Chi stayed with the luggage and caught a glimpse of Ed Rushia, looking harassed, trying to get some information at one of the baggage desks. Bond headed first for the left baggage lockers, where he found number 64 and unlocked it with the key supplied earlier by the CIA man, Grant. The package was the right weight and he slipped it into his briefcase before getting to the first empty phone booth and dialling the number Franks and Orr had given him.
The distant end answered with a curt, ‘Yes?’
‘I was given this number to call about some books.’ It was exactly what they had told him to say.
‘What kind of books?’
‘Historical.’
‘Ah, they told you wrong. You want a New York number, a 212 area code, okay? You got a pencil?’
‘No, but I have a good memory.’
The curt voice rattled off a number, asked him to repeat it and hung up.
When Bond dialled the 212 number, a woman answered with a negative, ‘Hello?’
‘I’m sorry to call so late, but I understand you have some books for sale on Peter Abelard.’
‘Yes. My father had an extensive collection, and I have hand-bound editions of Etienne Gilson’s work in translation, Luscombe’s The School of Peter Abelard, The Letters of Abelard and Héloïse, of course, in the 1925 edition, and most of the other well-known works.’
‘And they’re all in mint condition?’
‘Immaculate.’
‘I’m very interested. Would it be too late for me to come over to see them tonight?’
‘Your name is . . . ?’
‘Peter, Peter Piper.’
‘Come as quickly as you can, Peter.’ She gave an address on West 56th. ‘It’s just past the Parker Meridien,’ she said. ‘I look forward to seeing you. You are coming alone, are you?’
‘No, I’ll have Héloïse with me.’
The woman at the other end chuckled and closed the line.
‘I want you to wait a good fifteen minutes and then take a cab out,’ Bond told Chi-Chi, after giving her the address. ‘It sounds okay, and she does seem to be expecting you. Ed’ll be watching my back, so if there’s any surveillance on the place, he’ll stop it and hold you off.’
She nodded and Bond gave her a brotherly peck on the cheek, picking up his case and the briefcase and heading towards the taxi rank. On the way he got into a crush of people and found the big Ed Rushia next to him. Talking very low, as if to himself, he gave Rushia the gist of what was happening.
‘You sure get around,’ Ed muttered before he disappeared into the crowd.
The cab driver was not talkative, but just drove and Bond fiddled with his briefcase, making certain the driver could not see what he was doing – unwrapping the package and transferring his trusted ASP 9mm automatic to the waistband of his trousers, well back behind the right hip.
Manhattan looked like its fabled fairyland self from the bridge. It was only when they got into the caverns of its streets, felt the roughness of the roads, pitted and rutted, and saw the quality of life on the sidewalks at this time of night, that Bond got the flow of adrenaline which always hit him on arrival in this city. It was worse than the last time he had been there and his body tingled with the excitement and static of danger.
The address he had been given was a big, red-brick apartment building. He paid off the driver and carried his own luggage up the steps to the front door, seeking out the apartment number, 4B, on the security panel by the heavily reinforced door. He pressed the bell and a voice – the woman he had spoken to earlier – asked, ‘Yes?’
‘Peter. Here to look at the books.’
The buzzer was held for enough time to allow him inside before the door clicked back behind him.
There was no elevator, possibly because the building was much older than Otis, so he lugged the cases up four flights of stairs to the smartly painted heavy door with a brass fitting that told him it was 4B.
She was tall and very thin, with a slightly long face and hair which was not naturally blonde. He thought around thirty-five, give or take five years.
‘Peter,’ he said.
She peered past him. ‘Where’s Hélïose? You said . . .’
‘My people instructed us to come separately.’ He was already inside the door. ‘They were very specific about it. She’s following up to make certain we haven’t grown tails.’
‘Well, I was . . .’
‘What do I call you?’ Bond asked, dumping his luggage on the off-white deep pile carpet and taking in the living room at a glance – nicely furnished, two or three good prints on the walls, deep leather chairs, a couple of glass-topped tables, big lamps. There was an exit towards a kitchen to his right and he went down it fast, making sure it was empty. She followed him, bustling a little. ‘What do I call you?’ he asked again.