Chapter 4 4
Nassau Cruise Terminal, Festival Place, Nassau Thursday 1pm
The seventy minute flight from Havana to Nassau had proven uneventful. The fifty seat turboprop aircraft, which was owned and run by Bahamasair, was comfortable enough and the aircraft appeared to be relatively new. The De Havilland Dash 8, painted in a yellow and aqua branding, had landed exactly on time at the Lynden Pindling International Airport.
Passing through the capacious airport building was swift and efficient. Less than thirty minutes after touching down, Gil had exited the hangar sized terminal building and was waiting at the courtesy car stand, where a jolly Caribbean man in a bright yellow and green shirt was awaiting her arrival.
“We will have you on your cruise liner within the hour, Sister,” he smilingly promised, not questioning why a nun should be considering a cruise, let alone a casino cruise.
The Chevy sedan almost floated along John F Kennedy Drive on its way to the cruise terminal before turning onto Coral Harbour Road. The sun was shining, the skies were a pristine and cloudless blue and there was little or no traffic to contend with. Gillian began to relax.
Eventually the car pulled into a side road and a multicoloured building constructed of timber, in the old Colonial style, stood before them. The sign on the top said “Starbucks”. They were everywhere. Gillian tipped the driver well and entered the modern cruise terminal. Her first port of call was the restroom.
Gillian removed the nun’s habit and all of the associated accessories, to reveal a pair of shorts and a Hollister So-Cal Tee shirt underneath. From the nun’s bag she extracted a foldaway Suzy Smith shoulder bag, which she proceeded to fill with her toiletries, a change of underwear and her make-up. At the bathroom counter she applied make-up to her face and gel to her hair, spiking it to make it a little more contemporary. Satisfied that she looked nothing like Sister Margaret Rose, but perhaps more like her bad sister, Gillian packed the black case with the nun’s habit and paraphernalia. Slipping her old passport into the concealed pocket at the bottom of the bag, she retrieved the new passport she was about to use for the first time and slipped it into her pocket.
The DHL man behind the Terminal Cargo Counter was happy to despatch the nun’s bag back to Cuba for his attractive new customer. He grinned widely, white teeth gleaming as he spoke.
“For you, Lady, I have a special rate, just forty eight dollars.” Gillian paid in cash and checked the address on the DHL plastic sack that encompassed her escape disguise. Satisfied that it would reach Sister Angelica intact, she left the cool interior of the air conditioned terminal building and stepped into the sun to walk the few yards to the large cruise liner berthed at the jetty. As she walked along the paved walkway, she turned to look back at the bright orange and yellow building proudly displaying a sign which read “Festival Place” and wished that she could stay awhile. The Bahamas were such a friendly group of islands.
Gillian walked along the gangway and stepped up to a handsome young American man dressed in a white dress uniform with a naval cap and shorts. He announced himself by name and rank and wished Gillian a safe return to the United States. He scanned her passport but took little notice of its contents; she was, after all, an American passport holder returning to the States on a casino boat.
***
Unbeknown to her MI5 bosses, in 2007 Gillian had started a long and quite laborious process to obtain American Citizenship, a social security number and a US Passport. She had only received them after her third face to face interview at the US Embassy in London at the end of 2009. Given that her entitlement was based entirely on her paternity - she was born to a US citizen, who was her father - her shiny new passport gave her name as Gillian Miles. In due course Gillian Davis, Sister Margaret Rose and two other identities would become history, and she would be like everyone else - one name, one identity, one future.
Sitting at the bar sipping a Margarita, Gillian Miles looked across the casino floor beyond the slot machines and over towards the Blackjack table. Perhaps she would try her luck later. She rubbed her finger around the edge of the cocktail glass, displacing the salt, and sipped her drink. The orange flavoured liqueur slipped across her tongue with a slight acidic tang. That would be the lime. Then the Tequila hit. She would have to be careful. She didn’t want her first entry to the States as a citizen to be on a stretcher. Gil had played many parts and had many skills, but she had realised at an early age that she reacted to alcohol very quickly and that if she wanted to be sharp she would just have to be abstemious. The last thing Gillian Miles wanted was not to be in control. That was her weakness, and also her nightmare.
Gillian took a quick glance at her watch as she felt the boat pull away from the jetty. It was 2pm. About now her watchers in Cuba would be wondering how they had lost her in a hotel with one main entrance. She smiled as she imagined the confused looks on their faces when they realised that she was never returning for her suitcase, her clothes and her hair straighteners.
Chapter 4 5
Green Earth Fashions, Church Place, London, Thursday 7pm
The fashion shoot was coming to an end. Katie was wearing the last of the summer range of dresses made from fair-trade cotton. So far she had worn a plethora of tee shirts, shorts, jeans, scarves, jackets and skirts. The mission statement of Green Earth Fashions was to produce high quality fashions from cotton and other sustainable materials secured from reputable sources. The entire supply chain was under the control of Maxi Jameson, former actress, singer and flower child.
Katie was much more astute than Dee had given her credit for. Katie had asked to see the certificates and audits that showed where the materials had come from and who had manufactured them. Once she was satisfied that the evidence was in order, she asked to see copies of the payslips for the Sri Lankan girls and women who had tailored the clothes. Noting that some of the girls were as young as twelve, she asked to see Maxi. There followed a long discussion which resulted in Maxi persuading Katie that the girls were still in education but that they had to help support their parents, and for many it was a choice between selling their sewing skills or their bodies.
It was only after this twice yearly audit that Katie donned the first of the outfits. She had now been sitting in front of the lights for almost five hours and when she was finished, at 8pm, she would be hosting a video web chat with Green Earth Fashion customers and fans of the Clara Campbell movies.
Dee had taken the opportunity of leaving Katie with the Green Earth security men for an hour, earlier in the day, when she had been able to meet up with Geordie.
***
It was hard to believe that just a week had passed since the assassination of the Hokobus, and Pete was still feeling the effects of his failure to protect them. He walked past St. James’ Church on Piccadilly, glancing down St James’ Place to see if there was any sign of Dee outside Green Earth’s premises. There wasn’t. It was unlikely anyway because, although the freezing conditions had passed for the time being, it was still wet and cold in the capital. As if to confirm his limited expectations of the weather, a steady drizzle started to fall. Pete walked briskly on past the stone entrance of the BAFTA offices and Princess Arcade to Ristorante Bagio, which combined a cafe and restaurant. As he opened the door, Franco stepped up to greet him and shake his hand vigorously.
“Mr Pete, so nice to see you again! You wanna use my upstairs office for stake out again?”