“None that I can use.”
“You got a plan though, yeah?”
“Actually, no.”
“Jesus.”
Will shrugged. “Having a plan is too risky on U.S. soil. I’ve got to be unpredictable.”
“Or stupid. Either way, we leave in sixty minutes. I suggest you use that time”—she nodded toward her laptop—“to research Nova Scotia and its surroundings.”
“Who’s coming with us?”
“No one else. I can’t afford to have them killed.”
The sound of the Islander plane’s engine and propellers was nearly drowned out by the wind as Will forced his way through its icy blast toward the stationary craft. Ulana was in the cockpit, making a final check of her instrument panel. Behind her were two passenger seats, both empty. He entered the plane, slammed the door shut, and was grateful for the warmth inside the tiny compartment.
Though she was only three feet in front of him, Will had to shout to be heard. “When does the cabin crew bring champagne and canapés?”
While continuing her checks, Ulana replied, “Because you’re first class, seat 1A, that’s already been taken care of. Look next to you.”
Will glanced down and saw wrapped sandwiches and a thermos flask that no doubt contained sickly sweet tea. “Splendid. In-flight entertainment?”
“That’ll be me. Buckle up.” The Islander began taxiing along the track. “If we go down anywhere over the strait, better to shoot yourself before we hit water. End of safety announcement.”
Retired major Dickie Mountjoy looked at the Daily Telegraph’s photograph of Will Cochrane. The seventy-one-year-old desperately wanted to believe that the man in the image merely bore an uncanny resemblance to his Southwark neighbor, who lived in the West Square apartment block’s third floor, above him. Trouble was, Will Cochrane was mentioned by name eight times in the article.
His intercom rang, meaning someone was at the communal front door of the two-hundred-year-old converted residence. Briefly, he wondered if Phoebe or David would answer, though he knew from experience that his two neighbors rarely did. Right now, Phoebe was probably lying on her couch, nursing a hangover after an evening out watching a middleweight boxing match while hoping to get lucky with some disreputable ruffian; and recently divorced David was quite possibly continuing to cook his way through a famous French chef’s collected recipes while listening to Dixieland jazz on full volume.
Anyway, need a job done, ask a soldier. Dickie pushed himself up out of his armchair and marched to his intercom. “Yes?”
A man answered. “Metropolitan Police.”
“Good for you. I’m ex — Coldstream Guards. Now we know each other’s vocations, what do you want?”
The police officer hesitated before asking, “Can we come in?”
Dickie was ramrod straight, his clothes pressed to the standard of parade grounds, and asked in the clipped tone favored by British army officers, “Did I forget to pay my library fine?”
“This isn’t about you.”
“Then why are you speaking to me, sunshine?”
“We just need someone in this house to let us in.”
“We? You come mob handed? Want to bang some heads together?”
“There’s just two of us.”
“Maybe you want to plant some evidence. Fit me up, then take me away in the blues and twos.”
“Blues and twos?”
“How long you been in the force?”
“We call it service these days.”
“My school dinner ladies used to do service. You a dinner lady?”
The officer sounded exasperated when he replied, “No. I’ve been in the… force for fifteen years; my colleague six years.”
“Twenty-one years combined. Same length of time, I fought in four conflicts and stood in front of Her Majesty thirty-seven times. You know what Guardsmen think of coppers?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“Damn right, young man. We think you’re undisciplined bullies who’d never have cut the mustard in the army.”
“Please. Just let us in. It’s not about you. It’s about Will Cochrane.”
Dickie glanced at the Telegraph. Beyond it, lights from his small Christmas tree flickered over his neighbor’s image. It added a surreal festive flavor to the spread. “Very well then. Just make sure you don’t steal anything.” He pressed the intercom’s buzzer.
Will looked out of the small airplane’s window and saw Greenland’s coast move past and be replaced by an inhospitable gray sea. The Davis Strait. The plane shook from the wind as it flew a mere two hundred yards above the water, but Ulana expertly turned it in new directions to work with the weather rather than let the icy blast toss the aircraft onto its back like a discarded toy. As he watched her motionless head, he had no doubt that she’d be able to navigate her way through parenthood with equal skill.
He recalled a day during the Spartan Program when he had received a briefing from two surviving members of the Special Operations Executive, both in their eighties. During World War II, one had been a Lysander pilot, the other an agent who’d helped rally resistance in Holland and France. The pilot had described how he’d needed to fly the agent across the Channel and land on tiny strips. His biggest fear hadn’t been being spotted and attacked by the Luftwaffe, but rather making an error and flying into the sea. The agent had concurred, saying that he was always relieved when they safely landed, even though it was in a place of extreme danger, and that he felt utterly useless during those flights.
Right now, Will knew how that felt.
If Ulana made a misjudgment, there was absolutely nothing he could do.
He was willing her to reach Canada and touch down successfully.
Detective Superintendent Barclay handed his police ID to Dickie and watched the widower scrutinize it before handing it back to the officer.
“Special Branch?”
Barclay nodded. “Based in Scotland Yard.” He gestured to his uniformed colleague. “This is Police Constable Evans. He works in Southwark Station. I thought it best to bring along a local friendly face.”
Dickie’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Evans. “Friendly face? Never seen you before. Not surprising. These days, you lot spend all your time driving around thinking you’re in some American cop flick. Forgot you got legs. Tell you what though: pop over some time for a cup of tea so we can get to know each other. I can teach you how to properly iron your uniform. You look like a bag of shit tied up in the middle.”
Barclay sighed. “It would be most helpful if you had a spare key to Mr. Cochrane’s flat.”
“Why? Thought you liked kicking doors down.”
“We’d rather not.”
“Scared he might be in there and get a bit peeved if you damage his property?”
“Is he in there?”
“Haven’t seen him for weeks.”
“That’s what we thought. But we would like a look inside his apartment. We do need to find him.”
“Think he’s left a holiday brochure lying around, telling you exactly where he’s popped off to?” Dickie was standing to attention, his arms locked tight against his sides, and felt every bit as if he were dressing down a bad recruit on the parade ground in Wellington Barracks. “Don’t have a spare, but Phoebe might. Come with me.” He eyed Evans. “You single?”
The police constable nodded.
“God help you.”
“Forty-five minutes, give or take, until we reach Canada.” Ulana banked the Islander as a blast of wind came from a different direction, causing the plane to shudder. Dense snow and ice particles were racing past so quickly that Will wondered how Ulana managed to remain oriented. She leveled the craft. “Conditions are getting worse.”