‘Not at all.’
‘Hilton,’ Cory heard the young man whisper behind him, ‘Cookie’s getting one of his moods.’
‘The cargo hasn’t sat down yet,’ replied Hilton Cook. ‘Tell him to keep his hair on.’
‘Hilton.’
‘We’ll be taking off soon, Herr Wittenbacher,’ said Miss Evans, loudly. ‘You may wish to take your seat. Then I can see about getting you a newspaper or a book. Here, this one is empty.’
Cory patted the bulge in his coat. ‘I already have a newspaper. But I am a little chill. Is it warmer further up the plane?’
‘Moderately, sir. The rear door can be quite draughty. There is a place next to Mr Simpson, the King’s messenger.’
Cory smiled. ‘A rather grand title.’
‘Poor man can’t leave his bag under any circumstances. I feel rather sorry for him.’
‘What’s in the bag? Do you know?’
‘I’m afraid we’re not allowed to ask.’
Cory calmed himself. A diplomatic pouch was an ideal container for the Cullinan Zero. ‘So it could be anything.’
‘I imagine the contents are between Mr Simpson and the King.’
Her expression was at once reproachful and humorous.
‘Quite,’ said Cory.
‘Let me take you to your seat.’
The King’s messenger smiled as Cory fell into the port-side chair. He wore a woollen suit and a greatcoat with its collar inverted. There was an unlit cigarette in his mouth. ‘I don’t smoke, of course. It’s just a superstition. I always have one out during take-off. That’s the most dangerous part, you realise. I haven’t crashed yet.’
‘I’m Wittenbacher.’
‘Simpson. Call me Paul.’
‘Constantin.’
They shook hands across the aisle.
‘You’re Austrian?’
‘German.’
‘Ah.’ Simpson nodded. ‘Have you flown before?’
‘Not as a civilian. Yourself?’
‘Ceaselessly. I’m afraid our conversation will not continue for long. These things have about as much soundproofing as you’d expect from an ex-RAF crate. Just wait until we take off. Your eardrums will rattle like castanets. We crossed from Lisbon in an Avro York. A much finer aircraft, relatively speaking. My niece informs me that, one day, we’ll travel using jet propulsion. God only knows what racket that will make. But, then, I always did prefer candles to electric light and hansom cabs to aeroplanes.’
‘Mr Simpson, forgive me, but are you a courier?’
The canvas sack opposite Simpson was the size of a man’s torso. It shuddered as he kicked it. ‘Sisyphus, rather.’ He studied Cory for a moment. ‘But I mustn’t make fun of myself in front of a new acquaintance. I am a King’s messenger, sir. My dumb companion, here, contains crucial documents, and, no doubt, a particular brand of toilet tissue that the British ambassador in Santiago has difficulty finding locally.’
Cory laughed, but his horror ran deep. Paul Simpson was not Harkes: Simpson had no active automata, was not a recent recipient of plastic surgery, and showed no elevated skin conductance response to Cory, whom Harkes knew to be in his pursuit.
Paloma tricked me, he thought. Fuck.
‘I say, is that the Herald?’ asked Simpson.
‘No,’ Cory said, hesitating over the newspaper given to him by Jennifer. It would not do for Simpson to read the news of the next day. ‘That’s to say, it is the Herald, but it’s out of date. Last month’s.’
Miss Evans stepped between them with a caddy. She took out a brown paper bag. ‘Here, Herr Wittenbacher. With the compliments of BSAA.’
Cory opened the bag. Inside was a packet of Wrigley’s Doublemint, a bale of cotton wool, some tissues, smelling salts, and a collection of barley-sugars. He looked at her.
‘Be sure to blow your nose before we take off,’ she said. ‘You’ll need to blow it again when we land. And if you suck the barley sugar, that will help too.’
‘Cotton wool?’
‘For your ears.’
Simpson helped himself to a bag. ‘Hearing aids, Constantin. It’s the industry of the future. Mind out with the barley-sugars. Cheap American variety. If I were you, I’d put those in your ears and chew the cotton wool.’
‘It’s time to remove your cigarette,’ said Miss Evans.
‘I have no intention of smoking it, madam. It’s a ritual of comfort.’
‘I’m certain you’ll find your seatbelt a more practical safety measure. You too, Herr Wittenbacher. The captain informs me that the weather is clear to Santiago. He wishes you a pleasant flight. In the event of an emergency, please follow my instructions on his behalf. You will find the WC at the rear.’
Cory felt his seat shudder. He turned to the window. The aircraft swung left to show the BSAA building.
Work the problem.
What did he know? Harkes had bought a ticket on the Chilean Southbound route. Star Dust was the fifty-ninth BSAA flight to Chile. CS-59. What if Harkes had travelled the week before, on CS-58? Cory abandoned that line of thought. He did not know if Harkes was booked on a flight at all. Maybe he had purchased the ticket to fool Paloma. But how could he know that Cory would visit her?
He considered forcing an exit from the aircraft, but that risked the involvement of the Argentine authorities, something he could only balance against a concrete benefit.
Cory’s musings were dampened by a surge of anxiety as the aircraft bucked. His automata tuned into the cockpit voice loop once more.
‘Hello, Hilton. Flaps at fifteen degrees, please.’
‘Set, Skipper.’
‘Carb heat cold.’
‘Cold.’
‘Heading indicator.’
‘Check.’
‘Hello, Denis. Get the green from Morón tower, please.’
‘Alright.’ Pause. ‘Permission granted.’
‘Hilton, brakes off, throttle open full. Slightly more on the outboard port, please. More. Imagine it’s the Jerry’s neck.’
The engines trumpeted. Cory reached into his brown bag and withdrew a barley-sugar. It tasted lemony and sour. Sulkily, he ripped away tufts of cotton wool and put them in his ears. Within this muffled world, his thoughts moved around Dr Patrick Harkes. The quarry had primed a trap for the predator, sugared it with Paloma, and withdrawn to safety. Cory had failed.
But still he wondered why, if Harkes had identified Cory as his pursuer, there had been no attempt to finish the job in a more permanent fashion. Wasn’t that what one did with an animal caught in a trap? Kill it?
Harkes would not survive a direct encounter with me.
He crunched the unpleasant barley sugar to nothing.
Hermes, star man, emblem of BSAA: God of those who cross boundaries, and the cunning of thieves.
‘Rotation and gear up,’ said Commander Cook.
‘That wind is tricky.’
‘We’re beating it.’
If I were Harkes, Cory thought, what would I do?
Suddenly, the shaking stopped. The window brightened.
Spring the trap. Kill the animal.
‘Good rate of climb, Hilton. Retract flaps.’
‘One-sixty.’
‘That’ll do. Verify landing gear up.’