Because of the twenty-four-hour activity at the airport, there were several cars in the staff park and the darkened mini was quite inconspicuous as the limousine swept by.
Despite the growing daylight, lights still held the building in a yellow glow. The driver had already spoken into the radio and as they pulled in front of the embarkation lounge, marines and airport security men moved out into a prearranged position, closing off the area. Others arranged themselves loosely around the aircraft, an inner protection for the people boarding.
‘I missed the announcement,’ said the doctor, uncaring now in his anger. ‘What time did the war start?’
Smith looked at him, shaking his head.
The chauffeur opened the door and Smith got out, leaving the doctor to help Ruttgers.
‘Anything more?’ enquired the driver.
‘Wait for me,’ instructed Smith. ‘We’ll see the plane away.’
The chauffeur re-entered the car, moving it to the designated parking area alongside the buildings and Smith smiled mechanically at the customs and immigration officials who approached.
Smith had arranged the papers in his briefcase during the journey and produced the authorisations as they were requested.
‘Seems a lot of activity,’ suggested the customs officer.
‘Yes,’ agreed Smith.
‘No need for me to see anything, is there?’ asked the man.
‘No,’ agreed Smith. ‘No need at all. Just personal belongings, nothing more.’
They turned at the hurried arrival of the second car. Braley misjudged the last corner, actually scuffing stones and dust against the barrier wall.
Braley took the vehicle almost to where his superior was talking to the officials.
‘The baggage,’ Smith identified it, as Braley got out of the car.
‘Fine,’ said the customs man.
‘No need for me to delay you either,’ said the immigration official. ‘Thank you.’
‘Thank you,’ responded Smith, politely.
The men who had gone with Braley were already unloading the luggage, he saw, turning to the car.
He waited until the British officials were sufficiently far away, then demanded urgently: ‘Well?’
‘Absolutely no trouble,’ Braley assured him.
‘The police hadn’t got there then?’
‘No.’
Breath was rasping into the man. He’d made a complete recovery, decided Braley.
The Director turned to where Ruttgers and the doctor were waiting.
‘Let’s get him away,’ he said. It was still going to be all right, he thought, in a sudden burst of euphoria.
Ruttgers followed a military steward up the steps, taking without question the wide, double seat that the man indicated to the left side of the aisle. The doctor belted himself into the seat immediately to the right and then looked up at Onslow Smith.
‘Call me at the embassy, from Washington,’ ordered the Director.
‘There’ll be nothing to report,’ said the doctor, truculently. Behaving like a lot of kids, he thought, irritably.
‘Call me anyway. I want to know he got theresafely.’
‘O.K.’
Smith turned back to where Braley and his men were coming aboard, stacking the luggage they had collected from the Crawley hotel into seats at the rear and then spreading themselves around the aircraft.
‘Thank you,’ said Smith to Braley. ‘You did very well.’
The man smiled at the praise. His breathing was easier.
‘Want me to stay with him all the way?’ he enquired, nodding towards Ruttgers.
‘All the way,’ confirmed the Director. ‘You’re being routed through to the Andrews Air Base. There’ll be an ambulance waiting when you arrive, to take over from the doctor.’
The man nodded.
‘And Braley?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ve been impressed with the way you work. Very impressed. I think we can establish a working relationship when all this is over.’
‘Thank you,’ said Braley.
There was movement from the front of the aircraft and Smith looked up to see the co-pilot nodding.
‘I’ll see you in a few days,’ said Smith, automatically.
‘Good luck,’ responded Braley.
‘I’ll need it,’ said Smith, caught by the expression.
Men were standing by the ramp as he descended, to wheel it away. He hurried to the doorway of the building, where the chauffeur was waiting with a coat. Smith pulled it on and they both turned to watch the aircraft start its take-off manoeuvre, taxiing out on to the slip runway.
Inside the plane, the steward ensured that Ruttgers had his seat-belt secured and then sat down for take-off in the seat immediately in front.
‘I’m hungry,’ Ruttgers announced.
The steward turned, smiling politely at the man he’d been told was a government official of high rank who was suffering a mental collapse.
‘There’s food on board,’ he said. ‘I’ll be serving it once we’ve taken off.’
At the rear, Braley’s team were already sprawled out, eyes closed. Only Braley remained awake, staring up the aircraft at Ruttgers. It was a pity, the man decided. A damned pity. Ruttgers had his faults, but he’d once been a very good Director. He didn’t deserve a back-door hustle to some sanatorium, just because a few people in Washington needed protection. Braley closed his eyes, reflectively. So Charlie had escaped for the second time. But not as cleanly as in Vienna. How badly would he be affected by his wife’s death? he wondered. Probably, thought Braley, he was one of the few people caught up in the Vienna operation who didn’t hate Charlie Muffin. Perhaps because he had known him so well. He smiled at the sudden thought. Actually, he decided, he was quite glad Charlie had slipped away again.
The plane began its take-off run and then snatched up. Braley opened his eyes and looked out at the fast-disappearing ground. The sodium lights still stretched away from the airport like yellow strands of a spider’s web. It looked very peaceful and calm, he thought.
As the aircraft’s climb flattened out, the steward unclipped his belt and stood up, smiling down again at Ruttgers.
‘I’ll get you something to eat,’ he said.
The man was staring up at the light forbidding smoking and the moment it was extinguished began groping into his pocket. Gratefully, he flipped open the top and then turned, frowning at the doctor, holding out the empty packet like a spoiled child showing an exhausted sweet bag.
‘Don’t smoke,’ apologised the doctor.
‘In my grip,’ said Ruttgers. ‘There’s a carton in my grip.’
The steward was even farther back, in the galley, the doctor realised. He unfastened his belt and walked down to Ruttgers’ luggage. An armrest had been removed and the seat-belts from two places adjusted through the straps for take-off safety. The doctor disentangled them, then stood frowning. Finally he picked up two shoulder bags and walked back up the aisle, holding them stretched out before him.
‘We’re still climbing. Do you mind sitting down,’ the steward called out, from behind.
The doctor smiled, apologetically, then looked back to Ruttgers.
‘Which one?’ he asked Ruttgers.
The former Director hesitated, frowning his confusion and the doctor immediately wondered at a relapse. Curiously Ruttgers reached out for the soft black leather bag that Edith had used during her trip from Zurich and over which Charlie, hands shaking with emotion and urgency, had worked upon five hours before in the Crawley hotel, after returning from the Wimbledon home of John Packer.
‘Don’t understand,’ mumbled Ruttgers.
The doctor realised the difficulty the man was having assembling his thoughts and turned towards his own bag, on the adjoining seat. There was some Vallium, he knew. That’s all the man needed, he was sure. Just a tranquilliser.
Ruttgers scraped back the zip and looked inside. Lodged on top of the dirty clothing was a hard, black rectangle. Ruttgers turned it, then opened the passport that Charlie had used for the two years since the Vienna disaster.
‘Him!’ shouted Ruttgers, loud enough to awaken the sleeping men behind, thrusting the passport towards the startled doctor and trying to snatch the clothes out of the bag.