Henry stopped reading and flicked quickly through the pages. There were eleven. It would take him some time to read them. He poured himself a large Bell’s with a dash of soda and settled down.
The house was quiet. His wife, Kate, and his two daughters, Jenny and Leanne, were tucked up in bed asleep. They were more exhausted than he was by the long hours he’d been putting in.
It was 11 p.m.
Myrna, Danny and Tracey spent the rest of that afternoon under guard, courtesy of Mark Tapperman and the Miami Police Department, at Miami International Airport. Tapperman had arranged for the use of an executive lounge and posted uniformed, armed police officers at every entrance and exit.
No one seriously thought Bussola was stupid enough to try anything, but better safe than sorry.
It was a tense afternoon for the women. They said little to each other, even less to Tapperman. When it was announced their flight would be delayed another hour, it only served to make them more jumpy than ever.
At 7 p.m., passengers were called to the boarding gate.
Surrounded by armed cops, Danny and Tracey were escorted all the way to the gate, jumping ahead of the queue of passengers, right up to the door of the plane.
Myrna and Tapperman were with them all the way.
At the door, Danny turned to Myrna. They embraced.
‘ It’ll be a tight schedule at the far end,’ Myrna said.
‘ Yes, I know,’ Danny said. There was an 8 a.m. landing, British time. Very tight, especially when the court sat at 10 a.m.
‘ Look after yourself,’ Danny told Myrna. ‘We’ll be safe from here on in, but you’ll have to watch your back.’
‘ I’ll be fine,’ Myrna said. ‘I’ve got this big oaf watching over me, even though he keeps crashing cars on the way to help me.’ She thumbed Tapperman. He gave a lopsided grin and shook hands with Danny, who ushered Tracey onto the aircraft.
Tapperman and Myrna walked back against the tide of boarding passengers. Tapperman bumped into one guy who had a vaguely familiar look about him. Tapperman thought no more about the encounter.
Felicity suppressed a giggle. She did not even need to have her ear to the door to listen to this one: Mario Bussola going ape-shit with Ira Begin for letting three women outwit and outrun him. Bussola’s angry voice boomed down the hallway outside Begin’s office and all Felicity had to do was stand in the doorway of the living room and try not to laugh too loudly.
They had done it, Felicity thought triumphantly. The girl was now on her way to England safe and sound.
And Mario was left with a face full of scrambled egg.
The office door opened and Begin stormed out. Felicity stepped back out of sight.
‘ It’s not as bad as you think, Mario,’ the under-pressure Begin defended himself.
‘ Why not? Go on, tell me. I’m very fucking interested.’
‘ Two things. Firstly with those papers on my desk, we will smash Kruger Investigations. And secondly, the girl is still going to die.’
‘ Oh? And how have you arranged that one?’ Bussola sneered. ‘Bomb on the plane?’
‘ No — even better than that. You wanted to get Patrick Orlove out of the country — well, I’ve arranged it. He’s on that plane, with a new passport, new name, different coloured hair, and with orders to kill Tracey Greenwood when the appropriate moment comes. Then he can disappear, firstly into Britain, where I’ve opened a bank account for him with two grand in it; then he can hop across to Europe, where I’ve deposited a quarter of a million in a Paris bank for him — activated when the kill is confirmed, of course.’
There was a silence while no doubt Bussola absorbed all this.
‘ Mario, you should know me by now,’ Begin’s voice said persuasively. ‘I always have a fall-back position. I never take anything for granted.’
Felicity took the news like a blow to the stomach.
So it wasn’t over yet.
Felicity could not sleep. She heard Bussola return to the house just after midnight, then crash into his bedroom down the hallway. His snores more or less immediately permeated through the walls. Big, loud, disgusting ones, just like him. They made Felicity’s lips curl in distaste.
She could not help but think this was the time to get out of this mess. She hated her life, she hated her husband and she needed to break free. Otherwise she would crack up or die.
Other than the sound of snoring, the house was quiet.
Begin was not back — he slept in a room next to his office — so there was only herself and Bussola in at that moment.
Time to take a chance.
She dressed quickly in light clothing, filling a small valise with other clothing and some of life’s essentials.
She stepped into the hallway, which she was fairly sure was not observed by surveillance cameras. A dozen strides and she was outside Bussola’s door. It was unlocked. Felicity crept into the bedroom. A dim bedside light illuminated the massive, jello-like form of Bussola lying spread-eagled and naked across the bed like a beached whale. She tiptoed up to him, any noise she might be making masked by the deafening snores emanating deep from his throat. Alcoholic fumes and stale sweat wafted up from him.
He squirmed. His body wobbled.
Felicity remained still, confident he would not wake. Bussola’s clothes were scattered drunkenly around the room. She picked up his jacket and rummaged through the pockets, finding two keys on a chain. She pocketed them.
‘ What the hell’s..?’ Bussola blurted out and sat upright.
Felicity dropped like a stone at the end of the bed. The bedsprings bounced, Bussola groaned… then the snoring recommenced.
Felicity exhaled falteringly.
On her hands and knees she crawled around the bed to the cabinet in which she knew her husband kept his own personal gun. It was a. 25 Beretta, just like James Bond used to carry.
It was fully loaded.
She rose to her knees and found herself face to face with her beloved. Spittle dribbled out of the corners of his mouth. Oh, how she hated him. She stood up, reached over him and picked up a pillow. Holding the gun in her right hand, she held the pillow over it so the end of the barrel protruded slightly and pointed the weapon at her husband’s temple.
Not close enough.
She forced herself to touch the muzzle to his skin, braced and pulled the trigger twice in quick succession. The sound was dreadful in the confines of the bedroom. People must come running… she waited, listening for the sound of running footsteps, ready to bring down the first one through the door and die fighting the others.
No one came.
Before leaving the room she grabbed the wrist-watch on the bedside cupboard; it was a Rolex, once owned by Steve Kruger. Felicity pocketed it, a lump in her throat. With one last glance at her husband, whose brains now made a pattern on the light-shade next to the bed, she left the room.
A minute later she was downstairs outside Begin’s office. She unlocked the door with one of the keys she had just appropriated from Bussola. As Begin had boasted, the documents which would smash Kruger Investigations were on his desk — the same documents Felicity had stolen at the time of her divorce from Steve and which had subsequently played a big part in his death.
Well, she was making amends now, as best she could. With a great deal of pleasure she fed them one by one into the paper shredder next to Begin’s desk. Twelve sheets, shredded in three minutes. But that wasn’t all she planned to do in his office.
She moved to the small wall-safe set behind some law books on a shelf. She wasn’t certain what it contained, but she had an inkling there was something worthwhile within.