I continued telling her how we'd both swiped a squash court floor from one of the HQ Security Forces bases in Northern Ireland. We were there at three o'clock in the morning with spades, hammers, and chisels. We put the boards in a van and brought them over to his Welsh cottage. After all, HM Government spent all that time and money training us to break in and steal things. Why not use it for ourselves?
The next three days had been spent laying the hallway and kitchen of the house near Brecon with his nice new flooring.
I grinned down at her for a reaction, but she was already sound asleep.
I started to watch the video but knew I was going to fall asleep any minute--as long as the capsules wore off and I could stop my mind going back to the same question over and over again.
There was an unholy alliance between PIRA and corrupt elements of the DEA, of that there was no doubt--and it very much looked as though Kev's boss was at the center of it. Kev had found out about the corruption, but not who was involved.
He wanted to talk to somebody about it. Was it his boss whom he'd unwittingly phoned for an opinion the day I arrived in Washington? Very unlikely, because Kev would have had to include him on his list of suspects. Much more probable was that he'd spoken to someone unconnected with the DEA, someone who'd know what he was talking about and whose opinion he valued. Could it have been Luther? He knew Kev; would Kev have trusted him? Who knows? Whoever he had called, he was dead within an hour of putting down the phone.
The cabin lights came on a couple of hours before landing, and we were served breakfast. I tried to wake Kelly, but she groaned and buried herself under her blanket. I didn't bother with the food. From feeling almost elated at having gotten past security, I awoke profoundly depressed. My mood was as black as the coffee in front of me. I'd been crazy to let myself feel relieved. We weren't out of the woods by a long shot;
if they knew we were on the aircraft, of course they wouldn't do anything about it until we landed. It was at the point that I walked off and stepped onto the ramp that they'd lift me.
Even if that didn't happen, there was Immigration. The officials trying to keep out undesirables are much tougher and a lot more on the ball than those in charge of waving you off.
They vet your documents much more closely, scrutinize your body language, read your eyes. Kelly and I were on a stolen passport. We'd gotten through at Dulles, but that didn't mean we could pull it off again.
I took four capsules and finished my coffee. I remembered that I was an American citizen now. When the attendant came past I asked her for an immigration card. Kelly was still asleep.
Filling in the card, I decided that the Glazars had just moved and now lived next door to Mr. and Mrs. Brown.
Hunting Bear Path was the only address I could talk about convincingly.
If I was lifted at Immigration, it wouldn't be the first time.
I'd come into Gatwick airport once from a job. I gave my passport to the Immigration officer, and while he was inspecting it a boy came up on either side, gripped my arms and took the passport from the official.
"Mr. Stamford? Special Branch. Come with us." I wasn't going to argue; my cover was good, I was in the UK now, everything was going to be fine.
They strip-searched me in an interview room, firing questions left, right, and center. I went through the whole routine of my cover story: where I'd been, what I'd been doing, why I'd been doing it. They telephoned my cover, and James supported my story. Everything was going swimmingly.
Then I got put in the airport detention cells, and three policemen came in. They wasted no time; two held my arms, one threw punches; they then took turns. They beat the shit out of me. No word of explanation.
Next I got taken for an interview and was accused of being a pedophile and procuring kids in Thailand which was strange, considering I'd been on a deniable op in Russia.
There was nothing I could say; it was just down to denying, and waiting for the system to get me out.
After about four hours of interviews I was sitting in my cell. In came people from the intelligence service, to debrief me on my performance. It had been a fucking exercise.
They'd been testing all the operators as we came back into the UK; the only trouble was, they'd picked the wrong charge to pull us up on. The police don't wait for niceties like court rooms when it comes to dealing with child molesters, so everyone who was lifted got taken to one side and given the good news. One bloke got such a severe kicking he ended up in the hospital.
* * * Kelly looked as if she'd been sleeping in a hedge. She yawned and made an attempt to stretch. As she opened her eyes and looked around, completely bewildered, I grinned and offered her the carton of orange juice.
"How are you today, Louise?"
She still seemed lost for a second or two, then got back with the program.
"I'm all right." She paused, grinned, and added, "Daddy." She closed her eyes and turned over, trying to sort herself out with the pillow and blanket. I didn't have the heart to tell her we were landing soon.
At least I got to drink her orange juice as a Welcome to London video came on the screens: loads of pomp, circumstance, and pageantry, the Household Cavalry astride their horses. Guardsmen marching up and down, the Queen riding down the Mall in her carriage. To me, London had never looked so good.
Then the aircraft landed and we became actors again.
We taxied and stopped at our ramp. Everybody jumped out of their seat as if they were going to miss out on something. I leaned over to Kelly.
"Wait here. We're in no rush." I wanted to get into the middle of the crowd.
We eventually got all the bits and pieces back into Kelly's day sack organized the teddies, and joined the line. I was trying to look ahead but I couldn't see much.
We got to the galley area, turned left, and shuffled toward the door. On the ramp were three men--normal British Airports Authority reception staff in fluorescent jackets, who were manning the air bridge helping a woman into a wheelchair.
Things were looking good; freedom felt so close.
We walked up the ramp and joined the spur that led to the main terminal. Kelly didn't have a care in the world, which was good. I didn't want her to understand what was happening.
There was heavy foot traffic in both directions, people running with hand luggage, drifting in and out of shops, milling around at gates. I had the day sack and the laptop over my shoulder and held Kelly's hand. We reached the walkway.
Heathrow airport is the most monitored, most camera'd, most visually and physically secure airport in the world.
Untold pairs of eyes would already be on us; this was no time for looking furtive or guilty. The moving walkway stopped by Gates 43-47, then a new one started about ten yards later. As we trundled along I waited until there was a gap on each side of us and bent down to Kelly.
"You mustn't forget I am your daddy today OK, Louise Glazar?"
"As if!" she said with a big smile.
I just hoped we were both smiling in thirty minutes' time.
We came to the end of the walkway and took a down escalator, following signs for Passport Control and Baggage Re claim. From halfway down the escalator I could see the Immigration hall straight ahead. This was where we'd stand or fall.
There were about four or five people waiting to go through the desks. I started joking with Kelly, trying to give myself something to do instead of just looking nervous. I'd entered countries illegally hundreds of times, but never so unprepared or under such pressure.
"All set, Louise?"
"I'm ready, Daddy."
I passed her the day sack so I could get the passport and immigration card out of my pocket. We ambled up to Passport Control and joined the end of a line. I kept reminding myself about an American friend who'd traveled from Boston to Canada, and then from Canada back to the UK. He'd picked up his friend's passport while they were sharing a hotel room;