Panicked, Jonathan began to jog through the rank of trucks.
And then he saw his chance.
On the rear flank, the driver of an Interfreight lorry was only now climbing down from his rig and rushing toward the ticket booth. He held a phone to his ear, and his red cheeks and vocal responses made it apparent he was engaged in a quarrel. Jonathan edged closer to the truck. He couldn’t see the plates yet, but it no longer mattered. Anywhere was safer than England. He rounded the back of a gleaming chrome monster hauling natural gas and pulled up. The driver had disappeared inside the ticket office. His cab sat 12 meters away. The morning sun reflected off the windscreen, making it impossible to ascertain whether or not someone was riding shotgun. It was then that he spotted the license plate. Black, rectangular, with seven white numerals following the prefix “MI.”
“MI” for Milano.
He had found his chariot.
Jonathan approached the truck at a confident clip. He climbed onto the passenger-side running board and pulled at the door. It was open, and he swung inside and slammed it behind him. No one was inside. Keys dangled from the ignition. A GPS monitor dominated the dashboard, and cigarettes overflowed from the ashtray. The radio was playing, filling the cabin with saccharine Italian pop.
There was a curtain behind the seats. He parted it to reveal two single beds side by side, unmade, with clothing strewn across the blankets. In place of girly mags, there was a pile of newspapers-French, Italian, and English, issues of Der Spiegel and Il Tempo, and a volume titled History of Stoicism. Great, he thought, the truck driver as intellectual. He glanced over his shoulder. The driver had emerged from the ticket office and was hurrying back to the truck, the phone still clamped to his ear.
Jonathan wedged himself between the seats and pulled the curtain closed. Gathering a ball of clothing, he lay down on the far bed, arranged the blankets over him, and covered himself with the wrinkled (and sweat-stained) garments. He’d just set his head down when the door opened and the cab rocked with the arrival of the driver.
The truck lurched ahead. There was the spark of flint, and then a hint of tobacco as the driver fired up a cigarette. All the while he talked. He was Italian, a southerner by his accent. He was speaking to a woman, probably his wife, and the subject was grave. She had spent too much for a new mattress when the family needed a new water heater. Civil war was imminent.
There was a thump, the truck descended a ramp, and then came a hollow knock as the truck advanced across the ferry deck. It drew to a halt. Jonathan waited for the driver to descend and avail himself of the myriad pleasures aboard ship. The travel time across the channel was one hour and thirty-three minutes, and the brochure he’d read mentioned plenty of duty-free shopping, several bars and restaurants, and even an Internet café.
But the driver didn’t budge. For the next ninety minutes he remained on the phone with his spouse, whose name, Jonathan learned, was Laura, and who apparently had at least three dimwitted brothers who owed the family a great deal of money. He did not stop smoking the entire time.
The ferry docked according to schedule, at 8:30. Ten minutes passed before the truck moved an inch, and another ten before its wheels rolled onto solid ground. Again the rig stopped. This would be customs and immigration, Jonathan knew. He reminded himself that he was riding in a brand-new eighteen-wheeler with chrome pipes belonging to a worldwide freight company. It was the other guys that got searched: the independent contractors, the start-up freight companies, the drivers whose vehicles were in poor condition. Still, it wasn’t only his imagination that the line was moving at an agonizingly slow pace. Over and over the driver mumbled under his breath, “Come on. What the hell is the problem?”
Sixty minutes passed.
The truck advanced, only to stop yet again. But this time there was a bone-rattling shudder as the driver put on the air brake. The window was lowered and Jonathan overheard the exchange.
“Where are you coming from?” asked the customs inspector.
“Birmingham,” answered the driver, in respectable English.
“License and manifest, please.”
The driver handed both over. A few minutes passed as the paperwork was studied and returned.
“Pick up anybody on the way?”
“No. Against company rules.”
“See anyone trying to hitch a ride near the coast?”
“It was dark. I see no one.”
“You’re sure? Man about six feet tall, dark hair, maybe a little gray, an American?”
“I’m sure.”
“So you don’t have anyone back there in your cabin?”
“You want to look? Come on, then, I show you.”
The inspector did not respond to the offer. “And you never left the truck alone?”
“Never!”
The heartfelt lie boosted Jonathan’s hopes that he was with the right driver.
“Where you going to?” continued the inspector.
“Berlin, Prague, and Istanbul. It says so on the papers. Come on, mister. I’m in a hurry.”
A thwack on the door as the inspector patted the truck goodbye. “Off you go.”
Not daring to move, Jonathan listened from his blind bivouac as the truck gained speed and the ride smoothed out, and he was transported across the fertile plains of northern France toward Berlin and Istanbul.
33
Frank Connor showed up at St. Mary’s Hospital, Praed Street, Paddington, at 11 a.m. sharp. To his credit, he brought a bouquet of flowers, a tin of chocolates from Fortnum and Mason, and the latest Jilly Cooper novel. He was dressed as befitted a visit to an ailing relative, in his gray Brooks Brothers suit that was loose around the shoulders, tight across his back, and didn’t stand a chance of covering his impressive gut. His coarse gray hair was combed neatly, even if the rabid humidity had made a wreck of it.
On the opposite side of the ledger, Connor had been drinking since the night before, when he had missed capturing Jonathan Ransom by a mere ninety seconds and learned that Prudence Meadows had shot and killed her husband in the bargain. Despite a shower, a change of clothes, and a handful of Aqua Velva for each mottled, sagging cheek, he still reeked of alcohol and cigars.
Connor took the elevator to the fourth floor. There was no air conditioning (another reason he detested England), and by the time he strode to the nurses’ station his shirt was soaked through. He gave his work name, Standish, and claimed to be a relative. The duty nurse confirmed that his name was on the family list and showed him past two officers of the Metropolitan Police waiting to interview Prudence Meadows as soon as she was able.