Howard pointed the muzzle of the Uzi at the pilot’s groin. “Just get me on the ground,” he said through clenched teeth.
Carlos walked quickly around the small plane, untying the ropes which were holding down its wings and the tail, and checking that the flaps and ailerons were functioning. He didn’t bother visually checking the fuel tanks, but as soon as he was settled in the pilot’s seat and had put his briefcase on the front passenger seat, he turned on the electrics and looked at the fuel gauges. Matthew Bailey had been as good as his word — both tanks were full. Not that Carlos required full tanks.
He started the engine and the propeller was soon a whirling blur. The airfield was deserted, but there was still enough light to see by. He looked at the wind-sock and taxied to the end of the runway which would allow him to take off into the wind.
The plane almost leapt into the air as if making light of its single passenger. Carlos kept the plane in a steep climb, flying it parallel to the Bay Bridge. In the far distance he could see the tower blocks of Baltimore city centre. When he was about halfway along the bridge he made a slow turn to the left, and continued to climb.
As he handled the controls, Carlos tried to work out where they had gone wrong and why the operation had fallen apart. It wasn’t that he wanted to apportion blame, it was that he rarely failed and when he did it was always because someone else had let him down. He went over and over the steps in his mind, looking for the weak point. Not Mary Hennessy, of that he was sure. And Matthew Bailey had done everything that was asked of him. The snipers too.
Maybe it was just bad luck, plain and simple. Maybe the gods had just decided that Ilich Ramirez Sanchez would not be allowed to retire, to rest on his laurels and spend his old age with his wife and family. His luck had clearly run out the day he’d escaped from France. He was like a cat which had used up all of its nine lives. The displays on the radios in the control panel were blank. There was no one that Carlos wanted, or needed, to speak to.
He flew south, down the centre of the Chesapeake Bay.
Carlos thought about his wife and children. He wondered how they were, and if Magdalena had found the time to get the stereo repaired. They had a nice house, a house he could relax in, with several acres of well-tended garden behind a high stone wall.
He turned the plane to the left until the heading indicator showed that he was flying east. He remembered how his children had cried when he’d told them that he’d be leaving them for a while, and how they’d nodded seriously when he’d made them promise to take care of their mother. His own mother had cried, too, and she’d held him tightly as if knowing that she would never see him again. He remembered, too, how urgent Magdalena’s love-making had been on his final night in the house, his suitcase packed and locked on the floor at the end of the bed.
There was no going back, Carlos knew. That had been the deal. If he had succeeded he would have had a sanctuary for the rest of his life, no matter what the international pressure. But if he failed, there was to be no link to his paymasters. In return for his silence, his family would be allowed to stay in their home. Carlos had made sure that whatever happened there was enough money in their overseas bank accounts to ensure that Magdalena and their children would never want for anything. Ahead of him he saw the blue vastness of the Atlantic Ocean, the sky above it beginning to darken as the sun dipped down below the horizon.
Carlos relaxed as he flew over the water. He’d given it his best shot. He had done nothing to be ashamed of. He looked down at the white tips of the waves some four thousand feet below him. A man could hide for a long time under the water, he thought. Maybe for ever. He opened the briefcase and took out the P228. He unscrewed the silencer and tossed it into the rear of the plane. There would be nobody around to hear the shot. He took his left hand off the control yolk and pressed the barrel of the gun to his right temple.
“Magdalena, I love you,” he whispered.
The doctor put the finishing touches to the dressings and stepped back to admire his handiwork. “You’re a very lucky man, Special Agent Howard,” he said.
“I don’t feel particularly lucky, Doc,” Howard replied.
The doctor removed his rubber gloves and tossed them into a trash bag. “If the bullet hadn’t glanced off your shoulder blade, and if it had exited downwards and not upwards, you wouldn’t be sitting here now.”
Howard was sitting on the edge of a hospital cot, stripped to the waist. He tried to stand but the doctor shook his head and held up his hand, Indian-greeting style, and told him to stay put. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You need at least a day in bed.”
“I want to go home,” said Howard.
“I gather home is in Phoenix, and you’re in no fit state to be flying. You stay put, and that’s an order.”
“But my wife. .” Howard began,
“. . is waiting outside,” finished the doctor. He nodded to a nurse who left the room and came back a few minutes later with Lisa.
Lisa Howard rushed over to the cot, went to hug her husband, then held herself back as she saw the dressings. “I won’t break,” Howard said quietly and she grinned and reached for him. There were tears in her eyes. “What are you doing here?” he asked in amazement.
“Jake called me and said I should get here. Daddy arranged a jet.” She looked suddenly uncomfortable at the mention of her father, and Howard couldn’t help but laugh.
“That’s great,” he said. “Honey, that’s just great.” He stood up and hugged her hard, squeezing her against him even though it hurt like hell.
“Honey, I’m so sorry,” Lisa whispered into his ear. “About the golf clubs. About everything. When can you come home?”
“Tonight,” said Howard.
“When he’s stronger,” insisted the doctor.
The door opened again and Bob Sanger appeared with Don Clutesi close behind. Clutesi was smiling. “Cole, how are you?” asked Sanger.
“Fine,” said Howard.
The doctor sighed in exasperation. “Agent Howard, try to remember that I’m the one with the medical degree, will you?”
Howard grinned at Sanger. “Really, Bob, I’ll be okay.”
“Are you up for a visitor?” Sanger asked.
“This is my wife, Lisa. She’s the only visitor I need right now.” He kept a tight hold on his wife’s hand as if afraid that she’d leave him.
“Oh, I think you might want to make an exception in this case,” said Sanger, opening the door wide.
Two more Secret Service agents entered, checked out the room, then went to stand in opposite corners like trained attack dogs. Three more men appeared, and Howard sat up straighter as he recognised the one in the centre. It was the President, flanked by agents. Howard thought he seemed surprisingly calm, considering what he’d been through.
“Special Agent Howard, I just wanted to thank you for your actions today. I will be forever in your debt.” There was no doubting the sincerity in the President’s voice nor the concern in his voice. “Are you okay?”
Before Howard could reply, the doctor stepped forward. “A few days’ rest and he’ll be fine,” he said.
The President nodded. “Good, I’m real glad to hear that. Real glad. If there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to call my office.”
“Yes, sir. I will. But Mike Cramer is the one who you should thank,” said Howard. “He’s the one who saved the Prime Minister.”
“I wish I could, Agent Howard,” said the President. “If it wasn’t for him I’d have a hell of a lot of explaining to do to the British Government. Unfortunately he seems to have disappeared.”
Howard looked across at Sanger in surprise. “What happened?”
It was the doctor who answered. “We don’t know,” he said. “We were treating him here in Shock-trauma, the nurse left him alone for a few minutes, when she got back he was gone.”
“Is he okay?”