The pilot leaned forward and searched the ground ahead of him.
“Four miles,” Lance called out.
“I don’t see anything.”
“They’re there. Three miles.”
“Nothing.”
“Dead ahead, see them?”
“Got them!”
“A mile and a half; get lined up; can you see the tree line?”
“Yes, the moonlight is good.”
“Just miss the trees and aim for the car. You should have a soft touchdown.”
The pilot punched off the autopilot, swung right, then back left, lining up on the headlights. He put in full flaps and reduced power.
“Minimum speed, and for God’s sake, don’t hit the trees,” Lance said.
The pilot switched on both the landing and taxi lights, faintly illuminating the grass beyond the trees. He floated over the treeline, chopped the throttle, and put the airplane firmly down on the field, standing on the brakes. He swung around in front of the car and stopped.
“Keep the engine running,” Lance said, reaching behind him for the catalogue case. He got out, opened the door to the luggage compartment, and started handing bags to Ali. “Tell Sheila to turn off the headlights,” he said.
Ali went to the car, and a moment later, the lights went off.
Lance leaned into the airplane. “Wind’s light,” he said to the pilot; “you should be able to take off due north. Keep it low all the way.”
The pilot nodded. “Good luck,” he said.
“Enjoy the bike,” Lance replied. “The registration’s in the saddlebags.” He closed the door and watched as the pilot ran the engine up to full power, then released the brakes. Lance winced, thinking he might not make the trees, but then the little airplane was off the ground and climbing steeply. He ran back to the car and got into the passenger seat, while Ali got into the rear.
Sheila put the car in gear and drove slowly off the field. When she was into the trees, she switched on the headlights and found the track through the woods.
“How long until we hit the autoroute?” Lance asked.
“Less than half an hour. Driving at a steady eighty we should be at the Swiss border before dawn.”
“Got the passports?” he asked Ali.
Ali handed the three forward, and Lance inspected them. “Good,” he said.
Ali handed him a small leather case. “Here’s your makeup and beard,” he said.
He had tried out the makeup and beard when they had taken the passport photographs. He’d apply it after they were on the smooth autoroute. Then he would be Herr Schmidt.
“Meine damen und herren,” he said, “mach schnell!”
Sheila joined the paved road, put her foot down, and the car roared off into the European night.
Chapter 57
MORGAN PARKED HIS CAR IN THE short-term lot at Heathrow, fastened his luggage to a folding hand trolley, and walked into terminal four. He found a men’s room, let himself into the handicapped toilet stall, then took off his hat, got out of the raincoat, and began unbuttoning his shirt. He opened his small suitcase, took out a loud Hawaiian shirt and put it on, followed by a tweed cap and sunglasses with heavy black rims. He wadded up his shirt and wrapped it in the raincoat, then stuffed the bundle behind the toilet. He left the stall, dug into his bag, and found a small bottle of pills marked VALIUM 5MG. He took one, then looked at himself in the mirror. “Keep calm,” he said. He grabbed his luggage cart, left the men’s room, and walked to the ticket counters.
From the departure board, he chose a flight, and, a minute later, he was standing in a ticket line. Then it occurred to him that he was going to have to go through security, and that the money in his valise might be discovered. As he stepped up to the counter, he made a snap decision. “Check everything,” he said to the ticket agent.
“Of course, sir,” she replied. “You’re going to have to hurry; your flight leaves in twenty-five minutes, and it’s already boarding.”
“I’ll hurry,” Morgan replied, accepting his ticket and boarding pass.
Dino screeched to a halt in front of terminal four. Before Stone could open his door, a man clutching a handheld radio opened it for him.
“My name’s Bartlett,” he said. “Heathrow security.”
Stone introduced himself and Dino, then showed him the photograph of Morgan.
“I’ve already circulated it,” Bartlett said.
“He’s shaved the mustache, and he’s wearing a raincoat and a trilby hat,” he said. “And he’ll be carrying a canvas valise, I’m sure of that. He’s calling himself Sir William Mallory, and he has a British passport in that name.”
Bartlett used his radio, passing on the new description. “Let’s go,” he said to Stone.
“How many people have you got working right now?” Stone asked, hurrying to keep up.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, but I’ve pulled every available man and woman off nearly everything else. We’re concentrating on the security checkpoint, since every passenger has to pass through it.”
“Let’s start there,” Stone said.
With Bartlett leading the way, they made off across the busy terminal.
Morgan reached the security checkpoint, and immediately he was approached by two men in suits, one of whom flashed an ID card.
“Please step over here, sir,” one of them said, taking his arm and moving him out of the line.
“What’s going on?” Morgan asked, as innocently as he could.
“May I see your passport and ticket, please?”
Morgan produced both.
“You are . . .” The officer looked at the passport. “Mr. Barry Trevor?”
“That’s right,” Morgan said. “What’s this about?”