‘Why Middle East?’
‘Because she’ll have to be at the office during their working hours, from six in the evening until three in the morning. And for the next eight months I’m going to work her so hard that she’ll be too tired to think about anything other than what she’s going to do once she retires.’
‘Good. Where’s Fitzgerald at this moment?’
Gutenburg checked his watch. ‘Halfway across the Atlantic. He’ll be landing at London Heathrow in about four hours.’
And the car?’
‘Has already been returned to the pool. It’s currently being resprayed and given a new set of plates.’
What about his office on M Street?’
‘It will be stripped overnight, and that floor will be placed in the hands of real estate agents on Monday.’
‘You seem to have thought of everything except what happens when he returns to Washington,’ said the Director.
‘He isn’t going to return to Washington,’ replied Gutenburg.
Connor joined the long queue waiting to go through passport control. When he eventually reached the front, an official checked his passport and said, ‘I hope you have an enjoyable fortnight in Britain, Mr Perry.’
In the little box asking ‘How long do you intend to stay in the United Kingdom?’ Mr Perry had written ‘Fourteen days.’ But then, it would be Mr Lilystrand who returned to the airport the following morning.
Two men watched him as he left Terminal Three and boarded the bus for Victoria Coach Station. Forty-two minutes later, the same two men saw him join the queue at a taxi rank. Separately they followed the black cab to the Kensington Park Hotel, where one of them had already left a package for him in reception.
‘Any messages for me?’ Connor asked as he signed the registration form.
‘Yes, Mr Lilystrand,’ said the concierge. ‘A gentleman left this for you this morning.’ He handed Connor an enormous brown envelope. ‘Your room number is 211. The porter will bring up your luggage.’
‘I can manage it myself, thank you,’ he said.
As soon as Connor entered the room, he tore open the envelope. Inside was a ticket to Geneva in the name of Theodore Lilystrand, and a hundred Swiss francs. He slipped off his jacket and lay down on the bed, but despite being exhausted he was unable to sleep. He turned on the television and flicked through endless programmes - what Tara called channel surfing - but it didn’t help.
He had always disliked the waiting game. That was the only time doubts ever set in. He kept reminding himself that this would be his last mission. He began to think about Christmas with Maggie and Tara - and, yes, Stuart. He disliked not being allowed to carry photographs with him, always having to visualise them in his mind. Most of all, he hated not being able to just pick up a phone and talk to either of them whenever he felt like it.
Connor didn’t stir from his bed until it was dark. Then he emerged from his overnight prison cell to go in search of a meal. He bought an Evening Standard from a corner news-vendor and strolled into a small Italian restaurant on High Street, Kensington that was only half full.
The waiter showed him to a quiet table in the corner. The light was barely strong enough for him to read the paper. He ordered a Diet Coke with lots of ice. The British would never understand the meaning of ‘lots of ice’, and he was not surprised when the waiter returned a few minutes later bearing a long glass with three small ice cubes floating in it, and a tiny piece of lemon.
He ordered cannelloni and a side salad. Funny how he picked Maggie’s favourite dishes whenever he was abroad. Anything to remind him of her.
‘The one thing you have to do before you start your new job is find a decent tailor,’ Tara had said to him when they last spoke. ‘And I want to come with you so I can pick your shirts and ties.’
‘Your new job.’ Once again he thought about that letter. I am sorry to have to inform you … However many times he went over it, he still couldn’t think of a reason for Thompson to have changed his mind. It simply didn’t add up.
He began to read the front page of the paper: nine candidates were contesting an election to be the first Mayor of London. That’s odd, thought Connor: haven’t they always had a Mayor - what about Dick Whittington? He looked at the photographs of the contenders and their names, but they meant nothing to him. One of them would be running England’s capital in a couple of weeks’ time. He wondered where he would be then.
He paid the bill in cash and left a tip that would not give the waiter any reason to remember him. When he was back in his hotel room he switched on the television and watched a few minutes of a comedy that didn’t make him laugh. After trying a couple of movies, he slept intermittently. But he was comforted by the thought that at least he was better off than the two men stationed outside on the pavement, who wouldn’t sleep at all. He had spotted them within moments of landing at Heathrow.
He checked his watch. A few minutes after midnight - a few minutes after seven in Washington. He wondered what Maggie would be doing that evening.
‘And how’s Stuart?’ Maggie asked.
‘Still hanging in there,’ Tara replied. ‘He arrives in LA in fifteen days. I can’t wait.’
Will you both be flying straight here?’
‘No, Mom,’ said Tara, trying not to sound exasperated. As I’ve told you several times already, we’re going to rent a car and drive up the West Coast. Stuart’s never been to America, and he wants to see LA and San Francisco. Remember?’