“No, that’s the second thing we do,” I said, taking out the satellite phone. “First we call New York City and cancel the evacuation.”
Chapter 90
Thirty-eight nautical miles due north of Árvore Preta, back at Amilcar Cabral International Airport on Sal, the first-class passengers on a flight from Munich had cleared customs and were entering the main terminal.
The terminal was very modern—clean and bright, with white walls and polished glass and floors. The in-flight magazine had said its recent remodel was evidence of Cape Verde’s growing appeal to vacationing Europeans looking for an exotic tropical experience.
As he walked, Mr. Beckett remembered what the place looked like in the early ’70s, when he arrived on his first field assignment during the rebellion. The Portuguese military helicopters behind sandbags out on the tarmac; the bullet holes in the barred windows; the nervous-looking troops and press. It had been an exotic experience then as well.
“Gorgeous day. Truly breathtaking,” Mr. Joyce commented, staring at the shining squeaky-cleanness of the glass terminal.
They were both dressed casually now, Eurosporty, with tailored sport coats over Adidas tops, expensive jeans, and Chanel aviator sunglasses.
“Indeed,” said Mr. Beckett as he pulled his rolling Gucci suitcase around a group of Africans and Western travelers sleeping and reading magazines in a row of pleather airport seats. He gazed up at the beams of light spilling down from one of the many overhead skylights.
“One might even call it a momentous day,” he said.
They laughed together as they walked. Then Mr. Beckett yawned. He hadn’t been able to sleep on the flight. Then he smiled again as he took a deep breath.
That was okay. He felt a second wind coming. One last sprint left for the final mile.
“Where is Katarina?” Mr. Joyce said as they approached the airport exit. “I specifically told her to be waiting for us up ahead, at the car-for-hire. I don’t like this.”
“Don’t be paranoid, Mr. Joyce,” said Mr. Beckett, grinning at his companion. “We’re here. It’s done. You need to enjoy it. In an hour, we call Armenio, who will rig the detonator. All we need to do now is go to the hotel and order Champagne. We dial the number and sit back on the seaside balcony and watch.”
“Watch the fun??
?? said Mr. Joyce.
Mr. Beckett nodded vigorously.
“Yes. There’ll be so much fun the entire world won’t know what to do.”
“For Mikhail?” said Mr. Joyce, looking at his partner.
Mr. Beckett agreed with a solemn nod. “All for poor Mikhail.”
They were near the exit, and Mr. Beckett was turning his phone off airplane mode, when a plain, petite, dark-haired woman in chic business wear and heels burst through the terminal’s entrance and made a beeline for them.
“Katarina! What is it? What’s wrong?” said Mr. Joyce.
“Everything!” Katarina said, swallowing. “Everything is wrong!”
Chapter 91
“Slow down, Katarina, before you run us off the road,” said Mr. Beckett as they sped out of the airport in her tiny pale-green Fiat.
“I’ve been calling you since this morning,” she cried. “It’s a disaster!”
“Slowly, Katarina. What happened?”
“What happened? I should be asking you that,” she said. “You said this would be discreet and that no one would ever know. Why did you contact the authorities? You never said anything about a ransom.”
“A what?”
“A ransom! Don’t give me that. Like you don’t know! It’s all over the news! The BBC! Where have you been?”
“We’ve been out of contact on an airplane,” said Mr. Beckett. “What’s all over the news?”