“No, but it leaves around noon, I think. You have to be there early these days, because of all the security stuff.”
“Thank you, Barbara.” Stone hung up, then picked up the phone again. “Please ask the doorman to get me a cab for Heathrow immediately,” he said to the operator. “I’ll be right down.”
He threw on some clothes and, unshaven and unshowered, ran for the elevator. The doorman had the cab door open as he came through the revolving door, and he dove into the rear seat.
“Heathrow, is it, sir?” the cabbie asked.
“Right, and hurry.”
The driver pulled away and turned up Mount Street, headed for Park Lane. “Shouldn’t be too bad this time of day; what airline?”
“British Airways, first-class entrance.”
“Righto.”
Stone sat back and stared out the window, frequently glancing at his watch. Traffic wasn’t bad, and after the Chiswick Roundabout, it became even better.
“Excuse me, sir,” the driver said, “I don’t want you to think I’ve come over all paranoid, but I’m quite sure there’s a car following us.”
Stone spun around and looked at the traffic behind them. “Which one?”
“It’s a black Ford, the big one; at least two men in it, about four cars back.”
“Are they staying back, or are they trying to overtake us?” Stone asked.
“They were closer before; now they’re just lying back there, keeping us in sight.” What now? he thought. Have the two big “Greeks” been replaced in the lineup?
“Is there any way you can shake them?”
“Not on this road; they’re faster than I am. I could get off the motorway and try and lose them in Hammersmith.”
He had no time for that. “Never mind, just get me to Heathrow as fast as you can.”
“Righto.”
The driver stayed in the center of three lanes, driving fast; the black Ford held its position, and when the cab left the motorway at the Heathrow turnoff, Stone saw the Ford’s turn signal go on.
The driver followed the signs to the British Airways terminal, still driving fast. Stone reached into a pocket
for money, and discovered he had none. He had nothing in his pockets.
The cab screeched to a halt. “Wait for me here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
“I don’t know if . . .”
But Stone was gone at a run. He did not see the black Ford stop fifty yards back and two men get out. He dashed into the terminal and ran for the first-class ticket counter. There were three people in line; he ignored them and went to the desk. “Excuse me, this is an emergency; can you tell me if Mrs. Arrington Calder has checked in yet?”
“Yes,” the young woman said. “I checked her in no more than five minutes ago; she was headed for the security checkpoint when I last saw her.”
“Thank you,” Stone said, and hurried off, following signs to the checkpoint. The area was a zoo, with dozens of passengers lining up for the security check and X-ray machines. Stone jumped up and down, trying to see over their heads, and he saw Arrington pick up her hand luggage on the other side and start toward the gates. He didn’t want to start shouting at her, and there was no way to break into the line, so he went to an exit, where a uniformed policeman was on guard.
“Excuse me,” he said to the bobby, “I’m trying to catch up with a friend who has just gone through security; may I get in this way?”
“Do you have any luggage, sir?”
“No.”
“May I see your ticket?”