“Terminal four; I’ll find a man for you.”
“Tell airport security he’s shaved his mustache, and he’ll be carrying a canvas valise; he won’t check it.”
“Right.”
Stone hung up. “Heathrow, my man.”
“This is a long shot,” Dino said.
“It’s the only shot we’ve got.”
56
LANCE CABOT LEANED INTO THE WIND and accelerated. The big BMW motorcycle tore along the country road, making a steady eighty miles per hour, taking the curves as if glued to the road. From a hilltop, he spied the airfield, a disused World War II training facility. There was no longer an entrance; the road had been plowed up and now sported a crop of late wheat. Lance stopped the motorcycle, went to the fence along the road, pulled up a post, and laid it flat. He got back onto the bike, drove over the fence, then stopped and returned the post to its hole. Then he started, overland, for the field, driving as fast as he could without capsizing the big machine.
The two old runways were potholed, and there were many weeds growing up through the tracks. The field was empty. Lance looked at his watch: The son of a bitch was late, and it was getting dark. He drove up and down both runways, checking for holes that might wreck an airplane; he took note of the wind, then he drove to the end of one runway, shut down the engine, and got off the motorcycle, searching the skies. He saw it before he heard it, a black dot, steadily getting bigger.
Lance stood at the end of the selected runway, holding his arms straight above his head, the airport lineman’s signal for “park here.” The Cessna circled once, then set down on the correct runway, slowing, then taxiing toward him. It stopped, but the engine kept running.
Lance unstrapped a salesman’s catalogue case from the rear rack of the BMW, opened a door, and placed the case on the rear seat, securing it with the passenger seat belt. He looked over the rear seat at the luggage compartment; his bags were already aboard. He got into the airplane, closed the door behind him, and fastened his seat belt.
“Beautiful bike,” the pilot said. He rubbed the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand together, the ancient code. Lance took a stack of fifty-pound notes from an inside pocket and handed it to him. The pilot did a quick count, tucked the notes into a pocket, and grinned. “Where to, old sport?”
“That way,” Lance said, pointing south. “I’ll direct you.”
“Any particular altitude?”
“Ten.”
“Ten thousand?”
“Ten feet; fifteen, if ten makes you nervous.”
“We’ll attract attention that low, and besides, there are a lot of trees between here and the Channel. I’d suggest a thousand feet.”
Lance reached forward and switched off the transponder. “Good; when you get to the Channel, descend to minimum altitude, and fly a heading of one eight zero.”
“Below the radar? I could get into trouble.”
Lance held up the keys of the motorcycle. “You like the BMW?”
The pilot pocketed the keys, lined up on the runway, and pushed the throttle to the firewall. Two minutes later, they were at a thousand feet. “How far we going?” he asked. “Will I need to refuel?”
“Less than two hundred miles,” Lance replied. “If you topped off as requested, you’ll have fuel for there and back.”
The pilot nodded. After a few minutes he pointed to a blinking light. “Lighthouse,” he said, and started a descent.
“Careful you don’t bump into any shipping,” Lance said.
“A hundred feet will keep us below the radar and above anything but the QE2,” the pilot said. “What line of work are you in?”
“I’m a salesman,” Lance replied.
“What do you sell?”
“Whatever’s in demand.”
They flew on in silence, at one point steering around a big tanker plowing up the Channel, then the shore lights of Normandy came into view.