The Negotiator

Southeast of the Ajaccio airport, where the road from the mountains joins the coast highway, Quinn crossed the Prunelli River, then in spate as the winter rains tumbled out of the hills to the sea. The Smith & Wesson had served him well at Oldenburg and Castelblanc, but he could not wait for the ferry and would have to fly—without luggage. He bade the FBI-issue weapon farewell and tossed it far into the river, creating another bureaucratic headache for the Hoover Building. Then he drove the last four miles to the airport.

It is a low, wide modern building, light and airy, divided into two tunnel-linked parts, dedicated to arrivals and departures. He parked the Opel Ascona in the lot and walked into the departures terminal. The place was just opening up. Half-right, just after the magazine shop, he found the Flight Information desk and inquired about the first flight out. Nothing to France for the next two hours, but he could do better. Mondays, Tuesdays, and Sundays there is a 9:00 A.M. Air France flight direct to London.

He was going there anyway, to make a full report to Kevin Brown and Nigel Cramer; he thought Scotland Yard had as much right as the FBI to know what had happened through October and November, half of it in Britain and half in Europe. He bought himself a single ticket to Heathrow and asked for the phone booths. They were in a row beyond the information desk. He needed coins and went to change a bank note at the magazine shop. It was just after seven; he had two hours to wait.

Changing his money and heading back to the telephones, he failed to notice the British businessman who entered the terminal from the direction of the forecourt. The man appeared not to notice him either. He brushed several drops of rain off the shoulders of his beautifully cut three-piece dark suit, folded his charcoal-gray Crombie overcoat across one arm, hung his still-furled umbrella in the crook of the same elbow, and went to study the magazines. After several minutes he bought one, looked around, and selected one of the eight circular banquettes that surround the eight pillars supporting the roof.

The one he selected gave him a view of the main entrance doors, the passenger check-in desk, the row of phone booths, and the embarkation doors leading to the departure lounge. The man crossed his elegantly suited legs and began to read his magazine.

Quinn checked the directory and made his first call to the rental company. The agent was in early. He, too, tried harder.

“Certainly, monsieur. At the airport? The keys under the driver’s foot mat? We can collect it from there. Now about payment ... By the way, what car is it?”

“An Opel Ascona,” said Quinn. There was a doubtful pause.

“Monsieur, we do not have any Opel Asconas. Are you sure you rented it from us?”

“Certainly, but not here in Ajaccio.”

“Ah, perhaps you went to our branch in Bastía? Or Calvi?”

“No, Arnhem.”

By now the man was trying very hard indeed.

“Where is Arnhem, monsieur?”

“In Holland,” said Quinn.

At this point the man just stopped trying.

“How the hell am I going to get a Dutch-registered Opel back there from Ajaccio airport?”

“You could drive it,” said Quinn reasonably. “It will be fine after it’s been fixed up.”

There was a long pause.

“Fixed up? What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, the front end’s been through a barn and the rear end’s got a dozen bullet holes.”

“What about payment for all this?” whispered the agent.

“Just send the bill to the American ambassador in Paris,” said Quinn. After that he hung up. It seemed the kindest thing to do.

He called the bar in Estepona and spoke to Ronnie, who gave him the number of the mountain villa where Bernie and Arfur were keeping an eye on Sam but making a point of not playing poker with her. He rang the new number and Arfur called her to the phone.

“Quinn, darling, are you all right?” Her voice was faint but clear.

“I’m fine. Listen, honey, it’s over. You can take a plane from Málaga to Madrid and on to Washington. They’ll want to talk to you; probably that fancy committee will want to hear the story. You’ll be safe. Tell ’em this: Orsini died without talking. Never said a word. Whoever the fat man Zack mentioned may be, or his backers, no one can ever get to them now. I have to run. Bye now.”

He hung up, cutting off her stream of questions.

Drifting silently in space, a National Security Agency satellite heard the phone call, along with a million others that morning, and beamed the words down to the computers at Fort Meade. It took time to process them, work out what to keep and what to throw away, but Sam’s use of the name Quinn ensured that this message was filed. It was studied in the early afternoon, Washington time, and passed to Langley.

Passengers for the London flight were being called when the truck drew up in the forecourt of the departures building. The four men who descended and marched through the front doo

rs did not look like passengers for London, but no one took any notice. Except the elegant businessman. He looked up, folded his magazine, stood with his coat over his arm and his umbrella in his other hand, and watched them.