Saliva was running down Rossin’s cheek mingling with the steady course of blood oozing from his ear.
‘Headed for the airport. He’s going to New York.’
‘What about Paris? What about the Bourse?’
He shook his head. ‘The Bourse is under extra guard. They had a tip off.’
‘The nukes. Have they been shipped?’
Rossin nodded. Then stopped.
‘I don’t know. I don’t—.’
‘What flight’s he on?’
‘Atlantis — it’s one of those all business class—.’
‘Why should I believe you?’
Dima pressed the knife harder against his ear.
‘He told me. He said it was leaving at seven a.m.’
Kroll was already on the phone to Omorova, checking the flight.
‘Under what name?’
‘I don’t know. That’s the God’s truth.’
Dima put his face closer.
‘OK, last question: why?’
Rossin swallowed, tears saliva and blood messing up his shirt.
‘Please. He made it impossible for me. Dima — you know what he’s like. You can’t refuse. You understand, Dima. You know me. I’m not cut out for the hard stuff. Surveillance — that’s me.’
It was a huge effort of will not to shove the knife right into his neck and have done with it but that would just mean more mess to clear up. He let go and Rossin crumpled to the ground. He looked at his watch — broken in the blast. He lifted Rossin’s. Five-fifteen. An hour and forty-five minutes.
He turned to Kroll, who had his cellphone pressed to an ear.
‘You want the passenger manifest?’
‘No time. You sort this lot out. Get his laptop — everything on it. Grill him for all he’s got. Kill him if he doesn’t co-operate. I’m going to the airport.’
‘You’ll never get past security.’
‘I’ll take Bulganov. I knew he’d come in handy.’
86
‘What is this?’ A look of disgust suffused Bulganov’s face when he saw the scuffed Citroen. Having just been dragged from his bed after three hours’ sleep he was not at his best.
‘It’s what us ordinary mortals use for transport. Get in.’
Dima brought him up to date as he drove.
‘Where do I fit in?’
Bulganov’s appetite for the chase seemed to have cooled overnight.
‘Just use your magic cards to get us through security. He’s going to be in the Atlantis VIP lounge and if we miss him there we’ll find him at the gate.’
‘But I’m not booked in.’
‘You are. Omorova sorted it. Plus one bodyguard. Except we’re not going to fly.’
Dima had also helped himself to some of Bulganov’s wardrobe. Even with a famous oligarch in tow he couldn’t have got past security covered in plaster dust and Rossin’s blood.
‘Have you thought how you’re going to stop him?’
‘They still have metal cutlery in VIP lounges? Otherwise I’ll have to disarm some airport security.’
‘We’ll make ourselves terribly unpopular.’
‘So? We’re Russians. We always get to be the bad guys.’
87
Department of Homeland Security, New York City
The last thing Blackburn remembered was Jackie’s smile. He clung on to the memory like it was a lifebelt that kept him from being sucked back into oblivion. After her smile, there were other faces. Then nothing, then the sensation of travel — on a stretcher still, but in the air, because he felt his ears pop. Now he was in a wheelchair, dazed from a chemical sleep, going up in a lift. He had heard traffic, horns, growling diesels, a city definitely.
Someone slapped his face. Not hard, but enough to feel hostile. But he was well used to hostility now. Maybe he was immune. He had heard that song. It was a message from Dima. He was on the case. He wanted me to know.
The room had windows but the lower glass was frosted. Two yellowy fluorescents gave the grey-green walls a sickly glow. There was a strong smell of cigarette ash.
‘Okay, Henry. Good flight?’
Blackburn focused on the man who had appeared in front of him. Grey, close-cropped hair, light stubble that seemed to cover his head and half his face. Thick neck, big shoulders. A quarterback’s build.
‘What time is it?’
‘Good. Glad to see you’re still able to think. Just gone two p.m. Welcome to the Big Apple.’
He leaned down.