…HAMBURG-ENGLAND…
The only passenger in an eight-seater jet, sitting in a leather chair in the hushed and hissing projectile.
The co-pilot came out, young, short dark hair, released the crackling, buzzing sounds of the cockpit.
‘Clear night,’ he said. ‘That’s Gronigen below us. We’ll be over the North Sea in a minute. Can I get you anything, sir?’
Anselm shook his head and the man went back.
Sliding on the night towards England. With luck, towards Constantine Niemand and his film. What did it show that made it so sought after? Was it the end of the long line that Caroline Wishart had drawn from Kaskis’ reference to a village in Angola?
Anselm closed his eyes. The only sound in the capsule was a gentle sibilance, a steady watery murmur. His mind drifted on the current.
Kill you here, kill your there. Not a fucking thing to lose.
The words of Baader. He was right. It was better to die trying to find out what these people had done than to die ignorant.
The firm’s layers of disguise penetrated, their mosaic of inquiries known to someone, laid out somewhere, piece by piece, until the picture appeared. What else had Baader said?
In the end, everything makes sense. You just need enough of it.
He fell asleep and then the co-pilot was saying, ‘Starting our descent, sir, would you mind fastening your belt?’