Sam Bourne - The Final Reckoning

She checked the holdall by hand and assured him that ground staff had already thoroughly examined the aircraft using sniffer dogs.

‘I need to have a quick look at the patients, I'm afraid. But I'll keep it very quick.’

Richard turned back to the ambulance and gave a nod. The two ‘paramedics’ wheeled the gurneys to the foot of the plane, both holding saline drips aloft in their right hands.

Clark looked down at the sleeping patients and slowly moved her wand over each one. There was a loud beep when she came half way down the man's body. Richard shot a look at his contact. Was there something they had forgotten? Had some telltale object been dropped there?

‘Would you mind?’ Clark said, pulling the sheet back. Richard held his breath.

‘Of course.’ It was the buckle of the belt, strapping Byrne into place. The sound was repeated when she checked the woman.

‘Well, all seems to be in order, Dr Brookes. I just need to ask you a little about their condition. Is there any more you can tell me about this trip beyond-’ she glanced down at some paperwork, ‘-“medical need”?’

‘I'm afraid, I really can't, Ms Clark. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that.’ He smiled apologetically, but in such a way that conveyed there was no room for negotiation.

‘Of course. A quick word with my colleague here from immigration and you'll be free to fly.’

Richard presented the passport of Dr Rick Brookes. He then showed the ones belonging to Byrne and Merton. The official checked the photos against the people lying, like resting saints, in front of him and then gave a nod. Richard gestured to his colleagues, who released the stretchers from their chassis and carried them, the man first, up the narrow staircase and into the aeroplane.

‘Strange isn't it,’ Clark said, as she watched the paramedics come back for the second patient. ‘They look almost peaceful. Is it terribly serious, then, doctor?’

‘Well, it's not great, put it that way. But they're in good hands now, have no fear.’

‘Nothing our own NHS could do, then?’

‘Well, you know how the very wealthy are, Ms Clark. They want the most personal treatment. Personal – and discreet.’

The woman blushed a little, Richard thought, though it was hard to see in the evening gloom. A light drizzle was falling, picked out by the yellow glow of the terminal building.

‘Of course.’ She paused. ‘Sorry.’

Richard could see the contact talking with the pilot, who tucked a clipboard under his arm, suggesting any final checks had been made. ‘My thanks again, Ms Clark, to you and your team here. We'll be on our way.’

Richard nodded farewell to his driver, who headed back to the ambulance. He then climbed inside the plane, followed by his contact. They watched as the staircase retracted in a stately, electronic movement.

He strapped himself in, giving a last check of his two unconscious charges. Clark was right: they did look peaceful. They might need a top-up during the flight, but they were out.

He settled back into his chair, the leather soft and easy against his flesh. His colleague was already flicking the pages of Forbes magazine, doubtless left on board by the last high-paying customer to have chartered this jet. He deserved to relax, Richard thought; he had done a good job. They both had.

As they took off, angling into the sky, the engines screaming, he looked down at the ground below. Somehow the flying experience was always more intense on one of these small planes. The necklace of lights down below, the villages and roads of Hampshire, somehow felt within reach, even as they soared away from them.

A voice crackled onto the PA system. ‘Good evening, gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.’ The voice seemed amused by the absurdity of the situation. ‘Welcome aboard this Challenger 604. Flying conditions are smooth tonight. We should be at our destination in approximately seven hours.’

Jay Sherrill placed a protective hand on the laptop, covering up the Apple symbol; he knew what the NYPD numb-skulls would make of that. It would be one more confirmation that he was a college boy, a white-wine sipping Volvo driver – some homo who should have been a graphic designer rather than a cop.

Though there were some fellow Volvo types around here. This was the Commissioner's office, after all. Bound to be some policy advisers and media specialists in the operation. They wouldn't all be hard-boiled gumshoe cops moulded in the 1950s.

He wanted to open up the machine again, just to be sure the item was still there. What if there wasn't enough power? What if the programme crashed?

‘The Commissioner will see you now.’

He gathered up his things and went straight through, aware that his shirt was creased and that there was a small stain on the right leg of his chinos. He had known that when he put the trousers on this morning. But he had no choice. They were the only semi-clean clothes in the entire apartment. The truth was, he had barely slept or eaten or washed since this whole nightmare of a case had landed in his lap on Monday morning. He was ragged.

‘Good to see you, Mr Sherrill.’

‘My pleasure, sir.’ My pleasure? ‘I mean, thank-’

‘Relax, Mr Sherrill, take a seat. My office said you needed to see me urgently. That sounds like good news.’

‘I hope so, sir.’ Calm. Breathe.

‘Why'd you bring that thing in here? You got something to show me?’

‘Yes, I have.’ He flipped open the lid of his computer, clicked open the iMovie programme and selected the most recent project. Only then did he get up and move round to Riley's side of the desk. ‘May I, sir?’

‘What's this gonna be, Debbie Does Dallas?’

‘Not quite, sir, no. But still pretty interesting.’

A window opened up, a small video screen. Sherrill, hovering at the Commissioner's side, leaned down to expand it. And then he pressed play.

Instantly an image appeared of a silhouetted man. He was seated against a window. The visual grammar was obvious: it was the style of an undercover interview designed to preserve the subject's anonymity. There was a voice on the film, though it was off-mike. It was Sherrill's own.

Please identify yourself.

Then a reply: I am an agent of the New York Police Department, Intelligence Division.

That was enough to have Chuck Riley spin round in his chair and look up at the man over his shoulder. The excitement visible in his expression was what Sherrill had been hoping for. Now, at long last, he began to relax. He heard his own voice on the computer again.

Can you verify that, without revealing your name?

Yes. I can reveal operational details that would only be known to an officer in Intel. I will do that to the Commissioner or any investigating authority.

I appreciate that, but perhaps you could say something now, that might establish your credentials?

The silhouetted figure paused, moving slightly in his chair. The change in profile revealed an unexpected hair style: long, Riley thought, like a woman's.

I could tell you about our operation during the Republican convention when it was in the city, monitoring protesters.

That would be excellent.

The voice proceeded to give details of how he and his fellow agents had travelled beyond New York, to New Mexico and Illinois, to Montreal and even to Europe, snooping on political activists who were planning on demonstrating outside the convention. He spoke about how he had worked undercover, going to left-wing and anti-war meetings, making friends, eventually getting himself on electronic mailing lists – all the while filing reports back to headquarters.