Don Winslow - A Cool Breeze on the Underground

That got their attention in the room: heads lifted, ears perked.

“Of course I ’got her,’ what did you think? They don’t call me the best for nothing.”

Levine held the mouthpiece to his chest. “He’s got her,” he said to Chase and Lombardi.

“What kind of shape is she in?” Lombardi asked quickly.

“What kind of shape is she in?”

“She’ll take a nice picture. I don’t think you’ll want her to do 60 Minutes, though.”

Chase smiled. Lombardi went to pour himself a healthy G amp;T.

“You and me have a lot to talk about, Neal,” Ed muttered.

“Oh, yeah, you bet your fat ass we do.”

“Your mother-”

“Ed, you get a pencil, write this down. It’s tricky. British Air, Flight One seventy-seven. Arrives Kennedy two P.M.-tomorrow. That’s August first, by the way. Be there or be square.”

“If you’re screwing us around…”

Neal had hung up.

Neal put down the phone and looked in on Allie. She was out cold. He reflected for a moment on the subject of betrayal. Graham had been right as usual, he thought as he looked down at the sleeping girl. Betrayal is the basic stuff of the undercover. It’s in his bones. Then he Went back to the phone.

As a rule, Joe Graham liked other people’s phone conversations better than his own. He was sitting in his apartment, four cans into a six-pack and seven innings into a ball game, when the phone rang three times and then stopped. By the time Hoyt had come out of his stretch and let loose a slow sinker, the phone jangled again. This time Graham picked it up.

“Dad!” came the cheerfully mocking voice on the other end of the line.

“Son, it’s been a long time.”

“Meet me.”

Neal thought it over again and then dialed Colin’s old number. Vanessa answered. “Yeah?”

“What are the names on your passports?”

He made her spell them out twice, gave her instructions about where and when to meet him, and then hung up. Ten minutes later, Miss Vanessa Brownlow and Mister Harold Griffin had two reservations on British Air from Heathrow to Boston. Then Neal phoned Hatcher.

Heathrow airport on a sunday morning is the eighth circle of hell. Three-quarters of the world’s population either are greeting or seeing off the remaining fourth, jamming old, cranky Terminal Three in a sweaty mass of emotional humanity. Give Mother Teresa a couple of hours in Terminal Three on a Sunday, she’ll be shopping for a machete.

Neal Carey was delighted to see the place. Allie firmly in tow, holding his hand and a small dose of Thorazine, Neal edged to the BA sales counter, paid for his and Allie’s tickets with plastic, and Crisp and Vanessa’s by cash. Blackmail payments are not tax-deductible. He avoided the crowd at the escalator and took the back stairs up to the Departure floor.

Hatcher was pretty good, Neal noted. He stayed about fifty or sixty feet back and eased his bulk through the crowd without pushing or shoving. Neal recalled a Grahamism: A civilian sees the crowd; a street man sees his way through the crowd. Neal led Allie into the bookshop, picked up some magazines she seemed to like and a paperback copy of Peebles’s A Short History of Scotland for himself. Hatcher peeled off at this point and checked out the mobbed coffee shop. He came back a few minutes later and nodded to Neal.

Crisp and Vanessa were in the coffee shop, and they were alone. For once, they hadn’t screwed up. Neal hadn’t really thought that even this dynamic duo would be dumb enough to try to snatch Allie back in the middle of Heathrow Airport, especially not during a terrorist campaign when about half the white males in the building were plainclothes cops. But he wasn’t taking the chance.

They had somehow commandeered a booth, and seemed oblivious to the hostility of the sullen waitress and the stares of the various Pakistanis, Indians, and Africans who found them bizarre, Neal slipped into the booth across from them. Allie followed.

He slid the ticket packet across the table to Vanessa. She looked it over and asked, “Why Boston?”

“You think I want to see you in New York?”

“You don’t trust us?”

“Maybe I don’t want to get off the plane and be greeted by a photographer from Newsweek. This will make it just a little tougher for you to double-cross me.”

Vanessa didn’t like it. “How am I supposed to get to New York then?”

“I don’t care. You see the big guy over there at the counter? Tea, toast, and sausage? He’s a cop.” Neal cut Crisp’s protest off. “I just want to make sure this all goes smoothly. Have you ever taken an international flight before? Okay, you go back downstairs with your ticket and passports and check in. They’ll take your bags there. Then you go through security. Passports and tickets again. Now, just to be sure everything is hunky-dory, meet me again in the coffee shop inside the security area. I’ll give you your money there.”

“You’re a cautious bastard,” Crisp said.

“I wonder why.”

He let hatcher trail them down to check-in, finished off his own coffee, and said to Allie, “We’re going to get on the plane now.” “Where are we going?”

“I told you. L.A.”

“Disneyland. I want to ride that elephant thing.”

“Dumbo?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yeah, I like Dumbo.”

I seen a horsefly, I seen a deerfly, I ain’t never seen an elephant fly.

“You gonna get me clean in L.A.?”

The question took him aback. “If that’s what you want.”

“That’s what I want.”

“Then we’ll do it. C’mon.”

The lady at the British Air counter was like all ladies at the British Air counter, cool and polite.

“I have an aisle and a window for you, Mr. Carey.”

“Terrific.”

“Enjoy your flight.”

The line at security was long and slow. Nobody was taking any chances. Neal didn’t mind. He had left plenty of time to catch the plane, and he’d just as soon the plane he was on didn’t blow up in midair, not after all this. When it came their turn, he let Allie go first, and turned to nod his goodbye to Hatcher. The cop should be having a good day. His drug bust had made the morning editions and they had all spelled his name right. He gave Neal the thumbs-up sign: Crisp and Vanessa were through security.

He found them right at the coffee shop.

He said to Vanessa, “Allie should go to the loo now.”

“I’ll take her.”

“I’ll have your money. You want pounds or dollars?”

“Aren’t you the considerate one? Dollars, please.”

Vanessa took Allie by the hand and walked off. Neal looked at Crisp and smiled. “How about you, champ, you want to hit the WC?”

“Turning poofter on us, Neal?”

“Let’s do it.”

The security lounge was far less crowded. Only people with tickets were in there, so they made it to the gents’ loo with ease. They walked to the last stall, the handicapped one with lots of room, took a quick glance, and locked themselves inside.

“You got everything through okay?”

“I’m not in bracelets, am I?”

“Vanessa, too?”

Crisp nodded. “You worry too much.”

Crisp pulled the stuff out of a makeshift pocket sewn inside his jeans.

The alcohol felt nice and cool on Neal’s skin. The needle stung like a bastard.

Neal picked a good spot to sit and watch them board their flight. He wanted to make damn good and sure they got on. He thought about Lombardi. Call this book Trust Level Zero.

They strolled through the gate as if they’d been doing this all their lives.

Now it was his turn. Why do I feel so jumpy? he wondered. This is the easy part. He gathered Allie up and they hit the line. Ten minutes later, they were at the last checkpoint, and Neal eyed the attendant nervously. Can he tell? he thought nervously. Can he tell? Neal handed him the ticket and passport. Was the man looking at him more closely than he had the others? Can he tell? Is it the guilt in my eyes? Smile, now. Just a little, not too much. He can tell. I’m screwed.