Gavin Lyall - Shooting Script

Thirty seconds later she started to move, both engines turning, but spitting and coughing as I pushed them from cold to full boost.

Luiz fired a last burst across the hangar, threw himself into the Mercedes, and backed away in one tearing sweep. As we bumped on to the grass, I saw him straightening out and accelerating on the perimeter track.

There was hardly any wind – but there was that mounted machine-gun. I pushed down twenty degrees of flap and just held her straight across the grass, across the runway – and into the air two hundred yards short of the far boundary fence.

A few minutes later, as I climbed out over the sea heading for the Puntadel Almirante, J.B. came forward into the cockpit. 'I think Luiz made it. I saw the car by the fence. If he got that far, he'd get the rest.'

She eased herself carefully into the co-pilot's seat. 'Well, it's been quite a day for a boy who doesn't take risks and doesn't gamble. You really are slipping, Keith. Better retire now.'

I nodded. 'How's Whitmore?'

'Busy figuring out how he can write Luiz out of the script if he gets killed or elected Minister of Culture or something.'

We passed through 8,000 and I took her up another 200,throttled back and put her on the step. The General really had done some work on her; she was in a lot better shape than when he'd first pinched her. And now even a check four wouldn't come too expensive.

I trimmed the Dove precisely and loosed the wheel to prove it. J.B. reached across and took my hand.

'Jamaica?' she asked.

'First stop.'

'And second stop?'

I considered. 'Tell me – d'you happen to know a place the FBI not only doesn't have an office but doesn't go on holiday, either?'