“They could be stolen.”
“That’s also true. In fact, that’s a good line of inquiry. You should check if any stolen cars match the description. But first you should start checking all the licences which were used to obtain the rentals we know about.”
Her smile tightened. “I already told you that I’d done that.”
Howard shook his head. “No, you said the licences were in order. Which they would be if they’d been stolen and not reported. Or if the licences were genuine but based on fake IDs. All you need for a licence is to pass the test and show a birth certificate. And birth certificates are easy to forge or you can get one for a dead child. What we’ve got to do is to contact the owner of each licence and check that they did rent the car. And ask them where they went.”
“Cole, that could take weeks.”
“If that’s what it takes, that’s what it takes,” said Howard. “And if that draws a blank you’ll have to widen the area of investigation. Go to a one-hundred-mile radius from Phoenix. And keep extending it, to Tucson and beyond if it’s necessary. This is important, Kelly.” The girl glared at him as if she was going to say something, but instead she just nodded and turned on her heels. Her expensive wool skirt swung from side to side like a filly’s tail as she stormed out of Howard’s office.
Mary Hennessy stood in front of the bathroom mirror and studied her reflection. She’d always wanted to be a blonde when she was a little girl. She’d driven her mother to distraction: each time a birthday came round she’d always ask for the same thing — blonde curls — and she’d sent innumerable letters up the chimney to Santa Claus until she’d reached the age where she realised that hair colour was genetic and not something that a parent could change. By the time she discovered that chemicals could alter her natural brown colour she no longer wanted to be blonde. Now here she was, just about to turn fifty, with hair the colour of a mid-summer wheatfield. She turned her head from side to side, then bent forward to check the roots. The dye job was good for another week or so, she decided. She raised her head and smoothed the skin around her neck with her fingertips. It was, she acknowledged with a twinge of regret, beginning to lose some of its elasticity. She shuddered, remembering the turkey necks of old aunts who’d visited her house when she was a child and given her minty-tasting kisses and pressed sixpences into her palm. Soon it would be her turn to face the ravages of time, and she wasn’t looking forward to it. Perversely, her hair looked better than ever: the blonde locks suited her and the light perm made it much fuller. It also completely altered her appearance, though it matched the photograph in the American passport on her dressing table.
She adjusted the neck of her polo-neck pullover and then took a houndstooth jacket out of the closet and slipped it on. With the black jeans the outfit was casual but businesslike, she decided. Just right. She collected her car from the hotel car park and drove to the airport.
Matthew Bailey was waiting for her in the cafeteria with a half-eaten croissant and a cup of cold coffee in front of him. He stood up too quickly when he saw her and spilled his coffee over the table top. Mary smiled. Bailey was almost half her age, easily young enough to be her son, but he’d made it clear on several occasions that he’d dearly love to get inside her pants. That was one of the reasons she’d dressed so severely, so that there was no question of leading him on.
“The plane was early,” he said, mopping up his coffee with paper serviettes.
“I’m sorry, I should’ve checked,” said Mary.
“Oh no, that’s okay,” he said. “I didn’t m-m-mind.”
Mary had noticed that Bailey developed a slight stammer when they were alone together. It was hard to believe that the slightly-built young man was responsible for the deaths of four RUC officers in Northern Ireland. He was a full two inches shorter than Mary, with unkempt red hair and a sprinkling of freckles across his snub nose. He had the sort of hair which was difficult to dye — he’d tried it once with black colouring and it had turned out dark green — so he’d changed his appearance by cutting his hair short, growing a thin moustache and wearing John Lennon-type spectacles. It made him look about nineteen years old, and he dressed like an all-American student in sweatshirts, baggy jeans, and baseball boots. She slid onto the seat opposite him. “How did it go?” she asked.
“No problems,” he said. He looked around for somewhere to put the wet serviettes. “Do you want anything? Coffee?” Mary shook her head. Bailey put the serviettes in an ashtray. “I bought a ticket to LA on the Amex card and used it to rent a car at the airport and to pay for a m-m-motel there. I returned the car on the second day and put the cards in a wallet with a few dollars and dropped it in Central LA. I hung around to make sure it was picked up — a couple of black guys got it and I could tell they weren’t going to hand it in.” He grinned. “One of them started dancing up and down. You should have seen it, it was so funny. I paid cash for the ticket back here, and I’ve destroyed the licence.”
“Good. That should do the trick.”
“Do you really think anyone will be after us?” he said.
“I don’t know, but it’s better to be on the safe side. After we brought that plane down in the desert the place must have been swarming with cops. There’s always a chance they’ll find out about the cars from the tyre tracks, or they might manage to find someone who saw us at a filling station. If they find where we rented the car from they’ll have a record of the two credit cards and licences we used.”
“But they were in phony names anyway.”
“I know, but by laying a false trail in LA we’ll have them thinking we’re on the other side of the country.”
Bailey nodded and toyed with his cup. He obviously had something on his mind and Mary waited for him to speak. Bailey kept his eyes lowered. “We’re still going ahead, then?”
“What do you mean?” she asked. She kept her voice low and even, though her heart had begun to race. The last thing she needed was for Bailey to get cold feet at this stage.
“I just thought, what with what happened in the desert and all, that you’d think about calling it off.”
“Oh no, Matthew. Oh no. There’s no question of us backing out now. Except for the plane, everything went according to plan. The rifles are all calibrated and we practised the shoot itself. We’re ready to go.”
“Okay,” he said quietly.
Mary reached over and touched the back of his hand lightly. He flinched as if he’d received an electric shock and then smiled at her. “We’re only going to get one chance at this,” she said. “We’ve invested a great deal of time and money to get this far, surely you don’t want that to be wasted?”
“But what about that Sass-man? Manyon?”
Mary snorted. “He didn’t know what we were planning. You heard what he said, it was you he was following, that’s all. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Like the plane,” said Bailey.
“Like the plane,” she repeated. She ran her index finger along the back of Bailey’s hand. “The SAS had heard that you were in the States, and they sent him over to investigate. He knew nothing.”
“If he can find me, there’ll be others.”
Mary withdrew her hand. “Which is why you’re going to Florida until we’re ready for the final phase. Go to Disneyworld, hang around in the sun, enjoy yourself. This time of year Florida is full of Brits, no-one will find you there. We’ll meet in Baltimore in four weeks.” She slipped him a piece of paper on which she’d written a telephone number. “Call me at this hotel on April twelfth. I’ll tell you where we’re staying then.”
Bailey didn’t look convinced. Mary leaned forward over the table. “Matthew, I need you for this. I really do.” She smiled as warmly as she could. “Matthew, you’re with me on this, aren’t you?” He nodded and she rewarded him with another smile. “It’ll be fine, really. Now you disappear for a few weeks and contact me on the twelfth. Before midday.” She stood up, bent down to kiss him lightly on the cheek, and walked away. She knew he was watching her go and she swung her hips just a little more than usual, hating herself but knowing it was necessary.
Joker flew into New York on the afternoon of March 17, stiff and cramped after eight hours at the back of a British Airways 747. World Traveller the airline called it, but to Joker it would always be Cattle Class: tiny seats, no legroom and food as plastic as the smile of the stewardesses. He didn’t realise the significance of the date until his Yellow Cab ground to a halt somewhere around 72nd Street. The cab driver twisted round and grinned. “Fucking Irish,” he said in a thick accent which Joker guessed was Slavic.
“Huh?” said Joker, who’d been half asleep. Even the back of a New York cab was more comfortable than his British Airways seat and the driver had the heater full on.
“Fucking Irish,” the driver repeated. “Today’s the St Patrick’s Day Parade and the traffic’s not moving. It’s
