“You should make her happy,” Galya said. “Then she will make you happy.”
Lennon smiled. “Maybe,” he said.
“No maybe,” she said. “Only yes.”
“Let’s go,” Lennon said, reaching for the door handle. “You need to get on that plane.”
He climbed out and walked around to the passenger side, opened the door, and helped her out.
“Remember,” he said as he closed the door. “Don’t talk to anyone if you don’t have to. Go straight to security. They should be boarding by the time you get through. Go straight to the gate and get on the plane. That’s all you have to do.”
“Thank you,” Galya said. She hesitated a moment, then wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders.
He resisted for a moment, then returned the hug.
“Make Susan happy,” she said.
“I’ll try,” he said.
A few feet away, his voice deadened by the cold, someone said, “Jack.”
87
LENNON LOOKED FOR the source of the voice, moved between it and Galya, one hand already reaching for the holster attached to his belt.
The tall and slender shape of a man stood beyond the Audi. He limped forward, his left hand raised, a revolver gripped in it, his right arm held tight to his side as if it pained him. Dried blood drew deep red lines across his cheek, cuts and grazes crisscrossed his forehead and jawline, his hooded jacket torn.
“Connolly,” Lennon said.
He reached behind with one hand and shoved Galya away, his other freeing his Glock from its holster.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” Connolly said.
The first shot hit Lennon’s left shoulder like a punch from a heavyweight, threw him against the Audi. He kept his legs under him as adrenalin hit his system ahead of the pain. By instinct, his right hand came up, his Glock squared on Connolly’s chest. Before he could get a round off, he felt a punch to his gut, then another, and his legs deserted him.
Lennon went down on his back, his right hand still raised. In the periphery of his vision, he saw Galya crouch over him, her mouth wide, but he heard no scream.
“Run,” he said.
Connolly entered his line of sight, his pistol aimed not at Lennon, but somewhere over his head.
“Run,” Lennon said. “Now.”
He fired at Connolly’s body, no idea if his aim was true or not. Connolly jerked and fell against the side of the van, his face twisted in pain.
Lennon took a breath, held it, steadied his right hand, the Glock’s sight lined on Connolly’s chest. Connolly brought his left hand up, the pistol looking back at Lennon. As a hard chill spread from Lennon’s gut, he squeezed the trigger, saw Connolly’s muzzle flash, saw him go down, saw a deep, cold blackness where the world had once been.
88
GALYA RAN AT first, her mind closed to the pain, the money and documents clutched to her chest. She slowed to a walk as the building came into view and crossed the road that cut in front of the terminal entrance. Airport policemen ran into the fog, following the sound of the gunfire. They did not notice her.
The doors swished aside and a flood of warmth washed over her. More policemen hurried to the exit, static chatter on their radios, concern on their faces. Still, they did not notice her.
She followed a sign saying Departures. The arrows led her through shops and restaurants, people drinking coffee, eating toast, cases stacked on trolleys. They did not know the world they lived in, the dangers that hid beyond their vision.
Galya did.
But she kept that knowledge buried, forced it down inside, in case it might show on her face as she approached the security man who waited ahead.
“Boarding pass, please,” he said.
Galya handed it over.
He looked at her clothing, a glimmer of distaste on his features. Galya read his thoughts. Just another migrant, another miserable parasite leaving its host now the money had burnt away.
She smiled for him when he scanned the pass and handed it back.
“Better get a shake on,” he said. “It’s probably boarding by now.”
“Thank you,” Galya said.
She joined the short queue for the security search, obediently placed the shoes and coat Susan had given her in the trays provided, the bandages on her feet hidden by thick socks, and patiently waited until it was her turn to pass through the magnetic gate. On the other side, she did not complain when the female security guard patted her down.
A short walk took her to the departure gate where a flight attendant gave her documents only the briefest of glances. Another walk across the tarmac to the airplane, and then she boarded. She found row twelve and sat down.
When the lady in the seat next to her asked if she was all right, Galya said yes, thank you, and wiped the tears from her cheeks with her sleeve.
Everyone believes in God when they fly, she thought.
She said a prayer for Jack Lennon’s soul.
89
STRAZDAS SAT IN the hotel foyer, his suitcase at his feet. Eight forty-five, the contact had said. He checked his watch. Eight forty-seven.
His phone rang.
“The taxi is on its way,” the contact said. “Get in it, get on the plane.”
“And the girl?”
“I suggest you give the driver a decent tip,” the contact said. “It’s Boxing Day, after all. He’s done me many favors in the past.”
“What about the girl?” Strazdas asked.
Silence for a moment, then, “She got away. It went wrong.”
Strazdas took his knuckle between his teeth and bit down hard, tasted salt. He breathed through his nose, a low groan resonating in his throat.
“It’s done, and that’s all there is to it. A good man died in the process. Just remember that. He didn’t have to but for your stupid bloody vendetta. Now let it go.”
Strazdas noticed the receptionist’s attention on him. He forced himself to release his knuckle form his teeth. Something hot dripped on his chin. He wiped it away and smiled at her. She turned her gaze back to her paperwork.
“You hear me, Arturas?” the contact asked. “It’s over. There’s nothing more can be done.”
“There is one thing,” Strazdas said. “I will send a letter to your superiors. I will name you as Detective Chief Inspector Daniel Hewitt. I will enclose a record of all the payments you have received over the last eighteen months. Those payments will not be retraceable to me or any of my companies, but will cause your superiors to examine your bank accounts, your investments, your lifestyle.”
Strazdas saw the taxi pull up beyond the hotel’s doors.
“Be careful, Arturas,” the contact said. “Once these things are spoken, they can never be taken back.”
“Good-bye,” Strazdas said. “I have a flight to catch.”
