'One final question' he said quickly.
'It has nothing to do with Leslie.'
McAdam eyed the younger man in silence.
Thomas spoke.
'Was it worth it? I'm just curious.'
'Was what worth it?' McAdam asked defensively, 'Your career,' said Thomas.
'Here you are, a man in his final years. You hobble around from a twenty-year-old wound, you live alone with no one close to you, and you're so damned scared that someone's going to come and get you that you surround yourself with a brick wall and attack dogs. This is where all the 'For Queen and Country' stuff has gotten you. I was just wondering.
Was it worthwhile?'
'Daniels,' he replied without changing his expression, you have fifteen seconds to be out of my sight. Thirty to be off my property.
After that, I unleash the dogs ' Thomas was on his feet instantly. The heads of the dogs were upraised and the alert eyes and ears were pointed in his direction.
In twenty-two seconds Thomas was on the sidewalk outside the iron gate, closing the latch firmly behind him.
Chapter 13
British Airways Flight 012 from Geneva to London touched down on Runway 7 at two thirty, London time. The day was brisk and damp, but clear. Thomas enjoyed the long walk from the debarkation ramp to Immigration.
Thomas waited for his suitcase to reappear on the round conveyor belt bringing baggage in from the airplane. Then, with his bag in his hand, he waited for several minutes in the non-Commonwealth line through passport control. It was not until he handed his passport to the young uniformed immigration officer that Thomas sensed something amiss.
The young man studied the passport for a moment.
'Your name?' he asked, loud enough to be heard by others nearby. He'd asked no one else that question.
'Thomas Daniels.'
'Place and date of birth, sir.' The young man's eyes glanced almost imperceptibly to the left.
'New York City. October 14, 1943.' Now Thomas was aware of a thick, pudgy man in civilian clothes moving casually toward him.
The man was bearded, wore a bowler and an overcoat, and had a round, moon-shaped face on top of a thick ursine body. Two uniformed policemen walked behind him, cautiously and slowly, each looking every bit of six and a quarter feet tall. A show of force, obvious yet not excessive.
The young clerk whacked Thomas's passport with an inked stamp.
'Enjoy your stay in the United Kingdom, sir,' he said. The passport was pushed back into Daniels's hands. He was moved along from the immigration booth.
'Mr. Daniels?' said the thick round man, moving directly alongside Thomas. The uniformed policemen stood directly behind them. They were far enough from other travelers so that they couldn't be heard.
'Yes,' sad Thomas.
The man's thick squat hand disappeared quickly into his inside pocket.
Out came a small card and a badge.
'Rogers Hunter. Metropolitan Police Department.'
'I'm innocent' said Thomas.
Hunter managed a forced smile.
'I'm here to accompany you to Mr. Peter Whiteside Distrusting, Thomas eyed Hunter quickly up and down. The two police in the background were watching him.
'I have his address' said Thomas.
'I think I can find him by myself.'
Thomas started to step away but an incredibly powerful hand grabbed his rightarm just above the elbow. Hunter stopped Thomas in his tracks.
'I insist' said Hunter.
'I don't need help' Thomas tugged his arm but the grip remained.
'I see,' said Hunter reflectively, not put off in the slightest.
'Am I to assume that you'll not be coming with me voluntarily?'
'You may assume what you like' 'VM well: said Hunter, releasing the arm gently. He turned and nodded to the two uniformed officers, then looked back to Thomas.
At the time, the two policemen moved with remarkable speed for large men.
'In that case' said Hunter with a sly smile of appreciation,
'I'm placing you under arrest. I'm terribly sorry.'
Thomas resisted slightly. Then it was nothing more than a blur as he was separated from his suitcase and shoved roughly against a concrete wall. By the time he looked down to his wrists there were handcuffs in place.
Chapter 14
Thomas was led from the immigration area and placed in the backseat of an unmarked dark-blue Rover. His luggage was placed in the trunk. He pulled slightly at the cuffs on his wrists and shuddered at the feeling of freedom diminished. He saw that the backseat of the car, which was separated from the front by a wire screen, had doors that could not be opened from the inside.
One of the uniformed men drove. The other stayed behind.
Hunter sidled into the front seat in front of Thomas, his expansive shoulders filling practically half of the frontarea. The Rover pulled away from the curb.
'Where are you taking me?' asked Thomas.
Hunter turned to face his prisoner.
'Are you worried?' he asked.
Thomas didn't answer. The porcine bearded face slowly creased into a grin.
'I wouldn't worry,' grunted Hunter.
'You're going exactly where you wanted to go. You really had very little choice about it. Mr. Peter Whiteside wants to see you himself.'
The Rover was on the motorway heading toward London.
Thomas looked out of the car apprehensively.
'How did you know where I was coming from?' he asked.
'Oh, come now, Mr. Daniels' said Hunter in a baritone chuckle.
'George McAdam?'
'We could have picked you up in Switzerland if we'd liked. But that might have been sticky, as well as unnecessary. Thank you for flying British Airways' Thomas settled back in the seat, calming slightly and seeing no alternative.
'Why couldn't I have gone to see Whiteside myself.'
'Because you have a nonexistent address:' growled Hunter.
Thomas looked at the back of Hunter's neck, a neck that must have measured eighteen inches in circumference.
'Really, Mr. Daniels, you're horribly naive' The car traveled through the bleak working-class neighborhoods
