Assault in fucking Progress. He saw a. 22 calibre pistol with silencer.
He had seen Colt…
Rutherford going forward. Colt going left. Colt taking the shorter guy with him.
He had the revolver out of his hip holster.
Safety off. Isosceles stance. Isosceles stance and Turret One, because Colt was coming across his aim, and dragging the guy with him.
Deep in his lungs, hard down in his gut, Erlich yelled.
'Freeze, F. B. I., freeze.'
Pandemonium around him. Men and women and children throwing themselves at the shined floor of the concourse.
The gun was coming up, Colt's gun. Colt had five paces to the pier. Colt would have gained the cover of the pier if he hadn't been dragging and heaving on the arm of the man with the dark curly hair.
And Rutherford was charging for the guy, like there wasn't a gun. And Rutherford was…
Erlich fired.
And Rutherford was going…
Erlich fired.
And Rutherford was going down onto the concourse…
Erlich fired.
Rutherford was on his face on the shined flooring… Couldn't see Colt, couldn't see the guy with the dark curly hair. Could only see the corner of the pier and the cringing people.
He had fired three shots, like they had taught him. He heard nothing, and they had lectured him that his ears, in Condition Black, would be dead to the screaming and bawling around him.
He could see the mouths of the people, prised open for screaming, shouting.
He saw the heave of Rutherford's shoulders, and then the stillness.
He saw the first trickle, blood, slip from Rutherford's mouth.
17
It was strange ground for Colt. He had been through the airport, right, but as a passenger. He had never reconnoitred Heathrow.
He gave way to his instinct.
He stampeded out through the electronic glass doors, forcing Bissett in front of him.
He had learned many times the lesson of flight. Distance was critical. The first minute of flight was vital, the first five minutes were more vital, the first 30 minutes were the most vital, and the key was distance.
Into the first minute… Following his instinct and praying for luck. He had no plan. He came out of the glass doors and into the cold night air. If the American was there, then the other one must have been there too. And if those two were there, then there must have been others, and chances were, they were armed as well. Christ, they'd been blown all ends up. Anyway, they must all have been shattered by the accident. And who was it, the man who was shot, who had been shouting for Bissett? As he heaved Bissett along, across the taxi lane, there was a double-decker bus cruising past the terminal. He ran round the front of the bus, clinging to Bissett's elbow, and the Ruger was already gouging in the small of his back, tucked safe in the belt of his trousers. He jumped for the open platform at the tail of the bus, and he levered the dead weight of Bissett after him, his feet scrab- bling on the tarmac. The man was ash-pale. There would have been a conductor on the bus, must have been upstairs taking money.
There were eyes on them. Colt smiled, like he and his friend were just happy to have caught the bus. The bus turned away from the terminal and headed for the tunnel. There was his luck. He had his hand under Bissett's armpit, because he thought that if he let go his grip the man might spill down into the aisle of the bus.
Into the first five minutes, into the gaudy orange light of the tunnel. At the roundabout at the end of the tunnel, as they emerged, Colt saw the first police cars, the first blue revolving lights, and the first sirens, bullocking into the traffic heading into the tunnel and towards the terminals. Colt saw that the bus swung up the hill, going left. Distance was what counted. Past the fire station… He saw, out through the grimed windows of the bus, the lines of the cars in the long-term parks. The conductor was halfway down the steps to the upper deck of the bus. They were in traffic themselves, dawdling at perhaps ten miles an hour. Colt was on the tail platform. He didn't tell Bissett. If he had told Bissett then the man might have hung on to something. He had hold of Bissett's arm again, and he jumped, and he took Bissett with him. Colt was on his feet, and Bissett was sprawled, half on the pavement and half in the road, and there was a squeal as the car following the bus braked to miss them. They ran what would have been close to 150 yards, and all the time they ran Bissett was failing. They went into the long-term park.
Into the first 30 minutes… The car started. Colt had Bissett in the passenger seat. He told Bissett to take off his coat, shove it under the seat, and to help Colt get out of his own jacket, and put that too under the seat. He screamed the car towards the exit. Colt took a hand off the wheel and snatched Bissett's spectacles from his face. He paid off the attendant. He muttered something about leaving his passport at home, that was how he explained his coming out with only eighteen minutes on his ticket. There were more blue lights and sirens on the perimeter road, and a police van passed them, going up the wrong side, and then swerved at the airport exit filter to go half across the road. It was six, seven, minutes since they had crashed out of the terminal. Colt was calm. They would have had descriptions, clothes and hair and spectacles. Nothing he could do about the hair, and he had done something about the coat colours and something about Bissett's glasses. He saw the faces of the two young policemen who had been in the blocking van, and they didn't seem to know what they were at, and the one had his ear cocked to his radio on the collar of his tunic. Another minute, another 90 seconds, and they might not have made it out. He was waved through.
He didn't speak.
He wriggled in his seat, he moved his hip so that he could get the pistol clear of his belt, and he laid it on his lap. He heard the deep and sharp panting of Bissett's breath, like the man was in crisis.
Colt was hammering for the motorway.
If Erlich had gone faster, straight off, then he might have made it through before the block was set on the east side perimeter road, close to Cargo.
He had not gone fast. Rutherford was dead. Christ Almighty.
Dead before he could reach him, hold his wrist, his head. Oh no, oh Jesus..!
What he remembered of the terminal, coming out of the concourse, hitting the night air, with the big red bus pulling away in front of him, was that sound had slipped back to his ears. He had heard a woman screaming, and he had realised that he still held the Smith and Wesson in his hand, and he had heard the placid voice of the announcer over the speakers. There had been a woman screaming, and he had holstered the revolver, and the announcer had been giving the final call, last call, for passengers on Gulf Airlines to Bahrain and Dubai. He could remember that… He had shot a colleague, and they were calling for the passengers for the flight to Bahrain and Dubai.
He might have been delayed more, but he showed the uniformed officers his F. B. I. I/D. They wouldn't have gotten round yet to worrying about Bill Erlich. Their airwaves would have been full of Colt's description, and what Bissett was wearing… but he wasn't ready for thinking yet, because of the great sickness in his stomach and the numbness in his mind. He was William David Erlich, born May 7th, 1958, son of Gerry Erlich and Marianne (Erlich) Mason, Special Agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and he could not think straighter than a bent dime because he had shot James Rutherford dead, and he had left him. So little of it that he could remember, the shooting. The blurred and fast-moving shape of Colt, 'Freeze,' he remembered his roar and the lumbering outline of Rutherford…
He had shot pretty Penny Rutherford's man. He knew where he had to go.
What Hobbes saw first was the slack line of the white tape.
He elbowed his way through the quiet and staring crowds. He flashed his card, he bent under the tape. They had not even covered the body. He was careful to avoid the three cartridge cases on the concourse floor. A dozen long strides from the body was a suitcase and a grip bag.
He asked what had happened.
