Men were standing by the ramp as he descended, to wheel it away. He hurried to the doorway of the building, where the chauffeur was waiting with a coat. Smith pulled it on and they both turned to watch the aircraft start its take-off manoeuvre, taxiing out on to the slip runway.
Inside the plane, the steward ensured that Ruttgers had his seat-belt secured and then sat down for take-off in the seat immediately in front.
‘I’m hungry,’ Ruttgers announced.
The steward turned, smiling politely at the man he’d been told was a government official of high rank who was suffering a mental collapse.
‘There’s food on board,’ he said. ‘I’ll be serving it once we’ve taken off.’
At the rear, Braley’s team were already sprawled out, eyes closed. Only Braley remained awake, staring up the aircraft at Ruttgers. It was a pity, the man decided. A damned pity. Ruttgers had his faults, but he’d once been a very good Director. He didn’t deserve a back-door hustle to some sanatorium, just because a few people in Washington needed protection. Braley closed his eyes, reflectively. So Charlie had escaped for the second time. But not as cleanly as in Vienna. How badly would he be affected by his wife’s death? he wondered. Probably, thought Braley, he was one of the few people caught up in the Vienna operation who didn’t hate Charlie Muffin. Perhaps because he had known him so well. He smiled at the sudden thought. Actually, he decided, he was quite glad Charlie had slipped away again.
The plane began its take-off run and then snatched up. Braley opened his eyes and looked out at the fast- disappearing ground. The sodium lights still stretched away from the airport like yellow strands of a spider’s web. It looked very peaceful and calm, he thought.
As the aircraft’s climb flattened out, the steward unclipped his belt and stood up, smiling down again at Ruttgers.
‘I’ll get you something to eat,’ he said.
The man was staring up at the light forbidding smoking and the moment it was extinguished began groping into his pocket. Gratefully, he flipped open the top and then turned, frowning at the doctor, holding out the empty packet like a spoiled child showing an exhausted sweet bag.
‘Don’t smoke,’ apologised the doctor.
‘In my grip,’ said Ruttgers. ‘There’s a carton in my grip.’
The steward was even farther back, in the galley, the doctor realised. He unfastened his belt and walked down to Ruttgers’ luggage. An armrest had been removed and the seat-belts from two places adjusted through the straps for take-off safety. The doctor disentangled them, then stood frowning. Finally he picked up two shoulder bags and walked back up the aisle, holding them stretched out before him.
‘We’re still climbing. Do you mind sitting down,’ the steward called out, from behind.
The doctor smiled, apologetically, then looked back to Ruttgers.
‘Which one?’ he asked Ruttgers.
The former Director hesitated, frowning his confusion and the doctor immediately wondered at a relapse. Curiously Ruttgers reached out for the soft black leather bag that Edith had used during her trip from Zurich and over which Charlie, hands shaking with emotion and urgency, had worked upon five hours before in the Crawley hotel, after returning from the Wimbledon home of John Packer.
‘Don’t understand,’ mumbled Ruttgers.
The doctor realised the difficulty the man was having assembling his thoughts and turned towards his own bag, on the adjoining seat. There was some Vallium, he knew. That’s all the man needed, he was sure. Just a tranquilliser.
Ruttgers scraped back the zip and looked inside. Lodged on top of the dirty clothing was a hard, black rectangle. Ruttgers turned it, then opened the passport that Charlie had used for the two years since the Vienna disaster.
‘Him!’ shouted Ruttgers, loud enough to awaken the sleeping men behind, thrusting the passport towards the startled doctor and trying to snatch the clothes out of the bag.
At that moment, the pilot levelled further, at one thousand feet sufficiently away from the noise restrictions of the airport, and the first of the pressure devices that Charlie had taken from Packer’s home and triggered for that height detonated the plastic explosive.
The jet jumped and momentarily appeared to those watching on the ground to hang suspended. Then it sagged, where the explosion had shattered the fuselage in half and as the two sections fell away the full cargo of fuel erupted in a huge ball of yellow and blue flame.
Charlie was already out of the car park, needing the initial confusion to avoid detection from the people statued four hundred yards away, gazing open-mouthed into the sky.
The movement of the small car was quite undetected.
As he headed eastwards along the M-4 towards London, fire engines from Hounslow and Feltham blared in the opposite direction, sirens at full volume, blue lights flashing.
It was too much to think that Ruttgers might have looked into the bag, decided Charlie.
THIRTY-ONE
Superintendent Law had telephoned from London, so when he swept white-faced into the office, Hardiman had all the files from the Brighton robbery carefully parcelled and waiting on the tables against the wall.
The sergeant stood uncertainly, frowning at the men who followed the superintendent into the room.
‘There they are,’ said Law, sweeping his hand towards them.
‘What …?’ questioned Hardiman, but Law waved the hand again, stopping him.
The strangers began carrying the files from the office. They didn’t speak to each other and Superintendent Law didn’t speak to them. It took a very short time.
‘You’ll want a receipt?’ said one of the men.
‘Yes,’ said Law.
Quickly the man scribbled on to a pad and handed it over.
‘Thank you for your co-operation,’ he said.
Law did’t reply.
‘What the hell has happened?’ demanded the sergeant, as the room emptied.
Law slammed the door, turning to stand immediately in front of it.
‘That,’ he said, a vein throbbing at his temple in his anger, ‘was the beginning of the big cover-up.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Hardiman.
‘Neither do I, not completely,’ admitted the superintendent. ‘Nor am I being allowed to.’
‘But what
Law walked away from the door, seating himself with elaborate care behind the desk and then staring down at it, assembling the words.
‘In Whitehall,’ he started. ‘There were separate meetings. First the Chief Constables of Surrey, Sussex and Kent were taken into an office and addressed by God knows who. Then we were taken into another room and told that the whole thing had been taken over by a government department and that as far as we were concerned, the cases were closed.’
The vein increased its vibrations.
‘Cases?’
‘The Brighton robbery. And the shooting.’
‘But you can’t just close a million pounds robbery. And a murder,’ protested Hardiman. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Law. ‘It is, isn’t it? But you can, apparently, if it’s felt sufficiently important for national security. And that’s the bullshit we’ve been fed, all day … a question of national security and official secrets.’
‘But what about … what about the money?’ floundered the sergeant, with too many questions to ask.
‘Everyone who suffered a loss will be compensated by the Clearing Houses … who I suppose will receive their instructions like we received ours today.’
‘But how shall we mark the files?’
