was annoyed.
“This passport is out of date. It expired two days ago.”
“That’s not possible.” Drevin reached for the passport. He looked at the expiry date, then at Alex. “The man is correct,” he said.
“No.” Alex was shocked. It was true he hadn’t looked closely at his passport for a long time, but he was certain he’d only had it four years. There was an absurd photograph of him aged ten; he remembered going with Jack to have it taken. “It can’t be!” he protested.
Drevin handed him the passport. Alex studied it. It was the same photo. The terrible haircut embarrassed him as it always did. There was his signature, and Ian Rider’s name and address as next of kin. But the immigration man was correct. His passport had expired the day before he left London.
“But how can it have happened?” Alex asked. He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid. “Why didn’t they notice at Heathrow?”
“I guess they didn’t look closely enough,” the American said.
“What does this mean?” Drevin asked. His voice was cold.
“Well, sir, I’m very sorry but we can’t allow your guest to enter the United States. In normal circumstances he’d be sent back home, but I guess we can work something out. How long do you plan to be here?”
“Less than twenty-four hours,” Drevin replied. “We leave tomorrow.”
“In that case, we can hold Mr Rider here at the airport. It’ll be like he’s in transit. You can pick him up again when you leave.”
“But the child only wishes to stay here one night. Surely he can’t be such a threat to American security that you won’t allow him to stay with me!”
“I’m very sorry, Mr Drevin. It’s like I say. Really he should be on his way back to the UK. I’m stretching things as it is. But I can’t allow him in.”
“I don’t understand it,” Alex insisted. “I only got it four years ago—I’m sure of it.” He was feeling wretched. Both Drevin and his son were staring at him as if this were all his fault, which, he supposed, in a way it was.
“It seems we have no choice in the matter, Alex,” Drevin said. He turned to the immigration officer.
“Where will you hold him?”
“We have rooms here at the airport, sir. He’ll have a TV and a shower. I can assure you he’ll be fine.”
“Then it seems we’ll have to pick you up tomorrow, Alex.”
Drevin got up and left the aircraft. Paul and Tamara followed. The assistant had said nothing throughout the discussion. Alex looked out of the window as they got into the limousine. A moment later they drove away and he found himself alone with the two Americans.
“Do you have any hand luggage?” the immigration man asked.
“No.”
“OK. My name’s Shulsky, by the way. Ed Shulsky. You’d better come with me.” Alex followed the American down onto the tarmac, the customs official close behind. There was another car waiting for them and Alex climbed into the back. Shulsky took the front seat. The other man stayed behind.
“Just relax. This won’t take long,” Shulsky said.
The doors had locked themselves automatically. Feeling far from relaxed, Alex sat back and watched where they were going.
They drove out of the airport, passing through a double barrier and a gate. That already struck him as odd.
Hadn’t Shulsky just said he was going to have to spend the night at JFK? But it seemed they were heading for Manhattan. The driver joined the traffic on the freeway that led to Brooklyn Bridge, and suddenly Alex found himself looking across the water to the most famous skyline in the world. Even now, even in these circumstances, the view couldn’t fail to thrill him, the magnificent arrogance of the skyscrapers packed together on the cramped, chaotic island a monument to power and success and the American way of life.
Alex leant forward. “Where are we going?” he demanded.
“We’ll be there soon,” Shulsky answered.
“I thought you said we were staying at the airport.”
“Relax, Alex. We’ll look after you just fine.”
Alex knew something was going on. There had been nothing wrong with his passport. He was sure of it.
But there wasn’t anything he could do. He was locked in a car on the other side of the world and he might just as well sit back and—as the Americans would say—be taken for the ride.
He looked out of the window as they crossed the bridge and turned north, heading past the terrible empty space where the World Trade Center had once stood. He had visited New York a couple of times and had happy memories of the city. Now he was being driven through SoHo, in south Manhattan.
The car slowed down and he noticed an art gallery with a window full of cartoons, its name printed in gold letters on the glass. They turned into a parking garage. Alex sighed and shook his head. Now he knew exactly where he was.
In Miami they had called themselves Centurion International Advertising. The gallery here in New York was called Creative Ideas Animation. Two different names but the same three letters.
CIA.
The car drove up to the first floor of the garage and stopped. Shulsky got out and opened the door for Alex.
“This way,” he announced.
Alex followed him to a bare metal door that could have led into a storage cupboard or perhaps an electric
