In his briefing he had been told he would be taken to a secure room at the airport where Cleland would be held under armed guard. There would be paperwork to be signed. A formality. But it was important that Mackenzie read it all carefully before signing. Which is why they had wanted someone fluent in Spanish. He and Cleland would then be escorted on to the aeroplane by armed officers who would leave the aircraft only when all other passengers had boarded and it was ready to depart. Cleland would be hand and leg-cuffed, and be removed from the plane on landing by officers of the Metropolitan police. Mackenzie, Beard had told him, would be no more than a glorified babysitter.
Mackenzie was expecting to be met by someone at the gate. He stood waiting impatiently for fifteen minutes, during which time his fellow passengers disembarked and headed off along a concourse that vanished into a lost and echoing distance. Announcements over the public address system made no reference to him in either English or Spanish.
Finally, reluctantly, he set off along the concourse himself. He had not anticipated having to clear passport control, remaining airside and never officially entering Spain. But in the absence of any information to the contrary he joined the queue at international arrivals and took out his iPhone. To his annoyance he found that it was not yet logged into the local server. He could not even call London to clarify his situation. He sighed his frustration and felt his blood pressure rising. Why was it that people were incapable of making plans and sticking to them?
He supposed that maybe someone might be waiting for him beyond passport control, but if so why had he not been told? It was a further ten minutes before he was syphoned off with others from the lengthening queue for the automatic passport readers, and invited across a white line to face an immigration officer who glared at him through a glass screen. Mackenzie slipped his passport through the hatch and glared back. An electronic reader below the counter scanned his biometric details before his passport was pushed back at him, and a flick of the head welcomed him to Spain.
There was no one waiting to greet him on the other side. No one raising a card with Mackenzie scrawled on it. Mackenzie was at a loss. He checked his phone and saw with relief that he now had a signal. He dialled the NCA and listened to it ringing two thousand miles away.
‘National Crime Agency, how may I help you?’
‘This is Investigator John Mackenzie. Could you put me through to Director Beard?’
‘The Director is not here today.’
‘You must have an emergency number for him.’
‘Is this an emergency?’
‘No, I want to wish him happy birthday. Of course it’s a fucking emergency!’ He closed his eyes and cursed himself for swearing.
‘One moment.’ Not a hint in the voice at the other end that his sarcasm had even registered.
Mackenzie sighed again. Why bother asking him to wait one moment when they both knew it was going to be much longer than that. In fact it was almost three minutes before the operator got back to him.
‘I’m sorry, Director Beard is not contactable right now. Can I take a message?’
Mackenzie fought to control his anger. ‘Tell him that John Mackenzie called and that it is very important he call me back as soon as possible.’
He returned the phone to his shirt pocket and looked about him, at a loss for what to do now. This was not going well. On an impulse he decided to follow the signs to baggage reclaim. From there he knew it would be possible to exit the terminal building itself. Perhaps someone would be waiting there.
As he cleared the customs hall, Mackenzie found himself confronted by a crowd of taxi and shuttle drivers all holding up cards. He scanned them quickly to establish that his name was not among them, then stepped through sliding glass doors on to a concrete apron thick with boisterous holidaymakers. Streams of people headed off towards a tunnel where taxis and shuttle buses and private cars came and went with relentless frequency. Others crossed a roadway to a multi-storey car park.
Mackenzie felt a rush of insecurity. He remembered his first day at school, taking a wrong turning on the way home after what had felt like an endless day. In all the years since, he had not experienced such a complete sense of loss and bewilderment. He had absolutely no idea what to do. The flight to London was scheduled to depart in two hours. If no one had contacted him before then, he decided that he would simply fly home. He carried the electronic ticket in his inside jacket pocket.
Across the concourse he spotted a tapas restaurant called Gambrinus and realized quite suddenly that he was hungry. Breakfast had consisted of coffee and a croissant at Glasgow Airport, hours ago now. He was about to head for the restaurant and get something to eat when he spotted the blue and white chequered stripes of a white Nissan SUV pulling up at the kerb short of the tunnel. Policía Local was painted across its doors. A petite uniformed policewoman scrambled out of the driver’s door, reaching back for a square of white card. She slammed the door shut before hurrying across the concourse towards the entrance to the arrivals hall.
Mackenzie inclined his head as she scurried past him and saw the word MCKENZEE scrawled on her card in the blue ink of a felt-tipped pen.
‘Señora,’ he called after her, and she glanced back without stopping. He raised his voice in fluent Spanish, although he had not actually spoken it in some time. ‘I think maybe you’re looking for me.’
This time she stopped and looked at him a little more closely. She raised her
