○c  Text copyright 2008 by D. R. Evans.

Second Edition

This book contains the text of ISBN 978-0-6151-9130-0

Author website: www.sff.net/people/N7DR

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Chapter 1

Friday, August 17
Denver, Colorado

George Harris killed people for a living, and he was in Denver on business.

He halted on the sidewalk in front of the skyscraper and studied it for a full half minute, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. The building was set apart from the city’s other tall buildings: the banks, the downtown lawyers’ offices, the savings and loans; and stood in splendid superiority in a neighborhood of three- and four-storey structures, like an adult surrounded by a gaggle of children.

Above the paired revolving doors, the words The Denver Cotterell Building and the insignia of Cotterell Industries left no room for doubt about the building’s owner.

Starting at ground level, Harris’s eyes followed the lines of the building, up, past the dark glass and silvery steel until, his head craned back, he was looking at the thirtieth floor and, beyond that, at the cloudless sky of the Colorado summer day. The temperature was already uncomfortably warm despite the early hour, the forecast for another day in the nineties.

Harris wore a well cut, lightweight business suit. In his right hand he carried a leather attaché case; his left hand gently stroked his chin. Around him scurried lawyers and bureaucrats, receptionists and businessmen, middle managers and accountants, the small people who were the life blood of the city.

Somewhere up there, on the thirtieth floor, was Vincent Cotterell, one of the richest men in America and the reason Harris was in Denver. Momentarily oblivious to the crowd around him, Harris’s mind skipped forward to their meeting, wondering how it would end.

Someone jostled him.

“Sorry,” a heavyset man apologized over his shoulder as he hurried toward the revolving door and disappeared into the building.

His train of thought interrupted, Harris walked forward, blending with the crowd, one more businessman about to start the last workday of the week. As he entered the building he glanced at his wristwatch. 8:26. The appointment was for 8:30.

A crowd of workers stood in the elevator bay, waiting for the next car. Harris attached himself unobtrusively to them. Around him the talk was of the Denver Broncos and their chances in the upcoming season. No one paid him any attention.

An elevator car arrived, the doors opened, and the crowd heaved forward. He was swept inside, the last person in. He stood facing the rear of the car, unable to turn around in the squeeze of bodies. Buttons were pressed, and the elevator began to rise fitfully up the building, disgorging its passengers in ones and twos.

The highest number on the buttons was 29. Harris waited until the last remaining person in the car, a petite blonde who ignored him with studied unconcern, got out with a coy smile at the 25th floor. As the doors closed, he pressed the button for the 29th floor.

Stepping out of the elevator, he found himself in a boxy, blocked-off corridor, about thirty feet by ten. A window ran the entire width of the corridor at one end, flooding it with daylight. At the opposite end there was nothing but a blank wall. Along the third wall, behind him, were arrayed the five elevators that serviced the building. The middle set of doors, out of which he had just stepped, were already closing. In the fourth wall, immediately in front of him, was a single pair of double doors and, to their right, a button marked CALL. From a corner of the ceiling near the window, a video camera looked down on the corridor.

A speaker next to the camera squawked, “State your name and business.” The voice was male and authoritative, used to giving orders.

“George Harris. Here to see Mr. Cotterell.”

There was a moment’s pause, then the voice commanded, “Call the elevator and come up, Mr. Harris.”

He pressed the button, and the elevator doors opened.

This car was luxuriously carpeted on floor and walls. A limited edition print hung on one wall. The light from a panel in the ceiling was pearly and diffuse. From one corner of the car, in the angle between walls and ceiling, the lens of a video camera looked down. Beside the elevator doors was a single button, marked “29/30.” He pressed it, the doors soundlessly closed, and the elevator rose smoothly to the highest floor in the building. The time was 8:29.

The doors opened, and Harris stepped out.

There were three burly men in security uniforms: two stood in front of him, blocking his way, the third sat at a table nearby. In the last man’s hand was a gun, pointing directly at Harris.

“Your attaché case, please, Mr. Harris,” one of them said.

Harris wordlessly handed over the case.

“And if you would lean against the wall and spread your legs.”

Harris shrugged, then did as he had been told.

Hands rested heavily against his shoulders, then moved quickly down his body. The search, for all the importance that was placed on it, was perfunctory. The men would have found a gun, had Harris been carrying one, but the garrote wrapped around his right ankle under his sock went undetected. The men might be big, but they weren’t very smart.

The hands retreated and he was free to turn around.

He was standing in a small hallway similar to the one on the floor below, except that here the window was smaller and there was no wall blocking off the corridor.

Harris held out his hand for his case.

“Open it,” said the guard who was holding it. “Slowly.”

Harris looked at the man, evaluating him. He lowered his hand without taking the case.

“No.”

“Then the case stays here. Nothing gets taken into Mr. Cotterell’s presence unless we’ve made sure it’s safe.”

“Fine. Keep it until I come out.” He glanced at his wrist. “Now, I have an appointment, and you’ve made me late. I suggest you take me to Mr. Cotterell without delay.”

The guard with the gun holstered the weapon and smiled not-too-convincingly.

“Sorry about that, sir. I hope you understand it’s nothing personal. Mr. Cotterell is concerned about his security.” Hardly waiting for Harris’s non-committal grunt, he continued, “If you’ll follow me, sir, I’ll take you to Mr. Cotterell now.”

The guard led the way down the corridor with Harris following close behind.

They walked quickly down a wide, luxuriously carpeted corridor, passing several offices, many of whose doors were open, permitting Harris brief glimpses inside. They were spacious and opulent, more like living rooms than offices, with deep piled carpets on the floor and what looked like original oil paintings on the walls. All had occupants, most with a telephone at their ear. The latest estimates put Vincent Cotterell’s personal wealth at well over a billion dollars, and the people in these offices were hard at work trying to increase it even further.

They halted at the end of a corridor, in front of an unmarked, closed door. A large reception desk stood at their right, almost filling a wide bay. A youngish woman, less than thirty, and sporting a tan that left Harris with the impression that she must have recently returned from the Caribbean, looked up from the desk.

“Mr. Harris to see Mr. Cotterell,” said the guard.

The woman flashed them a white, perfect smile and said, “Go ahead,” before returning her attention to the paperwork on her desk.

The guard knocked quietly on the door and a muffled voice invited them to enter. The guard opened the door.

“Mr. Harris, sir.”

Harris walked through the open doorway and, despite himself, was momentarily awed at the sight that met his eyes.

It was not the room itself, nor even its occupant, that demanded immediate attention, although in another setting either would have given justifiable pause. It was, rather, the view behind the figure rising from the desk.

For a moment, all that Harris registered was a long line of white-capped, jaggedly profiled mountains over which hung a sky of unsullied blue. The grandeur, the sheer majesty of the sight, took his breath away and it was several moments before he could wrench his attention from the vast window that comprised the entirety of the far wall and concentrate instead on his immediate vicinity, on the man now standing and offering his hand over the enormous mahogany desk.

As Harris moved forward to greet Vincent Cotterell, he heard the door close quietly behind him as the guard left the room. George Harris, professional assassin, was alone with one of the wealthiest men in America.

Vincent Cotterell was unnervingly like his photographs: fiftyish, dignified, a full head of gray hair, his face broken by a wide smile of greeting; he looked disarmingly like an actor chosen to portray a successful businessman in a Hollywood movie.

Cotterell’s greeting was cordial, with no indication that the man he was welcoming was anything other than a successful business colleague.

“Mr. Harris, good of you to come. I have been looking forward to this meeting for some time.”

Cotterell leaned across the desk, grasped Harris’s hand, and pumped it vigorously.

So this was Vincent Cotterell. He did not look remarkable; but maybe that was the most remarkable thing about him. The gray hair, the firm eyes, the expensive suit, all bespoke the successful American business man at the height of his powers, but none gave any real intimation of the dizzying success that this particular specimen of that breed had attained.

Why would such a man want to engage the services of George Harris? It was a puzzle, and Harris was no nearer knowing the answer than he had been nearly six months earlier, when the first electronic message from Cotterell had appeared in his computer mailbox. But the answer would surely not be long in coming now.

“Good morning, Mr. Cotterell. I’m pleased to meet you at last. And I hope we’ll be able to do business together.”

“Not much doubt of that, I think. You come highly recommended by a mutual acquaintance.”

Harris smiled politely. Behind the smile, he wondered from whom the reference had come. Apparently, Vincent Cotterell, for all his wealth, had friends in low places.

Cotterell gestured towards a chair, and Harris sat. Harris felt the comfortable, familiar constriction of the garotte, and the thought crossed his mind that Cotterell was fortunate that he was in Denver simply to talk to him, not to kill him.

“Before we get started, would you like a coffee or something?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble. With caffeine if possible. It’s still a little early.”

“Certainly. No problem. Stay here and I’ll get it myself. Feel free to look around.” Cotterell swept his arm around to encompass the room, and then moved towards the door by which Harris had entered. He turned and added, “Leave the desk and the folder alone.”

Leaving no time for a response, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

Harris sat motionless for several seconds. His gaze wandered over the room, looking for the cameras. He found them, four in all, one in each corner, nestled in the orthogonal shadowed crooks between walls and ceiling. He stood and began casually to stroll around the room, his hands in his pockets, his eyes moving every few seconds to Cotterell’s desk, in the center of which was a closed manila folder.

He craned his neck to try to read the handwritten label on the tab of the folder. “Catherine Kent,” he read. That was all. He wondered who Ms. Kent was, and whether he would shortly be taking a professional interest in her.

He refrained from touching the folder. A man in Cotterell’s position did not personally fetch another man’s coffee for no reason; Harris had little doubt that at this moment Cotterell was standing in front of a bank of television monitors, watching his every move.

As he turned away from the desk, he had to will himself to concentrate on the room instead of the view. He noticed that the desk was so placed that anyone using it would have his back to the distraction represented by the enormous window that ran along the western side of the room.

He moved around the room slowly, acquiring mental pictures for later transcription into the notebook that was locked inside his attaché case. The carpet had a luxurious deep beige pile that yielded softly beneath the weight of his feet. The decorations seemed Spartan at first, but then he realized that the sheer size of the office would make them seem so whatever furnishings were present.

One third of the office was cozy and almost intimate, made over in a passable imitation of a comfortable suburban living room, with a pair of coffee tables, easy chairs and a couch, even a mock fireplace that seemed both incongruous because of the heat of the day outside and pointless because of the controlled climate of the building. In the wall at the end of the office there was a door, which led, presumably, to a private bathroom and possibly to other rooms beyond.

The remaining two thirds of the office was almost bare. Apart from the massive mahogany desk, which had one chair behind it and two in front, there was only a single large table in one corner. On the table was a personal photocopier, a small fax machine and a personal computer.

The walls held four small paintings that looked as if they might be the work of Picasso in one of his more accessible periods. The room had no windows except for the one vast expanse of glass facing the mountains. The remainder of the walls were finished in light oak panels that, along with the beige carpet and wide open window to the west, gave the room a feeling of even greater spaciousness than it might otherwise have had.

Satisfying himself that there was nothing further to hold his interest except the forbidden desk and folder, Harris turned, finally, to look out the window.

The western horizon was formed by the jagged, fractal pattern of the mountains of the continental divide. Harris’s view was uninterrupted for perhaps forty miles to the north and ten miles to the south, where mesas hid the more distant mountains. Even though it was August and the temperature in the city would exceed ninety degrees today, there was snow on many of the peaks. Harris found it oddly disconcerting that such extremes of temperature could occur in such proximity.

He found his thoughts wandering as he looked at the mountains, wondering how the early settlers could possibly have found paths through the immense physical barrier as they made their pilgrimages to the promised land of California.

His reverie was broken by the sound of the door opening behind him. Harris turned as Cotterell re-entered the room bearing a tray that supported two elegant china cups and saucers and a coffee pot.

Cotterell apologized: “Sorry to keep you, Mr. Harris. Nice view, isn’t it?”

“Magnificent.”

Cotterell placed the tray on the desk and poured himself a cup of steaming black coffee. “Help yourself,” he said, lifting his cup and saucer and walking around behind the desk, “and have a seat.”

Both men settled themselves. As soon as Harris had poured himself a cup of coffee, Cotterell spoke again. “So, to business?”

Harris nodded.

Cotterell looked at Harris for several seconds, apparently weighing what he saw with interest. “So you’re a professional killer,” he eventually said.

“Not if this is on tape.”

Cotterell laughed — a loud, honest laugh of genuine pleasure.

“Quite so. But if we aren’t going to trust one another, we aren’t going to get very far, are we?”

Without waiting for an answer, he continued, “But of course you’re quite right. A tape is being made of this conversation. But you have my word that its contents will be at least as incriminating to me as they will be to you, and its purpose is simply to serve as an internal record of any agreement we might reach.

“Let me put it bluntly: I propose, Mr. Harris, to engage your professional services. By that I mean that I will offer you a sum of money, a substantial sum of money, in return for the deaths of two people whose lives I would very much like to see ended. So, Mr. Harris, how much do you usually charge for your services?”

Harris answered with a question of his own. “You’re a very wealthy man, Mr. Cotterell, and you have many men working for you. Why exactly do you need me to perform this service? I’m sure there are many perfectly competent men on your own staff.”

Cotterell smiled broadly. “Yes, perhaps so. But then, if anything were to go wrong, there would be an obvious connection between myself and my employee. Besides which, as you will shortly discover, there is — how shall I put it? — a rather delicate aspect to my request. I doubt it will offend your sensibilities. You are, after all, a professional. But I’m afraid that men in my employ might object to the job that I have in mind.”

Harris pondered this, wondering what Cotterell had in mind. He returned Cotterell’s gaze evenly.

“And so, your charges?” Cotterell repeated. “To save time, I will tell you now that I’ll pay anything within reason. I understand that you are worth whatever you cost.”

Harris arched his eyebrow at Cotterell’s offer of a blank check.

“My terms depend on the nature of the contract,” he replied, dropping his eyes to the bright caustic on the surface of his coffee. “After all, I could hardly charge the same for some hobo on the street down there” — he gestured vaguely down towards the street three hundred feet below — “as for the president of the United States, could I?”

He looked up and knew that he had made his point: if he was sufficiently well paid, he was willing to consider any target, no matter how visible or well protected — even the president.

Harris continued, maintaining eye contact with Cotterell as he spoke.

“Typically, my fee would be about one and a half million dollars, but it varies widely depending on circumstances. The fee for any particular job includes my estimated expenses. I don’t charge extra if my costs are greater than anticipated. As for my terms, they are very simple: all up front, in cash.”

There were several seconds of studied silence. Harris’s eyes slipped away from Cotterell’s face and he sipped his coffee in silence, then refilled his cup from the pot.

“That’s asking a lot, isn’t it? It’s not the fee, you understand, but what am I supposed to do if you don’t fulfill your part of the agreement? I didn’t get where I am by making bad investments, you know.”

“My terms are non-negotiable, Mr. Cotterell. You may take them or leave them, but they won’t change. If you want easier terms, you’re talking to the wrong man.”

Cotterell laughed and held up his hand. “No, no. I didn’t get where I am by accepting second best either. I’m reliably informed that since Kelton retired you have adequately filled his shoes. I have no doubt you’re the best man on the planet for the job I have in mind. So, no more quibbling.”

He pushed the folder across the desk towards Harris. “There she is, and her daughter too. I think five million should be more than adequate for the two of them, don’t you?”

Harris nearly dropped his coffee. His mind began to race, trying to fathom a possible reason for the ridiculous sum Cotterell was offering. Five million dollars would have bought Cotterell the British prime minister or the American vice president. What could possibly justify Cotterell’s willingness to part with such a sum in return for the death of two unknowns?

Recovering himself as best he could, although he was aware that his surprise must have been all too visible, he picked up the folder. It was thinner than he would have liked, little more than quarter of an inch thick. He flicked through the papers quickly, more interested in trying to understand why Ms. Kent’s demise might be worth so much to Cotterell than in trying to learn very much about the intended target.

There were a couple of photographs clipped to the first sheet of paper. They showed the same smiling face, separated by a period of perhaps a few years. It was not an unattractive face, especially in its more youthful configuration.

The first photograph was black and white, posed, the kind of picture that might accompany a passport application. There was a date penciled on the reverse: March, eight years ago. The second picture was a snapshot, the face slightly blurred, as if the picture had been overenlarged from the negative. It was in color, and taken from the left side. From her expression and the angle of her eyes, the subject evidently did not realize that the photograph was being taken. There was a date on the back of this one too: January, this year.

The woman in the photographs looked pleasant enough, her hair strawberry blonde, her face unblemished, her nose perhaps a little crooked, her teeth not quite straight. She looked guileless. Nice, but nothing special.

Harris skimmed the papers. The first two sheets were filled with biographical data. The only facts that struck Harris on this first, superficial reading were that Mrs. Kent lived in England, she was married to a Mr. Paul Kent, whose name signified no more to Harris than did his wife’s, and the daughter that Cotterell had mentioned, Elizabeth Mary Kent by name, was now a few months past her fourth birthday.

There was a photograph of Elizabeth attached to the second page. It was also dated January of the current year, and showed a blurred, nondescript female child. The only other items in the file were a series of about five pages of typescript that provided an assortment of facts about Mrs. Kent, her likes and dislikes, regular movements and suchlike, that Harris did not bother to study on this first reading.

“It’s the daughter that’s the delicate matter,” volunteered Cotterell. “You have to guarantee that both of them will be killed, daughter as well as mother.”

“And you thought you might not be able to persuade one of your employees to....” Harris let his voice trail off, leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid.

“Exactly. She is four years old, and has done nothing to deserve her death other than to make a poor choice of parents. Can you accept the contract knowing that?”

Harris closed the file and placed it on the desk. He looked Cotterell directly in the eye.

“Mr. Cotterell, I am neither judge nor jury. I am simply the executioner. I can accept the contract.”

He paused for a moment, then asked, “Who is Mrs. Kent? I’ve never heard of her.” He felt like adding, “And why are you willing to pay so much?” but left that question unasked. One thing at a time.

Cotterell replied, “You said yourself that a typical target would cost about a million and a half. So for these two targets, that is, Mrs. Kent and her daughter, maybe two or two and a quarter would be a fair price. The remainder of the money is to buy a couple of other items.

“Firstly, you should understand that the information in that folder is all you’re going to get. You are not to go snooping into Mrs. Kent’s background. Who she is and why I want the two of them dead are my concerns, not yours.

“I can tell you a little about her, but not much. Mrs. Kent and I were, how shall I say it? ...involved several years ago, not long before she was married, and she has extorted a considerable amount of money from me since then. I am willing to put up with a little blackmail for the sake of a peaceful life, Mr. Harris, but recently the woman has begun to push her luck a little too far, and I’m afraid I can no longer tolerate her threats. You need know no more than that.

“The second reason I’m willing to pay such a high price is that I’m going to dictate, in a small way, the manner in which you will accomplish your assignment.” He paused and thought for a moment before continuing. “But before we go into any of that, I must know that you can accept the assignment with these conditions attached.”

Harris considered the proposal before him.

He had an uncomfortable, nagging feeling at the back of his mind that he had somehow become engaged in the early stages of an unlooked-for chess game; an instinct was warning him that perhaps it would be a good idea to resign right now rather than risk deeper entanglement.

He submerged the thought as mere fancy and straightened himself in his chair. “Basically, it sounds fine. But before I can give you a definite answer, I need to know all the conditions. After all, I didn’t get where I am by having my methods dictated to me.”

Cotterell nodded. “OK. That seems fair enough. I don’t think you’ll find the restrictions I have in mind are too burdensome.

“My first condition is that Mrs. Kent’s husband, Paul Kent, is not to be harmed in any way. The second is that the demise of his family members is to appear to everybody, including and especially Mr. Kent, to be accidental. That’s all. Apart from those conditions, you’re free to go about fulfilling the contract however you wish.”

“Then I have some questions.”

“Go ahead. If I can answer them, I will.”

Harris gathered his thoughts. “The fact that you don’t want her husband to be hurt in any way suggests that maybe he’s in on this somehow. Is that correct?”

It was an obvious inference, but Harris knew immediately that it was wrong. Cotterell’s face flushed and he leaned forward and barked vehemently, “No! No, Kent knows nothing and is to know nothing about any of this. That is one thing you absolutely must understand. You are not to contact Kent. He is to be kept completely in the dark. Understand?”

Harris guessed that he had momentarily glimpsed the real man behind the mask of the successful businessman. He inclined his head and said, “OK. Sounds fine to me. Another question: when you say that Mrs. Kent and her daughter are to meet with an accident, do you mean a natural accident, or merely that their deaths are not to be suspicious in any way?”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

“Let me give you an example. Suppose they were to be killed in a traffic accident. That would ordinarily be taken to be a fairly natural death, and wouldn’t warrant detailed investigation by the police or other authorities. But if someone was of a suspicious nature, they might start digging and discover that the accident was not as accidental, so to speak, as it had appeared. So such an arranged mishap has a small but not inconsequential degree of associated risk.

“On the other hand, if, for example, Mrs. Kent and her daughter were to die while shopping in London’s West End, by being unfortunately close to an IRA or ILF bomb when it happened to explode, well, that would be quite a different matter. The authorities would vigorously pursue the putative bombers, but no one would think much about the bad luck of the people who happened to have been killed in the blast.”

Cotterell nodded thoughtfully as Harris continued.

“You see, the ultimate misdirection in arranged killings is often to ensure that nobody realizes who the intended victim is; and the best way to hide that is to hide one death among several.”

Cotterell nodded again. “Yes, I see what you mean.”

Harris watched him carefully. It was plain that Cotterell was unmoved by the possibility that other, innocent, parties might be killed along with the intended targets. Harris found himself revising his opinion of Cotterell yet again.

Cotterell continued nodding, his eyes far away, a trace of a smile on his face. “Yes, something along the lines of a bomb would be good, very good indeed.”

He refocused on Harris. “That kind of misdirection would be perfect if it could be managed. If there’s even a hint that Catherine and Elizabeth Kent met their death by a premeditated act, then things might get very messy indeed.”

Harris wondered for whom things might get messy. There were too many gaps and unanswered questions for him to feel comfortable about the job that was on offer. If it weren’t for the prospect of five million easy dollars, he would have told Vincent Cotterell exactly what he could do with his contract. Perhaps there would be some clues in the folder; but even if there weren’t, with five million dollars in cash up front he could afford to throw some money around trying to dig to the bottom of all this if he had to, Cotterell’s warning not to snoop notwithstanding.

“And the final questions,” Harris said. “You said that Mrs. Kent has been blackmailing you for some time. Does she have any idea that you’re no longer willing to pay? And if so, have you told her what’s likely to happen to her now that she’s gone too far?”

Harris watched Cotterell closely, trying to catch him out in a lie. When Cotterell’s reply came, it was delivered smoothly. The question had obviously been anticipated and the answer, whether a lie or otherwise, slid easily from his lips.

“No. I’m still paying her off, and I’ll continue doing so until she has been eliminated.”

“OK,” Harris nodded, “I understand. Well, perhaps ‘understand’ is too strong, but I think I know enough, along with what’s in this folder, to carry out the job. If you are agreeable, then so am I.”

He extended his hand across the desk.

Cotterell accepted with what appeared to be a genuine smile, a grin almost, of delight. They closed the deal with a handshake.

“Fine. Glad to have done business.” Cotterell started to rise.

Harris remained seated. There were still some matters to attend to. “A couple of minor logistical details before I leave,” he said. “A pen and paper?”

Cotterell supplied them and Harris tore the paper in half across its width. On one half he wrote a thirteen digit number. He passed both halves and the pen across the desk to Cotterell. “That’s my account number at the Banque de Genève. I will notify them to expect a transfer of five million US dollars into my account within the next seven days.”

“OK. Fine.”

“And that other piece of paper is for you to write a phone number on. It doesn’t have to reach you personally, but I want to know that if I dial that number at any time, day or night, I will be speaking to you in person within sixty minutes.”

Cotterell frowned, unsettled at the thought of linking himself so closely to Harris. “That’s a little unusual, you know,” he temporized. “I’m a man who values his privacy.”

“You needn’t worry about your privacy. I’ve never yet had to call a client. But if something unforeseen happens, I may need to contact you quickly.”

“I suppose you’re right, something might come up. I’ll set up a number and get it to you in the next few days; but you can be sure the connection will be dissolved as soon as you’ve done your job.”

“That’s fine. I won’t need it then. Just send the number to my computer mailbox. Oh, and one last thing: what sort of time frame are we talking about for the job?”

Cotterell thought for a moment. “Let’s see, it’s mid August now. Let’s say by the end of the year. Is that reasonable?”

“Sure, fine by me.” Harris smiled. He had been half afraid that an impossible timetable was going to be forced on him. On the contrary, four and a half months was almost an eternity.

Both men stood. On an impulse, Harris asked, “Do you have a rest room around here somewhere? Too much coffee, I’m afraid.”

“Certainly, be my guest. Through that door there.” Cotterell indicated the door Harris had noted earlier.

“Back in a moment.”

Closing the door behind him, Harris found himself in a bathroom suite worthy of a luxury mansion.

A vague fragrance of expensive air freshener hung in the air; the floor was carpeted thickly, the fittings marble and gold; the room contained an oversized combination bath and shower, a toilet and a large sink, above which was affixed an oak medicine cabinet. He opened the cabinet, exposing a meager selection of common pharmaceuticals: NyQuil, a small bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol, Pepto-Bismol, Preparation H. All but the last were unopened. He silently closed the cabinet.

There was a door in the far wall. Opening it, he poked his head into the room beyond. Yet another luxurious room, this time a bedroom. Canvases hung on the walls, oil paintings of warm scenes: a forest; a couple of European landscapes; a lonely beach on a desert island. The faint odor of freshener hung in the air here, too.

A large table hugged the wall to his left, its surface empty. An unmade double bed to his right indicated that only one person had slept here last night, presumably Vincent Cotterell himself. A glass, half filled with what looked like orange juice, stood on the bedside table, along with a lamp and a paperback book, the title on the spine too small to be read.

The room had one other obvious feature, an incongruity: a metal door in the far left corner of the opposite wall. The door had a push-bar at waist height, from which Harris inferred that the door led to the fire escape. Harris retreated back into the bathroom, walked over to the toilet bowl, and flushed it. After washing and drying his hands, he made his way back into Vincent Cotterell’s office.

Cotterell handed Harris the folder, and together they walked in silence to the elevator.

The three guards were still there, all seated now, but at the sight of Cotterell they rose hurriedly to their feet, looking suitably subservient.

One of the guards handed Harris his case. Cotterell and Harris shook hands one last time, then Cotterell turned and strode away while a guard called the elevator for Harris.

A minute later on the twenty ninth floor, Harris slipped the Kent folder into his attaché case while he waited for one of the main building elevators to arrive. He glanced at his watch. Nine o’clock. Five million dollars in half an hour. Not a bad start to the day. Now, where might he be able to dig up something about Mrs. Kent?

Arriving on the first floor, he stopped at the information desk to ask directions to the public library. Perhaps Mrs. Kent had once made the papers.

___________________________

Saturday, August 18

Harris settled into the plush comfort of the plane’s first class seat. The business suit of the day before was gone. In its place he was wearing a short-sleeved shirt, jeans and inexpensive sneakers. His attire had earned him disapproving frowns from several of the businessmen who shared the first class compartment. He studiously ignored them. He was worth a lot more than they would ever be.

“Newspaper, sir?”

Harris accepted a copy of the day’s Washington Post, and unfolded it to look at the front page. The twin headlines were inconsequential foreign stories, but in the lower right corner of the page was a small box headlined: Cotterell makes bid for PlanetAir. While Harris had been wasting yesterday at the library, Vincent Cotterell had been making overtures to expand his empire in a new direction.

The thought of the wasted day caused his brow to wrinkle in annoyance. After skimming the article about Cotterell, he put the paper down and extracted from his attaché case the Catherine Kent folder, a pencil, and a writing pad.

He had spent yesterday in the library, reading articles and columns about Vincent Cotterell and his dead brother, Carl.

It was Carl who had originated the empire that had become Cotterell Industries. But whereas no one seemed to doubt that Vincent Cotterell was an entirely legitimate businessman, the name of his older brother had been linked countless times to dealings that were at best suspect and at worse illegal. Twice, Carl Cotterell had been arrested and tried before a jury for racketeering. Twice, Carl Cotterell had walked away a free man. But he had not been able to walk away from the bullet that had ended his life five years ago, thrusting his younger brother into control of the empire he had created.

All of which was interesting background on his client, but was not what Harris had been looking for. After five hours of fruitless searching, Harris had given up. The name of Catherine Warner (as she was before she became Mrs. Kent, according to the file) had never appeared in association with either of the Cotterell brothers.

Neither had either of them ever visited England, where Catherine Kent had lived her entire life.

He jotted in the notebook in an angular, vertical script: “Find out about VC and Kent. Who is Kent?” He glanced up at the ceiling for a moment, then added a third note: “WSJ — VC — PlanetAir” to remind him to pick up a copy of the Wall Street Journal on Monday to see what that paper had to say about Cotterell’s attempted acquisition.

As he placed the notebook on the empty seat beside him, he closed his eyes in thought and pondered for some time the enigma that was Vincent Cotterell. Once he had been little more than a playboy. Now he was one of the most successful businessmen in America. And all because of an assassin’s bullet.

The plane taxied to the end of the runway while Harris was thinking. Now the motors roared and the plane raced down the runway and took off. Harris opened his eyes and looked vacantly at the distant mountainous horizon.

After a while, he picked up the folder and opened it. Placing his pencil in his mouth, he furrowed his brow, and began to read yet again what the file had to say about Mrs. Catherine Kent.

Chapter 2

Saturday, September 29
New York

On the fifty-second floor of Cotterell Tower, Vincent Cotterell was in conference with half a dozen attorneys, going over the paperwork for his latest acquisition. In the basement of the same building, in a large, untidy office with an unmarked door, a massive man leaned far back in his chair, his feet planted firmly on the paper strewn surface of his desk while he read Soldier of Fortune. Victor Brezhnerov, head of personal security to Vincent Cotterell, was on the job.

The telephone rang.

Marking his place with a six-week-old internal memorandum that he had never bothered to read, Brezhnerov placed the magazine on the desk, dropped his feet to the ground, leaned his bulky frame forward, and lifted the telephone.

“Hello,” he snapped.

“Ah, yes,” said a hesitant voice. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Williams, please.”

Brezhnerov was instantly alert, connecting two apparently disparate facts: the man who was calling had a strong English accent, and George Harris had flown to England two days earlier. The coincidence was too great. He glanced down to make sure the tape was turning.

“This is Mr. Williams,” Brezhnerov said.

Five minutes later, Victor Brezhnerov knocked and walked into the conference room on the fifty-second floor without waiting for a reply. Cotterell looked up irritably from the paperwork in front of him. The attorneys looked at Brezhnerov speculatively, wondering who he was to have the gall to interrupt their meeting.

“This had better be important,” Cotterell said to Brezhnerov, clearly annoyed.

“I have to see you privately, Boss. About the English matter.”

“Now?”

“Now, Boss.”

“All right, you lot. Out!” He waved the lawyers away.

Scurrying to obey the billionaire’s command, they rose as one and left the room.

“Now, Victor, what is it?” Cotterell snapped.

“I just got a phone call from one of my informants in England. Would you like to hear the tape? I brought it up with me.”

Cotterell indicated his agreement with a gesture, and Brezhnerov fished in his pocket and withdrew a small dictation machine. Placing it on the table, he rewound the tape, turned up the volume, and set the machine to play.

“Hello,” the tape began: Brezhnerov answering the phone.

“Ah, yes. I’d like to speak to Mr. Williams, please.”

“This is Mr. Williams.”

“Good. This is Henry Halton here.”

“I see, Mr. Halton. PC Halton, actually, isn’t it?”

“PC stands for Police Constable, Boss,” Brezhnerov interpolated. “Basically a beat officer.” Cotterell raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Yes, sir, that’s right. Calling from England.”

“Do you have something for me, constable?”

“Yes, sir, I think I do. You said I was to call you if ever anyone came around asking about the Kents. That’s right, isn’t it, sir?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, sir, I sort of spread the word around here quietly, like you suggested and, well, I got a phone call about an hour ago from the landlord down at The Surrey, that’s one of the pubs a couple of miles away. He said there was an American sitting in the bar waiting for his dinner. Seems this American is staying the night at the pub — they run a sort of part time bed and breakfast affair on the side — anyway, this American had been asking about the Kents. Said he was interested in buying their house and did anyone know if the Kents might be interested in selling?

“I went over to the pub as fast as I could. I’m not on duty tonight, you see, so that made it nice and easy. Well, sir, the American was still there. I managed to have a little chat with him. Didn’t say anything about the Kents of course, didn’t want to tip the chap off; but he’s certainly an American, and he said that he was over for a day or so, interested in buying some property for his firm so that executives could use it like a sort of home from home while they’re over here.”

“I see. He didn’t happen to tell you what firm he was with, I don’t suppose?”

“Matter of fact, he did, sir. Thought you might ask that.” The note of pride was evident in PC Halton’s voice. “Merrill Lynch, he said.”

“Pity it’s a real company,” interjected Cotterell.

On the tape, Brezhnerov said, “I see. All right, you’ve done very well, constable. You’ll be paid according to our arrangements.”

“Thank you, sir. Do I try to keep tabs on him for you?”

“No, I think not. By the way, what’s the name of this landlord?”

“George Matthews, sir. The pub’s called The Surrey; it’s down the Kenley Road maybe a couple of miles from Darnley Drive, where the Kents live.”

“Phone number?”

“Hang on a minute. Yes, here it is. 0171-555-4327.”

“Did you get the name of the American?”

“He’d given it to the landlord’s wife. Had to when he signed for his room. ‘George Harris’ was what it said on the charge slip.”

Cotterell’s eyebrow lifted again.

“Good. Thank you. Tell me, what did this American look like?”

“Oh, tallish. Mid to late thirties. Wore glasses, quite expensive looking. Dressed casually, but quality clothes. More Harrods than Marks & Spencer if you know what I mean, sir. Seemed like a nice enough sort of bloke, if a bit uncommunicative.”

“Thank you, constable. You’ll be receiving a check from me shortly as we arranged. Let me know if it doesn’t arrive in a couple of weeks.”

Brezhnerov switched off the machine. “I’ve already started enquiries. It shouldn’t take long to find out if he’s for real.”

The intercom beeped, and Cotterell’s secretary said, “Telephone call for Mr. Brezhnerov, sir. Says his name is Mr. Merrill Lynch.” Her voice was steady, as if she did not recognize the name as an improbable pseudonym.

“Put it through, Glenda.”

Brezhnerov lifted the telephone. “Brezhnerov here, Mr. Lynch.”

He nodded a couple of times, said “I see” and “yes, thank you,” then put the phone down.

He said grimly, “That was a hacker, Boss. He tells me Merrill Lynch has no employee by the name of George Harris anywhere in the world.”

“Is the man reliable?”

“He’s the best, Boss.”

“Right, Victor. I want you on a plane to London within the hour.” Cotterell stabbed his finger at the intercom. “Glenda, find out where we have a plane that can reach London nonstop. Check La Guardia first.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want a plane to take Mr. Brezhnerov to London as quickly as possible. If we don’t have one available that can make the trip without stopping, rent me one or pull one from the PlanetAir fleet. Whatever it takes. I want him there as quickly as possible.”

He released the intercom button. Victor Brezhnerov was already on his feet.

Cotterell continued, “I’ll have you met at whatever airport you arrive at. You’ll be supplied with the necessaries then. Travel clean; we don’t want any trouble with immigration or customs.”

“All right, Boss. Any specific orders?”

“Yes. Try to scare Harris but don’t go out of your way to harm him. I’d still prefer to have him do the job. He’s the best man for it, even if he is too curious.”

“Don’t worry, Boss, I’ll handle him with kid gloves.”

“Let me know how it turns out. And of course, I don’t really need to tell you this, but if Kent so much as dreams there’s anything wrong, you’re a dead man.”

“Yes, Boss. You’re absolutely right. You don’t need to tell me that.”

Ninety minutes later, Brezhnerov was airborne, destination London.

Chapter 3

Sunday, September 30
Surrey

A light drizzle hid most of Surrey in gray fog. From the road, the large house at number 5, Darnley Drive, was visible only as an indistinct, brooding shadow. Inside the house, Paul Kent looked out across the green front lawn as he waited for his wife and daughter to get ready for church.

Kent was approaching his forty-first birthday, but as yet there were no permanent lines on his face except for the hairline scar high on his brow that he habitually hid behind his forward-combed hair. He wore a neatly trimmed beard that, like the hair on his head, showed no trace of gray. He turned as his wife entered the room.

“Aren’t you ready yet?” he asked when he saw that she was still coatless and carried Elizabeth’s favorite teddy bear in one hand.

There was an uncharacteristic shortness in his voice, and he regretted his abruptness as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Before Catherine had time to reply, he apologized.

“I’m sorry. I know Elizabeth makes it difficult to be on time. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You can go and start the car. We’re almost ready. Now where did I put my handbag?”

Kent crossed the room to his wife and gently took her in his arms, arresting her search for the errant handbag. He kissed her, first on the cheek and then on the lips. “I love you,” he said.

Catherine smiled, and then turned as a four-year-old voice called loudly from the hallway, “Mummy, I can’t find Mr. Bear.”

“I have him, darling. Have you seen my... Oh! Never mind. Here it is.” To her husband she said, “You go start the car and we’ll be there in a couple of minutes. There won’t be much traffic on a day like this. We won’t be late.”

She hurried from the room, followed by her husband.

A couple of minutes later, Paul Kent backed the blue Mercedes out the garage, and his wife and child got inside. The car turned in the turning space halfway down the drive, and then they were gone.

For a full minute, nothing moved. The only sound was the gentle drip-drip-drip of accumulated drizzle falling from the branches of the tall evergreens around the edge of the property. Then a head appeared around the back of the garage.

George Harris began to search for the spare key. There weren’t many places to hide it, especially if the kid was supposed to be able to use it.

He found it in eighty seconds flat, under what looked like a forgotten shard of old flowerpot.

The key fitted and turned easily in the lock of the back door.

Harris hesitated for a moment, wondering about the possibility of a burglar alarm. But there was no red warning box on the house’s exterior, and Catherine had left the house with the girl instead of staying behind to set an alarm. He decided he was worrying unnecessarily.

He removed the key from the lock, placed it in his pocket, and cautiously entered the house and closed the door behind him.

He was in a kind of utilitarian anteroom with coats hanging on hooks and shoes and wellington boots clustered on the floor. A narrow door stood ajar, leading into the kitchen.

Drying his feet on a doormat, he pushed open the door and went inside.

He made a slow circuit of the house, pausing in every room to take stock of what he saw. There were two storeys. On the lower floor were several good-sized rooms: the kitchen, hallway, dining room and living room, as well as a play room for Elizabeth, a medium-sized study strewn with papers, and two small bathrooms.

Upstairs were two full bathrooms, one obviously used by the parents and one by Elizabeth, bedrooms for the parents and child, two spare bedrooms, and a large box room-cum-library with hundreds of books lining the walls and several piles of boxes filled with miscellaneous junk cluttered in the middle of the floor.

The house was furnished expensively throughout; it was obvious that the Kents were wealthy people. The chairs were deeply upholstered; the drapes next to the windows were heavy and moved silently and easily along their valence rails. The pile on the carpet was deep. The kitchen was modern, with a dishwasher, a garbage disposal and a trash compactor.

George Harris began wonder if he was on a wild goose chase. Perhaps Vincent Cotterell was telling the truth after all. Maybe everything was just as his client had claimed; perhaps it was indeed Cotterell himself who was the unwilling source of the Kents’ wealth.

He saw no photographs, except a recent pair on the sideboard in the dining room: one of Elizabeth smiling cherubically, pink cheeks dimpled in a wide smile; and one of the child with her mother, holding hands in a shot that was obviously unposed, the two enjoying a walk together on a beach somewhere on what appeared to be a cool, blustery day, but both smiling at the camera — a mother and daughter at peace with one another and the world. There were no pictures of Mr. Kent.

Harris went back downstairs and stood thoughtfully at the foot of the stairs, wondering if he should simply leave. But having come this far, he had to try to find some evidence that would either corroborate or disprove Cotterell’s story.

The obvious place to look was the study. He stood in the doorway and looked dubiously at the piles of papers, then set the timer on his watch for thirty minutes. If he found nothing by the end of half an hour, he would move to the Kents’ bedroom, give that ten minutes, then ten minutes more in the living room, where an escritoire looked like it might repay inspection. After that it would be time to leave.

The only furniture in the study was an oversized flat-topped desk in the center of the room, a pair of chairs — one drawn up to the desk, one hiding in a corner — two filing cabinets — one green, one gray — a personal photocopier on the floor in one corner plugged into an electric socket, and piles of paper and books scattered around the floor and over the surface of the desk.

He walked to the desk and picked up an open book: volume three of Winston Churchill’s A History of the English Speaking Peoples. He glanced at the other books. They were all about the Second World War — its causes, the activities of the secret services, detailed histories of actions in the European, North African and Far Eastern theaters; there were biographies of Churchill, Neville Chamberlain, Attlee; colorful picture books of Blenheim Palace.

On the desk stood a typewriter with a sheet of paper in it. It was headed: “Churchill: The Last Years / P. M. Kent.” There was a paragraph of prose, something to do with India and partition. Paul Kent was writing a book.

Stepping gingerly around the piles on the floor, Harris moved to the filing cabinets. Both had locks, but neither lock was in use. He pulled open the topmost drawer on the green cabinet, revealing a drawer full of folders.

He flicked through them, reading the tabs: Charterhouse, War Room, Chamberlain, Boer War. Most of the folders were quite thick. They were arranged in no discernible order. He lifted one out at random, the one headed “Boer War.” It was filled with photocopies of pages from other books, with red handwritten annotations in the margins.

He replaced the folder in the drawer.

“Ahem.”

The intrusion was so quiet, so completely unexpected, that George Harris’s mouth dropped slackly as he spun around looking for the source of the sound.

It was not hard to find.

Framed by the doorway was a bulky, muscular man, roughly Harris’s own age, who was looking at him with an expression of insolent superiority. In the man’s hand was a silenced pistol which was aimed at a point high in Harris’s chest.

“Kent!” Harris blurted.

“Mr. Harris, I’m disappointed. Not surprised, I suppose; but still disappointed.” After half a week in Britain, the man’s American accent came as a surprise to Harris’s ears.

A doubt began to form in his mind. How could this be Paul Kent? Kent could not possibly have known his name.

“Who are you? You aren’t Paul Kent, are you?” Harris’s mind was racing. If this wasn’t Kent, then there was no reason why he could not use the cloth-covered length of wire wrapped around his right ankle. No reason, that is, except for the fact that the man’s gun had not wavered from his chest.

The man ignored the question.

“Mr. Harris, I’m here to deliver a message from Mr. Cotterell. Mr. Cotterell is concerned that you have broken your side of the agreement. I admit there was never anything on paper, but there was a handshake, and a high quality video tape exists of the entire meeting. I know. I’ve seen it.”

Harris remembered the cameras in the crooks of Cotterell’s Denver office. The man continued.

“And as I remember it, that tape shows the two of you agreeing that in anticipation of certain services being performed and certain conditions being met, a considerable sum of money was to be paid into a Swiss numbered account. Tell me, Mr. Harris, has there been some problem? Did the money not arrive?”

“No, the money arrived OK.”

The man shook his head in exaggerated puzzlement. “Then I guess I’m confused. The assignment was clear enough, and so were the conditions attached to it. Yet here I find you, making yourself at home in the Kents’ house while they are at church, in direct violation of your agreement.”

Harris had had enough. It was time to go on the offensive. “Who the hell is Catherine Kent, anyway? And for that matter, who the hell are you?”

“Catherine Kent is a nobody whom it is your job to kill. As for me, my name is Victor Brezhnerov and I am in charge of personal security for Mr. Cotterell, who personally sent me here to remind you of your agreement. Now, what am I to tell him? That you’ve decided to return the money? That your handshake is worthless? That you’re sorry and you’ll be a good boy and you won’t do it again?”

Brezhnerov shook his head as if shocked at the perfidy of the man before him.

“Come on now, what’s it to be?”

But before Harris could answer, Brezhnerov glanced at his watch and said abruptly. “We’ve been here long enough. Time to get moving. Back the way you came; into the kitchen and back to the place where the key was hidden. Don’t try anything. I assure you that at this range I won’t miss.”

They went outside without speaking. Brezhnerov’s pistol never wavered from Harris. Five seconds was all it would take for Harris to unwrap the garotte from his ankle and have it ready for use; but it was five seconds that Brezhnerov did not give him. Sullenly, Harris handed over the key and Brezhnerov locked the door and replaced the key under the shard of flowerpot.

Harris turned to look speculatively at his captor. What would happen now? A look of resignation crossed Brezhnerov’s face.

“Mr. Harris, much as it would give me great pleasure simply to shoot you, Mr. Cotterell has directed that first I must ask you one question. What I do next depends entirely on your answer.”

Brezhnerov paused, drawing out the tension. Harris swallowed.

“If you give your solemn promise that from now on you will simply get on with the job for which you have been paid, Mr. Cotterell has instructed me to inform you that he will forget that this incident ever took place. Personally, I wouldn’t give you a second chance, but then, I’m not as kind-hearted as my employer. What do you say, Harris?”

“If I agree to keep away from the Kents, this incident will be forgotten?”

“That’s what I said.”

“And what if I don’t agree?”

Brezhnerov smiled. “In that case Mr. Cotterell says he has no further interest in you. And after I’ve finished with you, the only person who would have any conceivable interest in you is a coroner.”

“Then I don’t really have any choice, do I?”

“Not if you want to be alive twenty seconds from now.”

“Then you have my word. I will not investigate the Kents any more. I will fulfill my half of the contract as we originally agreed.”

Brezhnerov dug in his pocket with his unencumbered hand and held up a small tape recorder. “I will inform Mr. Cotterell of your words. If I were you, I’d stick to them this time. Now, get out of here. I never want to see you again.”

George Harris turned and strode quickly away down the driveway, fury on his face. He was more sure than ever that there was something, something important, that Cotterell was not telling him about Catherine Kent. But he would be true to his word. He would kill the Kents — he was not such a fool as to risk five million dollars. But afterwards... afterwards he would embark on a small, unpaid, but particularly gratifying job of his own: he would kill Victor Brezhnerov.

Chapter 4

Thursday, November 15
Surrey

Catherine Kent walked into the living room. Her husband picked up the remote control and turned off the news. The picture died with a barely-audible pttt.

He smiled at her and asked solicitously, “All finished, darling?”

“Just a few minutes more. Elizabeth’s finally asleep and I thought I’d take a break for a moment before I go back upstairs to finish. Anything on the news?”

“No. Mostly it’s about the Irish Liberation Front and Saoirse Eireann. Nothing very interesting. Just the usual threats of violence because the government is dragging its feet and the IRA aren’t being militant enough.”

Catherine shook her head and tut-tutted. “You’d think after all the years of bloodshed they’d be willing to be a bit more patient.”

“You might, except that patience isn’t usually the hallmark of a liberation army. And I suspect they aren’t particularly pleased that the IRA and Sinn Fein are hogging all the glory now that peace seems a real possibility. Anyway, we can forget about all the depressing British news. That’s one thing about Florida: it helps put Britain and its problems in perspective. It’s hard to be glum for long with Disney World just down the road.”

“You know, I think Elizabeth’s even more excited about the trip this year than she was last year. One more suitcase, then I’ll be done.”

“I keep telling Elizabeth that since I won’t be there, she’s going to have to look after you.”

“I know. She told me half a dozen times not to worry because she’ll be there to look after me. And she says that I’m not to worry about her because Mr. Bear will look after her. Now what are you looking at?”

Kent was in his favorite armchair, his stockinged feet stretched out before him. By his side was a small table on which was the book he had been reading before the late-evening news had diverted him. Next to the book was a glass half filled with white wine. He was regarding his wife with a vaguely benevolent smile.

“Did I ever tell you’re beautiful?”

Catherine flushed the way she always did when he paid her a compliment. It had happened the very first time they had met, and she supposed it would happen until she finally became too physically decrepit for there to be any possible truth to his words.

“Every day,” she replied.

“If I ever stop saying it, you have my permission to get a new husband.”

“Never,” she said firmly. She crossed the room and bent to kiss him.

He beat her to it, wrapping his arm around her head and pulling her to him. What she had intended as a simple kiss threatened to turn itself into a passionate embrace. Laughing, she extricated herself. “One more suitcase,” she said firmly. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

“A drink?” he asked.

“Just one, otherwise I won’t sleep.”

“Remember when we didn’t sleep? And not because of the drink.”

“We were young then.”

“We’re young now.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

She turned from him, feigning annoyance, and flounced to the door.

“Catherine?” Something in his tone of voice caused her to halt in the doorway. She turned to look at him. “Thank you for saving me,” he said.

She frowned.

“I mean it,” he said. “Thank you.”

“What did I save you from? A life of freedom?”

For a moment he looked much more serious than he usually did when they were bantering. Then he laughed. “No. A life of empty wealth. If I’d never met you, by now I would be fabulously wealthy and incredibly lonely. Thank you for saving me from that.”

Catherine shook her head. Sometimes Paul was a mystery, even to her. She turned and left the room, leaving her husband staring at the vacant doorway. He listened to her climbing the stairs and then moving around in their bedroom overhead.

He’d almost told her. He’d almost broken the vow he’d made that very first evening, more than five years ago. He’d promised himself that he’d never tell her, that he must never give her that pain. But wasn’t that what love was all about? he asked himself. Sharing pain as well as joy?

He had known it straight away. One look across the dance floor at Ambassador Warner’s homecoming ball was enough. He had known in that instant that his life would never be the same again.

He had been holding a drink, chatting amiably with the Egyptian ambassador about the Iranian situation. The dance floor was empty; at one end of the varnished surface the band was tuning up for the evening’s entertainment. Finishing the drink, he idly looked up to find a waiter to replenish it and his eyes strayed to the other side of the room.

Ambassador Hussein said something, but Kent didn’t hear. “I... I’m sorry,” Kent stammered. “I didn’t catch that. Would you say it again, please?”

“Ah, you have noticed our host’s daughter. She not infrequently has that effect on people.”

“She’s Ambassador Warner’s daughter?” Kent asked incredulously, not taking his eyes off the vision on the far side of the room. She was a large-eyed strawberry blonde, wearing a white dress that curved by just the right amount in exactly the right places. She was laughing at something one of the men gathered around her had just said, and the sound of her laughter carried across the floor to Kent. Kent had never seen anyone so beautiful, nor so free of artifice.

“Yes. One reason for the ball is to introduce her to London society,” said the Egyptian ambassador.

“I’m going to marry her,” declared Kent, still not taking his eyes off her. As he spoke she chanced to look up, and her eyes met his.

“You’re beautiful,” he mouthed, and even though they were separated by half the width of the enormous room, he saw her blush with embarrassment.

“Excuse me,” he said to his companion without looking. Clutching his empty glass, he headed off across the dance floor.

They spent most of the evening together, and most of the evenings of the week that followed. The following Saturday, they became engaged to be married.

He fabricated a simple and thoroughly believable story to explain his wealth: he’d inherited a small fortune from a father who had owned a small building company in a provincial city. Through astute investments, he had amassed enough money that he need never work again. He was mildly wealthy, if not exactly rich.

Part of the story, at least, was true. Once he’d finished the contract on which he was currently engaged, he’d never work again. Once they were married, he’d never leave her. They would be together forever.

He explained earnestly to her father that his wealth would give him the freedom to be a good husband to Catherine and father for their family. He loved her madly, just as madly as she loved him. Their marriage would be strong and last the rest of their lives....

“Where’s that drink?”

He looked up, startled. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“Don’t get up. I’ll get it myself now. You want one? Oh, you haven’t finished the last one. What were you thinking about?”

“That you changed my life. That I don’t deserve you. That I love you very much.”

She poured a splash of gin into the bottom a glass, and filled it from a bottle of bitter lemon. “Do you want to drink these here, or shall we go upstairs?”

He picked up his glass and pulled himself out of the chair. “Upstairs sounds nice.”

He slid his arm through hers and led her from the room.

___________________________

Friday, November 16
Surrey

Excitement was in the air. Four-year-old Elizabeth was talking non-stop. Her mother had twice told her to be quiet and eat her Marmite on toast, but Elizabeth simply ignored her and kept on talking and asking questions about the day ahead.

“When do we leave for the airport, Mummy?”

“As soon as you’ve finished breakfast Daddy will bring the suitcases down.”

“Is Daddy taking us to the airport?”

“No, darling; we’ll take a cab. Daddy has to go to London this morning. That’s why he’s not coming with us. Now eat some of that toast.”

“I’m not hungry. What’s a cab, Mummy?”

Catherine did her best to explain, but before she had finished, her daughter interrupted her. “Daddy will be coming to America soon though, won’t he, Mummy? Then he’ll be able to look after you, won’t he?”

“Yes, dear. He just has to stay for a couple of days. He’s flying out to be with us on Sunday.”

“Then can we go to Disney World like last year, Mummy? Mr. Bear says he wants to come too. He’ll be able to come with us, won’t he, Mummy?”

“Yes, dear. Now, please, just one slice. It will be a long time before we eat lunch on the plane.”

___________________________

Fifteen miles to the northeast, the alarm clock went off in George Harris’s hotel room.

The clock did not wake Harris, for he was already awake. For the past hour he had been mentally rehearsing the day ahead, trying to spot any mistakes, trying to anticipate and allow for everything that could go wrong. If there was a flaw in his preparations, he could not find it.

Glad that the day had at last begun, he silenced the alarm and headed for the shower.

Ten minutes later, he returned and began to dress, studying himself carefully in the mirror as his assumed persona began to take shape.

He dressed slowly and methodically. When he had finished, he was wearing a pair of faded jeans that sported several dirty streaks, nondescript brown socks, scuffed tennis shoes, a shirt, its collar limp and curling, all topped by a thick, dark sweater.

In the past six weeks he had let his hair grow slightly longer than was completely respectable, and now he carefully mussed the result in the mirror. He wore a simple, inexpensive, wire-framed pair of glasses. Although he had showered, he remained unshaven, and the overhead light cast his chin into a suitably scrubby shadow. He examined his reflection critically, rearranged his hair slightly, then turned away with a nod of satisfaction.

From a suitcase he removed a laptop computer, a couple of lengths of wire, and a set of tools. Unhurriedly, he dismantled the telephone on the bedside table and clipped the wires to the innards of the disemboweled instrument. He turned on the computer.

Five minutes later he turned the computer off with a satisfied grunt and reassembled the telephone. The electronic mail message had confirmed that the reservations for PlanetAir flight 11 from Gatwick to Orlando remained unchanged. Seats 3A and 3B were still reserved in the names of Mrs. C. and Miss E. Kent.

Harris methodically emptied the room of all signs of his presence, dispensing items into one of two cases: the medium sized, teal, hard sided suitcase from which he had withdrawn the computer and to which he now returned it; and a largish, soft sided, canvas carryall. A third bag was on the bed: a blue, zippered, roughly cylindrical sports bag displaying prominently the name and logo of a manufacturer of sports shoes. This bag he did not touch.

When he had finished, he glanced around for stray items, grunted with satisfaction, then hefted the three bags and left the room.

___________________________

Paul Kent looked first at the pile of suitcases in the hallway, and then at his wife. He smiled encouragingly. Then, deciding that she deserved more than a smile, he bent towards her and they kissed.

“Thank you for last night,” he said in a whisper.

“Nice to know we’re not too old. But I wish we’d gone to sleep earlier.”

“Never mind. You’ll manage.”

They separated, and Kent glanced up at the wall clock. “I’d better be going,” he said. The auction was scheduled to begin at ten, and he wanted to arrive early to be sure of getting a good seat.

“I suppose it is time. You’ll give us a call, though, won’t you, when you get back this evening?”

“Of course. It won’t be until pretty late, though. I thought I might as well make the most of a trip into town and do some Christmas shopping and maybe catch a show this evening.”

“OK. Well, I’ll switch the answering machine on if I can’t stay awake.”

Elizabeth entered the room carrying Mr. Bear by one ear. “Mummy, is it time to go yet?”

“Not for a few minutes. Say goodbye to Daddy. As soon as he’s gone, I’ll ring for a cab.”

“Goodbye, Daddy.”

Paul Kent knelt on one knee and hugged his daughter. “Now, you look after Mummy for me, won’t you?” he asked in a serious tone of voice.

“I will. And Mr. Bear promises to look after me.”

“I’m sure he’ll be a big help, Elizabeth. And remember that you and Mr. Bear have to do what Mummy tells you.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“I’ll be with you in a couple of days. Maybe we can go to Disney World early next week.”

“Do you think we’ll see Mickey again like last year?”

“Yes, dear, I’m sure he’ll be there. Bye-bye, darling.”

Kent stood up and exchanged a last kiss with his wife. “See you on Sunday.”

“Yes, dear. And don’t pay too much for that desk.”

“It shouldn’t cost more than £150,000, even if Henry Parminter is there. Which, of course, he will be. It’s the biggest collection to come on the market in the past three years. Henry would leave his death bed if he had to.”

“And you would leave your wife,” she said, feigning petulance.

Kent looked hurt. Then a smile twitched around the corners of his mouth.

“What’s so funny?” Catherine demanded. They both knew that she wasn’t angry, not really, but it was bending the rules of the game for her husband to laugh at her simulated anger.

“I was going to say that actually it’s my wife who’s leaving me. But I thought better of it.”

“Good thing too, you brute. It would serve you right if I did leave you after a comment like that. And watch yourself. If you don’t ring me tonight I might begin to get suspicious about what you’re up to.”

He kissed her a really, truly last kiss. And then one more. For the millionth time, he wondered what obscure providence had led him to a wife like Catherine.

“Goodbye, darling,” he said. “I’ll see you on Sunday.”

Two minutes later, Kent eased the Mercedes out the garage and down the drive. With one final wave and a mouthed “You’re beautiful and I love you,” he pulled out into the road and headed in the direction of the railway station.

___________________________

Carrying a beige overcoat that had seen better days, George Harris entered the International Departures Lounge of the South Terminal at Gatwick airport. The time was nine thirty.

He carried two pieces of luggage: the canvas carryall and the blue sports bag. The hard sided suitcase had disappeared into the Thames, its rapid disappearance abetted by the two holes that he had drilled in the case.

He looked around, surveying the lounge.

It was large, airy, strangely quiet and sparsely populated, amazingly so for the international departure lounge of a major airport. There was a quiet, calm dignity to the place; no one seemed in a hurry and people moved around with the minimum of fuss. There was a public address system, but it was used only for paging; boarding calls went unannounced, and were displayed instead on banks of television screens hanging from the ceiling.

Scattered around the carpeted floor were blocks of seats, perhaps a quarter of them empty. To Harris’s left was the duty free shop; far away to his right was a restaurant. Between where he stood and the restaurant, stairs led down to the rest rooms on the floor below.

He made his way to the men’s rest room, where he stepped into a stall and locked the door. Seating himself on the toilet, he opened the two bags.

One, the blue sports bag, was almost completely filled by a single large block of a solid blue-white foam, around which was packed a cushion of towels. In the folds of the towels was hidden a variety of ordinary household objects, designed to give the bag a completely ordinary appearance to the X-ray machines through which it had passed.

From the other bag he extracted an apparently unused canister of film.

Prising the lid off the canister, he revealed a small electronic circuit wedged firmly in place next to the short length of film that was glued to the inner surface of the canister and passed through the slit to the outside.

He fitted the canister to a small terminal attached to the block of foam in the sports bag. A high-pitched tone sounded, then, after three seconds, ceased: the connection was good.

He closed the bags, flushed the toilet and left the stall.

Upstairs, he selected a seat close to the point where passengers entered the room after passing through passport control.

With every appearance of weariness, he dropped heavily on to the seat, stuffing the sports bag under the chair and clutching the carryall to his chest. He leaned back and gazed vacantly toward passport control. Crossing his legs in front of him, he assumed a bored attitude of tired indifference.

He watched, and he waited.

Around him people passed by, taking no notice of the tired, disheveled traveler. He heard snatches of conversation in half a dozen languages, but tuned them all out. Nearly half an hour passed before he felt a sudden surge of adrenaline.

Momentarily, his eyes narrowed, but he gave no other outward sign that he recognized the mother and daughter as they entered the lounge. He glanced at his watch. It was just after ten o’clock. There was about an hour before boarding would begin for PlanetAir 11.

Mrs. Kent carried a large handbag over her left shoulder, and was holding the hand of her four year old daughter, who had a child’s backpack strapped to her back.

In the flesh, Mrs. Kent looked younger and much prettier than Harris had expected. She paused only a few steps away, looking around for a pair of empty seats.

She found what she was looking for and began moving towards them. Harris watched the pair carefully, moving in his seat to keep them in view.

They reached the empty seats and sat down. Mrs. Kent opened her daughter’s backpack, scrabbled around inside for a few seconds, then withdrew a large teddy bear and a coloring book and crayons, and gave them all to her daughter.

Harris gathered his things and ambled in the general direction of the Kents.

There were no empty seats near them. Harris stopped and leant nonchalantly against one of the columns that supported the ceiling, looking at the pair.

Elizabeth was absorbed in her coloring, the teddy bear on the seat beside her. Mrs. Kent was reading a paperback, oblivious to her surroundings.

Harris’s eyes drifted on: a tired, bored traveler passing the time until his flight was called.

Several minutes passed in this manner, until the occupant of the seat immediately behind Elizabeth glanced up at a television screen, made a face that clearly communicated relief, then collected his belongings hurriedly, and strode away from his seat.

Harris made for the empty seat. He sat down and shoved the blue sports bag under the chair, keeping a hold on the carryall. With his feet he pushed the sports bag backwards, farther and farther, until it straddled the space between his seat and young Elizabeth Kent’s.

Next to him, a pair of Australian businessmen were discussing cricket loudly. A burnous-clad Arab strode majestically past, a wife two steps behind, and, behind her, a quartet of swarthy boys in school uniform.

Harris’s gaze wandered desultorily around the lounge.

His eyes met those of a man seated perhaps ten feet away, in a seat on the opposite side of a wide aisle. For a moment the two stared at each other.

The man was perhaps in his early fifties, possibly older, an academic-looking gentleman wearing an outdated sports jacket and cuffed trousers. He had a long, lean face, etched with lines that in ten years would become crevasses. His hair was thin and white; the scalp showed pinkly through its sparse covering. Bushy gray eyebrows sat atop heavily framed spectacles. His face was red, with broken capillaries dotting the hollow cheeks. But despite the air of vague decrepitude, the man’s eyes were clear and steady; his expression held an intimation of unease, as if something about Harris disturbed him profoundly.

Harris looked away and counted to ten under his breath. Then he looked back at the man. There was a tightening in Harris’s stomach. Their eyes met again.

For a moment, Harris wondered if perhaps he had met the man somewhere, but he quickly rejected that idea. The frown on the man’s brow was one not of possible recognition, but rather one of ill-defined anxiety, as if he was puzzled and concerned about something he had seen Harris do.

Harris swallowed once, his mind racing, wondering if the man had watched him push the sports bag purposefully backward, almost underneath Elizabeth Kent’s seat.

He made an instant decision: there was nothing to be gained by waiting. Glancing at the closest television screen, he feigned an expression of harried relief, as if his flight had been called.

He arose quickly from his seat, clutching the carryall, and, without pausing, strode across the lounge towards a gate in the far corner. As he walked, his hand dipped into the right pocket of his overcoat. Inside was a small plastic box, wrapped entirely within a handkerchief. With his thumb he located the button in the middle of one surface. But he did not push it. Not yet.

Harris walked purposefully past several blocks of seats and then ducked behind a column. Edging around the curvature of the pillar, he looked back toward the seat he had vacated.

The man who had been watching him was only now turning his head back to face forwards; he must have been watching Harris until he had ducked behind the column.

For several seconds Harris watched, trying to convince himself that it was simply a false alarm, just a man whose eyes had settled on his own for no good reason and whose mind had been far away, considering other matters entirely. But no; after a few seconds, the man stood up and crossed the aisle. He leaned over the vacant chair behind the Kents and tapped Mrs. Kent on the shoulder. She turned, and the man spoke to her. Harris saw the man point to the chair that Harris had vacated, under which still rested the blue sports bag.

The man made an obvious motion for the Kents to leave their chairs. Harris was not too far away to see the sudden look of horror cross Mrs. Kent’s face. She grabbed her daughter and pulled her out of the chair, spilling the crayons and the book in which she had been coloring to the floor.

Harris ducked back behind the column. Taking a deep breath, he braced himself with his back against the pillar. He closed his eyes, then firmly pressed the button.

Sixty feet away, inside the blue sports bag that was tucked partway underneath the seat on which four-year-old Elizabeth Kent had been sitting, a relay moved a millimeter, closing a microswitch. A current began to flow.

The room seemed to heave with an enormous whump that was felt more than heard.

It was more a spasm than an explosion. The sudden overpressure was not enough to cause major structural damage, but it was certain to kill anyone unfortunate enough to be within a dozen feet of the sports bag.

Harris opened his eyes, exhaled and peered around the pillar. The Foamtex explosive had produced only a pale haze of smoke, already thinning into nothingness.

For perhaps another second there was a stunned silence. And then the screams began.

In the place where the Kents had been seated little was recognizable. Twisted metal and shards of plastic were strewn around the area, the closest about nine feet from the source of the blast. Within that radius there was nothing at all. Harris could see part of Mrs. Kent’s body, recognizable only by its clothes, thrown several feet to one side. It was several moments before he saw Elizabeth Kent, spread-eagled on the floor, either dead or unconscious, drenched in blood, her right leg severed above the knee.

Several people who had been near the blast were kneeling or crouching in pain, spouting blood. One of the Australian businessmen was standing, holding a severed arm. His companion was laid out, bloody and unmoving, on the floor.

For perhaps five more seconds, almost no one moved. Then everyone started running. Some ran straight towards where the explosion had been, others directly away from it. Everyone was either shouting or screaming.

Harris located a convenient trash can and gingerly lifted the plastic box, still wrapped in its handkerchief, out of his pocket. Holding the handkerchief over the receptacle, he let it open and the box fell out into the trash. It was the only evidence he intended to leave for the authorities.

He glanced at his watch. 10:31.

People were milling everywhere; the first men wearing uniforms ran into the lounge. A passenger pointed to where the blast had been, directing the men to the source of the explosion. Cries and screams still filled the air.

Harris walked toward a row of telephones located on the far side of the lounge, near the restaurant. Soon there would be long lines waiting to use the phones, but at the moment only one booth was occupied, by a young man excitedly gesticulating while he spoke in to the telephone. Harris entered the booth farthest away from the young man, lifted the receiver, and dialed 999.

“Emergency, which service do you want?” a neutral female voice asked almost before the phone had begun to ring.

“My name is Shamus O’Riley. I’m with the Irish Liberation Front. We just blew up part of Gatwick Airport.”

Harris left no time for comment or questions. He put the phone down and stepped back into the lounge. People were gathering at the far side of the lounge, clustering around the point where the explosion had been. Authoritative shouts demanding calm emanated from the crowd and were clearly audible even from this distance.

Already the first of the injured were being taken away. Two men were carrying the diminutive body of Elizabeth Kent between them, a uniformed man moving ahead of them, calling, “Make way! Make way!” The Australian who had been injured was being led away in the same direction. He kept looking back at his companion on the ground. Harris could see from the unnatural angle of the man’s head that he must have broken his neck. “John! John!” the Australian was shouting as he was led away, either unaware or unwilling to believe that his companion was dead.

Harris joined the knot of now-silent people clustering around the scene of the explosion, in the center of which a uniformed man was telling everyone to be calm and to remain where they were.

For a while, it seemed that everyone was going to be detained and forced to undergo interrogation by the police. But word reached the authorities that the ILF had admitted responsibility, and someone realized that the bomb could have been planted earlier in the day, maybe hours ago. The bomber might be on another continent by now. After an hour or so, the authorities decided there was no point in detaining anyone unnecessarily.

In the meantime George Harris descended to the men’s room, where he shaved, rearranged his hair, and exchanged the clothes he was wearing for the clean, casual and entirely respectable business clothes that had been in the carryall. No one gave him a second glance as he returned to the lounge and joined the throng of people milling at the end of the room awaiting the authorities’ decision.

Two hours after the explosion, PlanetAir flight 11, bound for Orlando, lifted off the runway. In seat 4A, George Harris closed his eyes and sighed deeply at the moment the airplane left the ground. In front of him, seats 3A and 3B, still reserved in the names of Mrs. C. and Miss E. Kent, were unoccupied.