Dead And Buried

Eighty

The ability to sleep on board aircraft had eluded Skinner all his life. He had envied Shannon as she dozed in the next seat, while he fidgeted, locked into the in-flight entertainment system as a means of passing the time, but ultimately switching off a movie that even James Andrew would have found puerile.

Nonetheless the flight had allowed him valuable thinking time, away from the distractions of the previous week. The one thing from which he could not escape was the worry over his daughter’s telephone persecutor, but he took comfort in the fact that she was not too far from the ferocious protection of McGuire and McIlhenney, and also in her ability to handle herself in most situations.

He had forced her situation to one side and thought about his own. There was no mystery any more: Piers Frame’s answer to his question had simply confirmed what he had known already. In London nobody was under threat, other than those who deserved to be.

In the US the situation was slightly different: people in a corner were unpredictable, often dangerously so, and especially if they saw a way out. He looked at Shannon again, and reached a decision.

The flight had touched down just before midday at Dulles International. The diplomatic passports that had exempted them from security at Heathrow worked their magic again at US Immigration. He had just finished calling Alex when they were approached by a bright-eyed young man in a Brooks Brothers suit that was pure Ivy League, made, almost certainly, in the Far East. ‘My name’s Ryan,’ he announced. ‘I’m from the embassy.’

The twenty-five-mile drive from the airport into the capital proved to be a guided tour, but Skinner was happy to let their escort do the talking, and he in turn was sufficiently experienced not to ask any questions. When they reached 3100 Massachusetts Avenue, they were handed over to another sharp suit. From the breadth of the shoulders that it enclosed, the Scot guessed that the wearer was not the cultural attaché.

‘I’m Lee Ferry,’ he told them, as he led them into a small office behind Reception, ‘head of security for the building.’

‘Has my package arrived?’ asked Skinner.

‘Yes.’ Ferry unlocked a desk drawer, removed it, and handed it over.

The DCC ripped off the brown-paper wrapping to reveal a box. He opened it and took out the pistol that he had found on board the Bulrush; it had been fitted with a significant addition. . a silencer. He ejected the magazine from the butt, checked its contents and replaced it with a satisfied nod. He was unaware that Shannon was staring at him.

‘You have a destination?’ the security chief asked.

‘Yes, and a route. All I need is a car.’

‘With diplomatic plates?’

‘Preferably.’

‘No problem. When do you want to leave?’

‘Right now.’

‘You don’t have time to meet the ambassador?’

Skinner smiled. ‘I doubt if he would want to meet me, Mr Ferry.’

‘Maybe not,’ the security chief conceded. ‘Sir, I’m not asking what you’re doing here, but if you wish, I’ll go with you.’

‘Thanks, but no. I’m going alone.’ He turned to his companion. ‘I’m afraid I mean that, Inspector. You’ve done a fine job, and I’m sorry to cut you out at the end of the road, but there are a few ways this could turn out and none of them are pretty. I need total freedom of action and don’t ask what I mean. We’re booked into the Jefferson Hotel; check in, do some sightseeing while there’s daylight left, and I’ll see you when I get back.’

She frowned. ‘You do mean “when”, boss, don’t you, not “if”?’

‘Of course I do. Don’t read too much into the gun: it’s a precaution, that’s all. Lee, where’s the car?’

‘Out back, sir.’ Ferry hesitated. ‘Can I ask you one thing?’

‘Sure, but I don’t promise to answer.’

‘Does anyone in this city have any knowledge of what you’re doing here?’

‘Yes. The National Security adviser has; she may have told the President, or she may not. That’s her call. In her shoes, I wouldn’t. Now get me on the road, please.’