Dead And Buried

Eighty-two

The embassy car was a blue Chevrolet Corvette, with a six-litre engine: ‘In case you have to be somewhere else in a hurry,’ as Lee Ferry put it. It was equipped with a DVD-driven navigation system, rendering Skinner’s route map unnecessary. He switched it on, fed in his destination, and let it guide him out of the centre of the city and on to US Highway 50, heading east. He knew that the diplomatic plates made him virtually immune to speed cops, but he set the cruise control at only seventy-five, more or less the average speed on the Interstate road.

He had been travelling for just over forty-five minutes when the mighty Chesapeake Bay Bridge came into sight and with it a toll station. He cut his speed, chose a booth and rolled slowly towards it. He was almost there when a red Plymouth overtook him on the run-in and screeched to a halt. As it cut in front of him, he caught a glimpse of the driver’s face in profile, the most fleeting of glimpses, but it was enough for recognition. He was astonished, but only by the odds against his seeing that one face among so many.

He watched the car as it overshot the toll booth. For a moment Skinner thought that the driver would not stop, but he reversed back and thrust a bill out of the window at the attendant, who took it, checked it carefully, then handed over change. The driver snatched at it, so hastily that a note dropped to the ground, but instead of opening the door to pick it up, he floored the throttle and roared off.

As the Scot approached, the toll collector left his booth and picked up the discarded banknote. ‘Unbelievable,’ he said, as he climbed back on to his perch, ‘absolutely unbelievable. Guy’s in so much of hurry he almost didn’t pay, and then when he did he threw his money away. You can go through, buddy, he’s taken care of it for you.’

‘Thanks,’ said Skinner, ‘but let me tell you something. In this world, absolutely nothing is unbelievable: that’s something of which I’ve just been reminded.’

For a moment he thought of gunning the Corvette and pursuing the much slower Plymouth, but he decided against it. Instead, he blended in with the traffic and drove sedately over the enormous waterway crossing.

There was no rush: he knew where the driver was headed, and he knew more than that. He knew that he was expected as he drove steadily down the Interstate, smiling as it turned into country roads winding across flatlands taking him east, with the afternoon sun shining behind him, thinking, as he closed on his destination, of nothing but his mission, and hoping that his judgement had been sound.