Quiller's Run

8 Flight 306

Will Mr Martin Jordan please pick up the nearest paging phone?' I didn't move.

It could only be Chen.

If I took that flight, I wouldn't want you to tell anyone.

I don't want your death on my hands.

So it could only be Chen because only Chen know I was here, except for the airline staff, and they wouldn't have me paged: they'd phone the gate desk. It could only be Chen, but the sweat had started running because I'd spent the last two hours securing the whole of the environment here – the check-in counters and the telephones and the snack bar and the gate area – because Gate 10 could be my way out of continuous and hazardous exposure above ground and my way into the safety of clandestine operation, and I had to go through it clean.

All I could do now was use the soft-eyes technique and let the immediate scene come into the brain unfocused and ask the memory to alert me to any change. There aren't many situations worse than finding yourself ten paces away from the break-off point between overt and clandestine and then have your cover name called out over a public address system. I took my time, half a minute, but couldn't pick up any. significant change in the movement around me: no one turned on their heel within seconds of the PA call; no one had started to move towards me; no one was going to a telephone.

So I moved now because if I didn't they'd repeat the call and I didn't want that. I picked up the phone.

'Yes?'

'Is that Mr Jordan?'

Ice along the nerves. It wasn't Chen. It was a woman's voice. And that was impossible. Correction: not impossible, no.

He'd blown me.

'Please, is that Mr Jordan?'

A young woman's voice; Asiatic, Japanese inflection.

I was still watching, but with hard eyes now, focusing, remembering. They were my friends here in this small comfortable area, my good friends. The three Australians over there were booked to play in Bangkok in the Royal Thai Tennis Championships; one of them had just had a row with his wife and wished he'd had time to make it up before he flew: he didn't like flying. The party of four people near the snack bar were from Milwaukee; they'd done Hong Kong and they'd done Tokyo and now they were going to do Bangkok, including the Phrakaeo Wat and the Royal Palace and the Reclining Buddha, and Elmer had said if they didn't take home a half-ton of souvenirs he'd never let them set foot in the Kawani's Club again. The two nuns by the gate were almost enveloping the teenage French girl in their black habits when I'd passed close to them twenty minutes ago; Maman had died at a hospital in Singapore yesterday and they were escorting her to Bangkok, where Papa was waiting for her; the body had been flown out last night.

I knew a great deal about the rest of the passengers gathered here in the small comfortable area at Gate 10, enough to know that they were my friends, my good friends, if only because none of them was here to trap me into a shut-ended situation and set me up for the kill. The only one here who wasn't my friend was the voice on the paging phone.

'It is very urgent, please. Are you Mr Jordan?'

I didn't answer. I needed time. If I said no, or just hung up, I wouldn't learn anything, and what I might learn could save me. If I said yes they'd get here as fast as they could and they might not be far away.

'We are now boarding passengers on Flight 306 for Bangkok. Will passengers for Bangkok please board at Gate 10.'

Things I didn't understand. The woman was phoning because she believed, they believed, I was here. Then why didn't they come here for me physically? Because they weren't certain, or there hadn't been time. Time since when? Since Chen had blown me. As far as liaison goes, you'll have to pick a few people yourself, if you can find anyone you can trust.

Chen. Katie McCorkadale.

But I'd known yesterday the risk I was taking when I'd asked Chen to keep total security on my taking this flight, and here was the moment of truth. There wasn't a lot of choice. If I dopped the phone and got out of the airport I might not be in time before they came in, and I wouldn't learn anything, anything this soft Asiatic voice on the telephone might tell me. If I stayed here and said yes, this is Mr Jordan, I could be doing precisely what they wanted me to do: let her keep on talking to give them time to close in.

But this was a public place.

'It is very urgent, please. Are you Mr Jordan?''

This was a public place and there wouldn't be anything they could do until I tried to get clear at the periphery and there was a chance, a thin chance.

'Yes.'

There was an echo, but not on the line, in the psyche.

'Mr Martin Jordan?'

'Yes.'

I began watching the walkway area, where they would have to come.

' Will passengers on Flight 306 please board at Gate 10. We are boarding now for Bangkok?I saw Lafarge going through with his two bodyguards. I'd seen them when they'd come into the gate area: Lafarge, dark, elegant, his initials on his pigskin briefcase, the case chained to his left wrist; his guards, unobtrusive, shut-faced, tough, trained. Others followed: the two nuns with the little girl; the Americans.

I watched the walkway, not taking my eyes away for an instant. They would not be my friends, when they came.

'Mr Jordan, you must not board that plane.'

A man came running, a man in a track-suit with a flight bag, running towards me along the walkway, and I felt my nerves set, ready for preservation.

'Mr Jordan, do you understand? You must not take Flight 306.'

Running hard but not towards me now, veering for the group at the gate – 'Hey, Charlie, tell 'em to wait? Or they'll start the tennis match without you, my son.

So I mustn't take this flight. Why not, you little bitch? Sweat running.

'All passengers must now board Flight 306 for Bangkok at Gate 10. We are leaving in five minutes'

It tallied with the figures on the departure screen.

'Mr Jordan.' She didn't sound impatient. She sounded concerned, emphatic. 'Please tell me that you understand what I am saying. It is very urgent.'

Not very. I've got five minutes.

I asked her: 'Who are you?'

'It is not important, Mr Jordan. I have information that concerns your welfare. There will be an accident, do you understand?'

'What kind of accident?'

To the plane. To Flight 306.'

'Then you'd better tell someone. The pilot might be interested.'

The timing was becoming critical, and I began watching the walkway half the time and the departure gate half the time. I didn't know if I could learn anything more from the soft, urgent little voice on the line, or whether this was all: that someone – Shoda? — was trying to stop me boarding the flight for Bangkok. The time gap was narrowing quite fast now and the best way I could use it would be to stay here on the line in the hope of learning something more, and wait until the girl at the gate began closing it – then get there, get on the plane. If anyone came along the walkway who looked dangerous I could go through the gate anyway and they wouldn't be able to follow: if they came here for me at all they'd be in a hurry, getting here while the woman kept me on the line.

'This is the final call for passengers on Flight 306 for Bangkok.'

Two more people went through and the girl looked around the gate area for stragglers, checking her passenger list and finding one missing. There was nothing she could do about it. All she could see was a man using a paging phone.

'Are you still there, Mr Jordan?'

'Yes. What is the source of your information?'

'It is reliable. I am your friend, Mr Jordan. Please listen to me. There will be no survivors on Flight 306. You must not take it.'

'All right, I'll go and warn the crew.'

'They would not believe you.'

'Any more than I believe you.'

For the first time her voice had a note of impatience, the hint of a sigh. Not impatience, exactly. Resignation. 'If you wish to live, Mr Jordan, you must not take the plane. That is all I can do for you.'

Maybe if I told the girl at the gate I was officially working for the Thai government and showed the laissez-passer that Prince Kityakara had given me she'd at least tell the captain, but I still had no source to offer except a voice on a telephone.

'What kind of accident will it be? Is there a bomb on board?' If I could give them any details they might listen.

'I must go now, Mr Jordan. I am sorry. There will be no survivors?

The girl at the gate was giving herself a manicure, one pantyhosed leg crooked, her head tilted in concentration.

'I am going now,' the voice on the line told me.

There was something getting through to me but I didn't know what it was; it was simply a feeling. There wasn't time to work out the dozen or so explanations for this call on the paging phone. A decision had to be made and it had to be made now and there was absolutely no reason to think that this wasn't a crude last-minute attempt to keep me here in Singapore and on treacherous open ground instead of going to the gate and apologizing to the girl and slipping through to the safety of clandestine operations, but I listened to the voice – not hers, not the voice on the line, but the one in my head, in the primitive brain stem, the seat of intuition.

'I'm taking the flight,' I said, on the principle that if you change direction you must cover your tracks. Then I put the phone down and went over to the gate and showed my Thai Government credentials and told the girl that I'd learned from an unidentifiable source that Flight 306 to Bangkok was compromised.

She phoned the agent at the other end of the runnel and I was put on to the captain direct as I watched the starboard wing moving slowly past the window; the 727 was backing under tow and over the phone I could catch the co-pilot going through the routine checks with the tower. The captain asked me the expected questions and I hadn't got any answers. I told him that to satisfy myself I wanted him to know that an unidentified woman's voice on a paging-phone had told me that his aircraft would 'have an accident'.

Two of the airline's officials came along to the gate and talked to me but there wasn't anything I could add and they finally told me that the security checks at this airport were the most sophisticated in the world and that I'd probably been the victim of a hoax. My name was noted and I was thanked for my concern.

Eleven minutes later I watched Flight 306 turn heavily at the end of the taxiing road and line up with the runway and wait for the green and then gun up and start rolling. It was airborne at 10:17, on schedule.

It was then that I knew that because of touchy nerves I'd let Shoda set me up, and that my chances of seeing nightfall would have been infinitely greater on Flight 306 than here on the ground in Singapore where she knew how to find me.

She swung round on the staircase.

'Martin?

Framed by the light from a high window, her hair was still moving, her lips parted, her eyes wide, shadowed.

I said hello.

She came down slowly, not looking away from me, one foot faltering in its high-heeled sandal, her thin hand sliding down the banister-rail as if she were feeling her way. When she came down the last step she was still watching me, mesmerised; then she just look a pace and leaned against me with her head on my shoulder and stayed perfectly still. In a whisper, 'Oh, thank God?

I held her until in a minute she straightened up; her eyes were wet and she lifted a cupped hand, tilting her head, 'Oh bugger, can you help me? Bloody contacts, they always float loose when I cry.'

We found it in the palm of her hand and she got it back deftly on the tip of her finger, and I wondered how much practice she'd had, how often she'd cried, because of Stephen.

She looked at me steadily again. 'Why weren't you on board?'

I didn't answer. There was a lot to work out.

'You do know it crashed, I suppose?'

'Yes.'

It had been on the radio an hour ago. No survivors.

'My God, it's a miracle. I mean' – she brushed the air helplessly – 'I was sitting there in my office today for about half an hour – for exactly half an hour, because I remember looking at the clock, sitting there knowing you were dead.'

I didn't know if the timing was accurate, because I didn't know when she'd heard the news of the crash. But I wanted to.

'When did you hear about it?'

'About an hour ago. They said you'd phoned -'

'No. When did you hear it had crashed?'

She looked confused. 'About – I'm not sure – soon after noon, I think.'

'And when did you hear I was still alive?'

'I told you – an hour ago. Why?'

'And how did you know that?'

She was watching me with her eyes narrowing. 'They phoned me. The people here.'

One of the staff came down the stairs, a Thai girl, loaded with files, dropping a pencil. I picked it up.

'Thank you. Are you being helped?'

'Yes,' Katie said. Tip from the British High Commission.'

When the girl had gone she said, 'There's a little office here where we can talk.'

'No, let's go up there,' I told her. There was a gallery on the floor above, overlooking the entrance and the staircase. Rooms, even small rooms, in embassies – even the embassies on friendly territory – are notorious for being bugged. We went up the stairs together.

Her timing was probably accurate, then, because as soon as I'd heard the news of the crash I'd phoned the Thai Embassy, because Lafarge was dead and my access was cut off, but there was a chance I could rescue just a thread.

'Why did the people here phone you?' I asked her.

She looked surprised. 'Because you were on the passenger list.'

There were windows along the gallery, facing the buildings on the other side of the street. The strong afternoon light streamed in, throwing thick shadows across the carpeting, glowing on some crimson leather-bound books. I sat clear of the window.

'How did you know I was on the passenger list?'

She pulled her soft briefcase closer to her on her lap, hesitating before she spoke, but not because she didn't know what to say, I sensed, but half-deciding not to answer at all. 'Whenever there's a transport accident,' she said deliberately, 'we always check on the passengers, in case there's a British national involved, so that we can help relatives. I think we do quite a good job, at the High Commission, looking after our people.'

It was very quiet here, and motes of dust floated in the sunshine; there were the distant sounds of a telephone in someone's office; Thai voices, muted; quick footsteps across marble. I supposed most people were at lunch at this hour.

'Why did this embassy call the High Commission to say I wasn't on Flight 306?'

She said carefully, 'They're friendly to us. Thailand is an ally of the West.' Her eyes were still narrowed, and I didn't think it was anything to do with the contact lenses.

'How did they know I hadn't gone on board?'

I knew, but I wanted to know if she did.

'They said you'd phoned them, to -'

'When?'

'A few minutes after the news came on the radio.'

'Did they tell you why I phoned them?'

'They said you were going to be here.'

'Who spoke to you on the phone?'

'I don't know. Or I'd tell you. It's odd,' she said, looking away, 'it's the first time someone hasn't trusted me. It makes me feel rather ,.. sordid.'

I realised I was aware of totally irrelevant things: the soft arch of her neck as she sat with her head down, the sharp outline of her nipples under the tan cotton shirt, her stillness.

'How long,' I asked her, 'have you known Chen?'

She looked up. 'Who?'

'Johnny Chen.'

'Oh. I don't know. I think about three years. Three or four years. Why? Didn't you find him helpful?'

'Not terribly. He suggested I should take Flight 306.'

There'd been footsteps and they were coming closer along the gallery. It was one of the staff, all white blouse and navy blue skirt and heavy glasses. 'Mr Jordan? Excuse me for disturbing you. It's Thai International Airlines on the telephone.'

Tell them I'll ring them back.'

'They said it was urgent, Mr Jordan.'

I'd been expecting a call. I said to Katie, 'D'you mind?'

'You want me to wait for you?'

'If you've the time.'

'All right.'

In the girl's office I told the man on the phone that I'd nothing to add; I'd done all I could to warn the captain, and all I knew about the voice on the paging-phone was that it had been a young Asian woman's, possibly Japanese.

'Did she mention what kind of accident might happen, Mr Jordan?'

'Would happen. Would. As I told the captain and your airport officers.'

'You must understand, Mr Jordan, that we have to do everything possible to trace that caller. We need to establish responsibility. This is a major disaster for us.'

So forth, and understandable. But it brought back the scalding onrush of guilt I'd felt when I'd listened to the radio in Al's bar, knowing then that I should have forced them to hold that plane and search it.

I told the man, yes, he could send someone round here to talk to me, but I might be leaving soon. No, I didn't know if I'd be available as a witness at the enquiry.

Katie was sitting just where I'd left her, but hunched on the cushioned window-seat, her long legs drawn up and her arms round her knees.

'Thank you for waiting.'

She didn't answer, glancing across my eyes, that was all.

'They don't know anything new,' I said, and took one of the Louis chairs.

'Johnny Chen,' she said in a moment, 'is a drug transporter. Not a drug-runner. There's a difference. But even so, I can imagine how you're feeling. It's the second time you've escaped death in a matter of days, so you can't trust anyone. I can vouch for Chen, but what's the good of my word, if you don't trust me?'

'It's nothing personal.'

She swung her head and looked at me. 'Isn't it? Martin, you can't be DI6, or we'd have been asked to help you. But what – ?' and she stopped right there, looking away again.

'Did Chen tell you I might take that flight?'

'No. Why should he?' She came unhunched and put her feet on the floor and sat hugging her briefcase, her shoulders forward, protecting herself. 'Martin, do you think they were trying to kill you again?'

'No. They wouldn't need to blow up a plane-load of people just to get at me. They'll come for me on the street.'

She leaned nearer me, prepared to meet my eyes again after the anger. 'I wish you weren't so bloody matter-of-fact about it. I also wish -' but she had the habit of leaving things unsaid.

Footsteps again, and I looked across at the staircase. This time it was Rattakul, the Thai security officer I'd been here to see.

'Mr. Jordan.' He stopped short, and I went over to him. 'Your request has been approved.'

'When can I leave?'

'Immediately.'

'Give me two minutes.'

'I'll be down there in the hall.'

I went back to Katie, and found her with the briefcase open. 'This came for you, Martin. From Cheltenham.'

Long manila envelope, thick; diplomatic bag frankings. The only thing I could imagine Pepperidge sending me was a breakdown on the Thai Security personnel, which was why he'd sent it to the High Commission instead of here.

He trusted her that much?

I took it from her. 'I'm not sure,' I said, 'when I'll be back.'

'Where are you -' She left it, looking down, zipping her briefcase shut.

I went down and found Rattakul waiting for me.