The Wreckage

13

Chalcott is sitting in a business-class seat on the tarmac at JFK, sipping a glass of complimentary champagne. He’s not a happy flyer; hates the rigmarole of security screening, boarding queues and pre-flight safety demonstrations. The only benefit of flying long haul is being forty thousand feet above sea level and out of communication.

Not yet. His mobile is vibrating. London.

“Talk quickly,” he tells Sobel.

“They found North’s car.”

“What about North?”

“Traces of blood but no body.”

“You think he’s dead?”

“We have to consider the possibility.”

Chalcott scoops peanuts into his fist and inhales them between sentences. A stewardess leans over him.

“Excuse me, sir, but all electronic devices must be turned off for take-off.”

Chalcott waves her away. “What about Terracini?”

“He’s being monitored.”

“Has anything else changed?”

“We’re still looking for the girl.”

“Are you a religious man, Brendan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Maybe you should say a prayer.”

He hangs up. Turns off his phone. Closes his eyes. In seven hours he’ll be in London and he can sort out this mess. So far he’s given his superiors a minimalist rendering of the situation. Two lessons he’s learned from twenty years with the Agency-refuse to recognize anything is amiss and keep your answers short.

Ibrahim is cleaning up. He’s hired himself an assassin, but this hasn’t changed the game. Every side has men who kill for a cause, but it’s easier dealing with a hired gun than a teenager with a hard-on for heavenly virgins and a vest packed full of explosives.

Money or God-some motives are easier to understand.