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“What sort of accent did she have?” Stone asked.
“BBC English.”
“And what language did she wish to be hired to translate?”
“Arabic and Urdu.”
“Do you remember the name she used?”
“Khan,” Mrs. Meyers-Selby replied, and spelled it. “I don’t remember a first name.”
“How was she dressed?”
“Like a British office worker—dark skirt, Liberty print blouse, and gray cardigan. She had a Burberry raincoat, looked like a knockoff. She left it in my office when she went to the ladies’.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Meyers-Selby,” Stone said. “I hope you have a speedy recovery.”
“I could go back to work now, if anybody could stand to look at me,” she replied, sounding sad for the first time.
Harry thanked her again, and they made their exit. “I want that raincoat,” he said, taking out a cell phone.
—
Jasmine sat in the back of the van and waited while Habib took some packages from it and handed them to a uniformed pilot at the cargo door of a medium-sized jet airplane. When he had finished, he got a plastic shopping bag from his car and brought it to her. “Inside is a kind of money vest. I have removed your funds from the deposit box in the London bank, changed them into more convenient currency, and placed the notes in the vest which, worn under your clothes, will give you the appearance of having gained weight.
“You will be met at the airport and driv
en to a safe house, changing cars along the way. Our people there have already located some possible targets for you to consider in the city, and we would like an attack as soon as possible. Any questions?”
“Yes. Why am I being moved?”
“Jasmine, you are too hot to remain in Britain. Everybody is searching for you.”
“Oh, all right.”
He looked around, then waved her out of the van, up the aluminum ladder, and into the airplane, tossing in her roller suitcase behind her. Habib unhooked the ladder and tossed it into the airplane, then, with a wave, closed the door.
“This way,” said the pilot, who was a young, skinny East Asian in black trousers, white shirt with epaulets, and a black, gold-trimmed hat. He led her forward to the cockpit and settled her into a seat immediately behind and between the pilot’s and copilot’s seats. Another young man in uniform was in the left seat, running through a checklist. Shortly, he started one engine, then the other. The copilot handed Jasmine a headset.
“You can listen if you want to. The chat with the controllers gets boring, but we’ll have some music later.” He handed her two folded newspapers. “Here’s the Times and the Sun, depending on your tastes. We already have our clearance, and if there’s no delay for takeoff we should be landing in Reykjavik in about two and a half hours.”
The airplane started to taxi, and Jasmine strapped herself in and opened the Times. Big headlines and photographs of the bombing scene. She involuntarily smiled.
The copilot looked at her curiously, then turned around.
She put on her headset. “Southampton Tower, AeroCargo 3 ready to taxi to the active runway.”
“AeroCargo 3, Southampton Tower, taxi to runway 18 without delay. We’ve got light aircraft traffic on a ten-mile final, so we can squeeze you in ahead of him.”
“Roger, Southampton Tower, taxiing to 18, no delay.”
Two minutes later they were over the English Channel, making a right turn to the north.
The copilot turned and looked at her. “You should have more than two hours to make your flight out of Reykjavik,” he said, “and the weather forecast is for a smooth flight.”
“Thank you,” Jasmine said, and returned to her newspaper. Later in the flight, she undressed and donned the money vest.
Harry Tate dropped Stone off at the embassy, then drove away. Stone flashed his new ID at the Marine guards, and, after carefully examining it, they escorted him to the elevator and pressed the floor button for him.
