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Hours. He’d missed her by mere hours.
The landlord hadn’t let him into the flat, of course; Swain’d had to sneak in, then quietly spring the lock on Lily’s flat. The landlord had obligingly told him which flat it was, saving Swain from having to break in during the night and look at the records, which would have wasted time.
As it was, this was wasted time anyway. She wasn’t here, and she wasn’t coming back.
There was a bowl of fruit on the table. He selected an apple, polished it on his shirt, and bit into it. Damn, he was hungry, and if she’d wanted the apple, she’d have taken it with her. Curious, he opened the icebox to see what else she had in the way of food, and closed the door again in disappointment. Chick food: fruit, some fresh produce, and what was either cottage cheese or yogurt that was way too old. Why didn’t women who lived alone ever have real food around? He’d kill for a pizza, loaded with pepperoni. Or a grilled steak, with a huge baked potato dripping with butter and sour cream. Now, that was food.
While he pondered what his next step should be in locating his quarry, he ate another apple.
According to her file, Lily was very comfortable in France and spoke the language like a native. She supposedly had a talent for accents, too. She had spent some time in Italy and traveled all over the civilized world, but when she settled down for a rest, it was in either France or Great Britain, where she felt most at home. Logic would say she had got the hell out of Dodge, meaning she was no longer in France. That left Great Britain as the most likely place to start looking.
Of course, since she was very good at her job, she might have considered the same logic and gone someplace else entirely, such as Japan. He grimaced. He hated it when he outthought himself. Well, he might as well play it by the numbers and start with the most likely place first; even a blind hog sometimes found an acorn.
There were three common ways to cross the Channel: ferry, train, and airplane. He picked air, because it was the fastest, and she’d be wanting to put some space between her and the Nervi organization. London wasn’t the only G.B. destination she could have chosen, of course, but it was the closest, and she’d want to give any pursuers the shortest length of time possible in which to organize an interception. Information could be relayed instantly, but moving human beings around still took time. That made London the logical destination, which left him with two major airports to cover, Heathrow and Gatwick. He opted for Heathrow first, because it was the busiest and most crowded.
He took a seat in the cozy little parlor—no recliners, damn it—and pulled out his trusty secure cell phone. After punching in a long series of numbers, he pressed the send button and waited to connect. A brisk British voice said, “Murray here.”
“Swain. I need some info. A woman named Denise Morel may or may not have—”
“This is certainly a coincidence.”
Adrenaline surged through Swain, the kick felt by a hunter who has suddenly found the trail he’d been seeking. “Someone else has asked about her?”
“Rodrigo Nervi himself. We were told to follow her when she deplaned. I put two men on it; they tailed her as far as the first public facility. She went in, and never came out. She didn’t go through Customs, and I show no record of her
taking another flight out. She’s a very resourceful woman.”
“More than you know,” Swain said. “You told Nervi all of this?”
“Yes. It’s my standing order to cooperate with him—up to a point. He didn’t ask to have her killed, just followed.”
But the fact that she had disappeared so thoroughly would have tipped Nervi off to her capabilities, which in turn would put her in an entirely new light. By now Nervi would have discovered there was no Denise Morel of this particular description, and worked out for himself that she was almost certainly the person who had killed his father. The heat on Lily had just been turned up a couple of thousand degrees.
How had she slipped away in Heathrow? A secure-access door? First she would have had to slip out of the restroom undetected, and that meant a disguise. A clever woman like Lily would have figured out how to do that, been prepared for it. And she would have had an alternate identification to use, too.
“A disguise,” he said.
“I thought the same, though I didn’t say so to Mr. Nervi. He’s a smart man, so he’ll eventually think of it, even though airport security isn’t his milieu. Then he’ll want me to look at all the film.”
“Have you?” If the answer wasn’t yes, then Murray wasn’t as sharp as he used to be.
“Immediately after my men failed to spot her when she left the facility. I can’t fault them, however, because I’ve been over the film twice and I haven’t spotted her yet, either.”
“I’ll be there on the next available flight.”
Because of travel time to the airport, the availability of seats, et cetera, that was some six hours later. Swain passed the time by catching a nap, but he was aware that every passing minute was to Lily’s advantage. She knew how they worked, what their resources were; she’d be building herself a tidy little hidey-hole, adding more and more layers to her camouflage. The delay was also giving her time to procure funds from some unknown bank account that he assumed she had. If he’d been in her line of work, he sure as hell would have had several numbered accounts. As it happened, he himself had a little liquid security deposited offshore. You just never knew when something like that might come in handy. And if it never needed to be used, well, it would make retirement a trifle more comfortable. He was all for a comfortable retirement.
As promised, Charles Murray was waiting at the gate when Swain finally arrived at Heathrow. Murray was of medium height, trim, with short iron-gray hair and hazel eyes. His bearing said he was ex-military; his demeanor was always calm and capable. He’d been unofficially on Nervi’s payroll for seven years, and on the government’s for a lot longer than that. Over the years Swain had occasionally dealt with Murray, enough so that they were fairly informal with each other. That is, Swain was informal; Murray was a Brit.
“This way,” said Murray after a brief handshake.
“How are the wife and kids?” Swain asked, talking to Murray’s back as he ambled along in the British wake.
“Victoria is beautiful, as always. The children are teenagers.”
“Enough said.”
“Quite. And you?”
