Two vital elements remained unresolved: location and recognition. Sturges had to find his man and know for certain it was Chase. Having seen him once before, in Geneva eight years ago, was a bonus; most times he had to work from photographs. And according to Madden, Chase had altered very little--a slight thickening of the waist perhaps, but still the straight black sweep of hair across his forehead, the thick dark eyebrows.
A moving walkway took him around the rim of a large transparent dome and through a maze of plastic tunnels. Below him the main concourse was thronged with people, among them the usual drug cases, mugging trios, and beggars. No one carried hand luggage or a shoulder bag that wasn't chained to his person. Sturges didn't trouble because his size was an adequate deterrent.
As he stepped off into the transit lounge he checked out the suspended circular display that flashed up the arrivals and departures.
FLIGHT D--04 9 : LONDON : 1915
It was listed on schedule. Sturges allowed himself a fleeting smile, and a glint of gold shone faintly in the broad heavy features. His preparation and timing were perfect. He had two full hours. As he'd assured Gelstrom, plenty of time.
He strolled past the rows of crowded seats, just another passenger waiting for his flight, eyes flicking left and right, comparing each male face with the picture in his head. Down the left-hand aisle past the rest rooms and back up the center aisle. A number of men with black hair, about the right age, mid-thirties, but none fitted the picture. Down the right-hand aisle this time, eyes never still, returning up the center aisle again.
Sturges paused at his starting point. It had taken him less than ten minutes to check out the transit lounge and he had not seen his man.
Okay--shops, newsstand, restaurant, coffee shop. He walked around the perimeter of the lounge, spending a few moments to glance into each of the little shops and booths selling perfume, souvenirs, leather goods, flowers. This took seven minutes and still nothing.
At the glass door to the coffee shop he peeked in and then moved closer to the tiled wall. From here he had a clear view through the window except for those tables next to the near wall. There was a man with black hair in one of the rear booths, his back to the door so that Sturges couldn't see his face. The man wore glasses and was reading what looked from here to be a typed report. Did Chase wear glasses? Madden hadn't said so, though maybe he did for reading.
Sturges watched him steadily for two minutes and then went in. He moved past the counter and chose a table near the front, facing away from the man in the booth. The coffee shop was busy, too busy, people coming and going all the time. He didn't like the setup.
Placing the attache case under the table he picked up the plastic menu card and was in the act of taking a casual look over his right shoulder when the waitress came along and stood, one hip thrust out, and asked for his order. Sturges told her coffee, black, and went back to studying the menu.
Again he looked around, affecting that vacant scrutiny that people have in public places, and this time got a good look at the man. He turned back and slid the menu between the relish and the ketchup. Fucking Japanese.
Where the hell was he?
Sturges breathed out slowly and looked at his gold Rolex. Nineteen minutes gone and he hadn't located his man. Had Chase altered his plans? Decided to stay overnight in Manhattan? Clearly he wasn't--
"Keep the change," he heard someone say through the hubbub, and the English accent shrieked in his head like a fire alarm. The man was at the cash register tucking a wallet into his inside pocket. He must have been at one of the tables next to the wall. Black sweeping hair over his eyes. Right age. And what's more, Sturges remembered him.
Chase stood aside to let someone enter and went out.
Sturges stood up and held out a dollar bill to the waitress bringing his coffee and pushed past her, camera swinging against his chest, attache case in his dark hairy fist, and reached the glass door before it had swung shut on its chrome-plated hinges.
Getting to see the president at such short notice wasn't easy, as Lucas had known all along.
At first he'd tried the proper channels, following protocol, and been told it would take three weeks minimum. When he insisted that it was a matter of extreme urgency he was asked to submit the reason for requesting a personal interview in writing, which was of course out of the question.
In the end he had pleaded, cajoled, and finally persuaded two senior White House officials and the president's appointments secretary that it was imperative he speak to the president at once, if only for ten minutes.
"Is that all?" one of the officials remarked dryly over the phone. "Think yourself damn lucky if you get five!"
