Now that it was time to go Chase found he wanted to say more, but it was too late. Joy and sorrow mingled inside him. He said his goodbyes and in the middle of them Cheryl said, "Did he contact you, the guy from the American Press Association? I almost forgot."
"No, who was it?"
"Pat Bryant of the APA." Cheryl told him about the call and said, "I think he was going to try to contact you there, at JFK. But he hasn't?"
"Not so far." It didn't strike him as odd until he had hung up and emerged from the plastic bubble into the noisy throng once more. How did the APA know where to find him? No one knew of his movements from day to day, not even John Ware. He debated whether to call the APA to find out what was up and decided against it. Departure time was only an hour away. If the BBC wanted to talk to him they'd have to do it in London. He'd no intention of missing his flight, not for the director general himself.
The briefcase weighed heavily and after dodging and darting he just beat a man in a gray suit and Homburg to a vacant seat. He sank down with relief and five minutes later had drifted into a shallow, uneasy doze. It was like sleeping on the edge of a precipice, the constant threat of falling keeping mind and body in a state of tension. There was continual noise and movement all around, people getting up, sitting down, shuffling past. Dimly he was aware that the person on his left had departed, to be replaced almost in the same instant by someone whose shoulder was edging him nearer and nearer to the frightful drop. He resisted the pressure, knowing another six inches and he'd be gone. In his semidreaming state he was being pushed by a man with a shaven head wearing a Homburg hat and black robe. He was right on the edge now, on the very edge, about to fall over, and Christ, he was over, awful space and emptiness beneath him, falling, falling, falling . . .
Chase tightened and jerked upright, eyes blinking wide, finding himself next to a large, fat woman who overflowed her space and was encroaching on his.
"Trying to get forty winks, huh?" she nodded companionably, her mouth a red-lipped wound supported by several chins.
"Trying and failing." Chase covered a yawn and arched back, hoping to ease the tension in his spine. Opposite him, six feet away, a man wearing a shiny black hat was hunched over, fiddling with a camera in his lap, or rather a camera case.
Chase watched because he had nothing better to do, noticing the heavy gold jewelry on the man's thick fingers and hairy wrists. Rings, watch, bracelet. His gaze drifted to the rolling tide of faces in the aisle and he sat up straight, not noticing the man opposite making a final adjustment to his camera.
"Good God, I don't believe it."
"Beg pardon?" said the fat woman, craning her chins toward him.
Chase grabbed his briefcase and stepped over legs, eyes fixed on the unmistakable apparition of Boris Stanovnik.
His chosen method had been primed and fitted inside the black leather glove when he saw his man move to the newsstand. There Chase lingered, giving Sturges time to make his approach circuitously, unseen. No need to hurry. It was against his instinct anyway. Proceed slowly and calmly and methodically, working out each step in advance.
The black glove hung innocently at his side, the fingers pointing downward. Inside, his finger was curled around the semicircular metal ring, his thumb touching the plunger. The syringe contained systolic fluid. One swift jab and it would infiltrate the arterial system, speeding up the rhythm of the heart until it overloaded and the victim underwent cardiac arrest. The outward signs and the internal symptoms were consistent with a massive coronary.
He engineered his position while browsing through the magazines; slightly behind his man, out of his eyesight, feeling good, unemotional, breathing easy, doing his job.
Two paces away, his hand tensing on the syringe, thumb taut, and Chase turned and almost blundered into him. Taken by surprise, he didn't have time to react. Then Chase was gone, not even looking at him, muttering an apology.
There was nothing to do but wait. Chase talked on the phone, safe inside the plastic bubble, impossible to get near. So wait.
When Chase had finished on the phone Sturges was still at the newsstand, head bowed as though reading titles, eyes peering from under the brim of his soft black hat. The eyes followed Chase and saw him take a seat. It was the only one vacant; he was surrounded on all sides, so off came the glove and the hypodermic and into the pouch inside the attache case.
If not close, then at a distance. The camera.
More waiting and watching while Sturges readied himself to claim the first empty seat in a suitable position. When it came he strode across and boldly sat down, directly facing his man. Six, seven feet away. And Chase with his eyes closed, dozing. Perfect.
