The Assassin (33 page)

‘Here are the tickets, the noon flight passengers were boarded twenty minutes ago. I'm afraid you'll have to take our next available, which doesn't leave till five this afternoon.'

‘We must get there sooner than that,' Elizabeth said. ‘We'll take the next plane to Mexico City, whatever the line.'

How long could she wait without losing hope? An hour, two hours. She still had the address of his rooming house in her handbag; she could try to telephone. She opened the bag to make sure it was still there; she looked at it and put it away. Then she did what every woman does when she's waiting for a man. She remembered to look at her face. It was pale, and her mouth needed lipstick. In the circle of mirror, set in its tooled Van Cleef vanity case, she saw the figure of Peter Mathews standing on the perimeter of the crowd round the bookstall.

She painted her lips, and pressed them together to set the colour; she powdered her face with the little flat puff, and went through every natural motion. He stayed reflected in the glass until she closed it. When she turned a little he had disappeared.

‘There's a Braniff flight to Mexico City leaving in an hour. I can fix that for you … Is anything the matter, madam, aren't you feeling well?' The clerk was a pretty Mexican girl, with satiny skin and black grape eyes. She thought the American was going to pass out. ‘Would you like to sit down?'

‘No,' Elizabeth said. ‘No thank you. I'm quite all right.'

‘It leaves in an hour. The BN703, there are two first-class seats available.'

‘I'm sorry—I've changed my mind,' she said. It was Mathews; there wasn't any doubt. He had stayed in her mirror, watching her for as along as she was using it. He had never meant to let her go. He had lied, determined to get her to lead him to Keller. He had put his arms round her and lied, pretending to be sympathetic. She didn't feel angry; everything had reversed like a spinning wheel.

Before, she had searched every distant group of people advancing towards her in the hope of seeing Keller among them. Now, ice cold with fear, she swung round to make sure he wasn't walking into the trap Mathews had set for them both. She opened her bag again and screwed the paper giving his address into a tiny ball. She dropped it in the wastepaper bin. The moment of sick panic had passed. She was thinking with the fierce clarity of someone protecting the person they loved, and the power of that love gave her confidence. What happened to her didn't matter. Nothing mattered but Keller's safety. ‘I'm cancelling my ticket; I won't be travelling today,' she said to the clerk. ‘My friend will take the Mexico flight. His name is Teller.' She remembered the false name on his passport. ‘Could you give him a message please?' She dared not write; Mathews could be watching from any vantage point hidden from her. He mustn't see her leave any note.

‘I'm sorry—we're not supposed to take messages.'

‘Oh please,' Elizabeth said. ‘Please—its so important. Just tell him to go ahead. Tell him I'll join him in Cuernavaca as soon as I can. And give him my love.' The girl shrugged and then she smiled. ‘Okay. I'll tell him.'

Where she went Mathews would follow. As she turned to the left, to the back of the bookstall, she saw Keller come into view framed in a group of people with children and overnight bags. For a moment she faltered; she fought off the impulse to bring disaster upon them by forgetting about Mathews and rushing to him.

‘Give him my love,' he would hear that from the girl behind the airlines desk when he came to collect his ticket. And he would take the other flight to Mexico. He would be safe in Cuernavaca in her mother's house.

Peter Mathews slipped back into the crowd round the bookstall. He could see Elizabeth at the office, leaning across the counter. She was picking up the tickets; all he had to do now was find out which flight she was on and call through to have Leary order a search of the plane before take-off. He didn't even have to arrest the man when they made their rendezvous. He didn't have to do it, but he was going to; he was going to come up behind them both and take the bastard in himself. And while he was waiting, pretending to look at the magazines while he watched Elizabeth, he heard the newsflash of Jackson's assassination. He didn't lose his head. Danger had never panicked Mathews; he reacted with the stillness and caution of an alerted animal. He didn't disclose himself, or try to push deeper into the crowd to hear more. He stayed where he was, keeping watch upon the girl. He put his hand in his pocket and slipped the safety catch off his gun. Jackson had been killed, and it was confirmed that a member of Cardinal Regazzi's staff had also been murdered.

A woman standing near began to cry; she wailed into a handkerchief, and immediately others joined her. Someone was swearing, using the same obscenity over and over again.

King had succeeded in spite of everything. He had brought in his killer and let him loose. If Elizabeth Cameron hadn't lied to protect him, it could never had happened. But she had lied; she had loved the man enough to cheat and beg on his behalf, deluding herself that he was harmless, that everything was absolved by what she chose to describe as love. Mathews saw her making up her face, and a sick rage gushed up in him like bile; he could taste his anger, he could feel it, making him cold with sweat. Only a woman would have done it. Only a woman would have put her heart where her conscience was, and given it a fancy name. Elizabeth had not only helped kill two men, but she had also ruined Mathews' career. He had never realised it before, but his hatred of her at that moment reflected his basic dislike of the whole sex. Elizabeth had turned away from the desk; Mathews stepped back into the crowd, completely hidden from her. She was obviously worried; her face was drawn and anxious. He could see by the way she moved she was hurrying away from the ticket office as quickly as she had tried to get there. He went round the back of the bookstand. She had a wide area to cross to any exits, and a longer way to go towards the bars and restaurant at the other end. He would have time to get to the ticket desk and make sure where she was booked. Then he could catch up with her.

A queue was forming at the desk; several family groups with children were making a noise and there was a lot of excited talk in Spanish. Mathews pushed right to the head of them, his official card in his hand. He showed it to the pretty dark-eyed girl. She was dealing with a group of two adults, one baby and four children. ‘The woman you were just talking to—Miss Elizabeth Cameron—what flight is she booked on?'

The girl hesitated; the identity card was thrust at her.

‘One moment please.' She had forgotten the blonde woman; there were six seats in tourist and a baby cot to sort out, and the queue had grown up like a patch of mushrooms. ‘What name was it?'

‘Cameron.' Mathews could have taken her by the front of her well-filled blouse and shaken her silly. ‘Elizabeth Cameron. You were talking to her just a minute ago.'

‘Oh, that's right. But she's not booked on any flight, sir. She had a booking to Mexico, but she missed the flight and she cancelled.' Mathews swung round—Elizabeth was some distance off, walking fast towards the restaurant, or one of the bars. A minute more and he might lose sight of her. He didn't risk it. She had cancelled her ticket; that lead was blocked now. He didn't wait to hear anything else, and the clerk had just started to mention the other ticket, booked in a different name, when she found he had gone.

Keller walked towards the counter; he moved slowly, looking round him. Twice he bumped into people going the other way. He couldn't see Elizabeth anywhere.

He was late. Too late, perhaps. Perhaps she had given up and gone back home. Perhaps she had heard the news, which was coming through a transistor on the news stand, and walked out on him. He stood in the middle of the crowds, looking round him, left and right and back again to the airline office which was their rendezvous. He had promised her not to do anything; he had promised to come to the airport and begin their life together clean of murder. He had broken that promise. For the larger issue he had sacrificed her happiness and his own; he knew this, but he also knew that he couldn't have done anything different.

He went towards the ticket counter, caught up in a crowd of other passengers, shuffling forward with them, part of an anonymous queue.

There was a long hold-up, while a passenger argued over seat allocations; the noise peculiar to airports hummed all round Keller, who heard nothing, not even the angry whine of the inevitable spoilt child just ahead of him, whose mother refused to let go of his hand. He was watching for Elizabeth; once while he waited he saw a blonde head, bright as a sunflower, among a group of business men, but he turned away, seeing a different face coming towards him. He annoyed the people immediately behind him by turning round, searching for her from every angle. When he reached the desk he hadn't made up his mind what to do. He had only joined the queue of people to see if there was any message for him.

He faced the same girl as Elizabeth had done. He hesitated, not knowing how to ask.

‘Can I help you, sir?'

‘My name is Teller, is there anything for me.'

She looked down at a list, and then back at him. ‘There's a ticket for you, sir, on Braniff flight BN703 to Mexico City. There were two tickets for our flight booked in the name of Cameron, but you missed it, and the lady re-booked for you. She cancelled her own ticket.'

‘Where?' Keller said. ‘When did this happen?'

‘Oh, only about fifteen minutes or so—you must have just missed each other. She asked me to give you a message.'

So she had heard about Jackson and decided not to go with him. He looked down at the ticket lying front of him on the counter.

‘She said to tell you she'd follow as soon as she could, but you were to go ahead and wait. She asked me to give you her love.' The girl was smiling at him; he had looked really sick when he heard about the one ticket. A lot of people went to Mexico on honeymoon or to get married. ‘Here's your ticket,' she said. ‘And you'll have to hurry over to the Braniff lounge. Check your baggage over there, sir.'

Keller took the ticket from her. ‘Thank you,' he said. ‘I have no luggage.' He had missed Elizabeth by minutes. He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether even now he might find her, and to hell with the plane to Mexico. Her mother's house at Cuernavaca. He remembered what she had said to him in the room after they had made love: ‘We'll be safe there. It's tucked away below the gardens. She loved it so and she left it to me. We'll be happy there …'

She had left him the ticket and the message; she had sent her love. He wasn't just running from something; for the first time in his life he had a place to go, and this was his only chance to get there. Any moment all planes might be grounded, every airport in the States closed to prevent Jackson's killer escaping abroad. If he took that flight to Mexico he would be ahead of the United States police, and the sinister contacts of Mr King's organisation would have lost track of him. If he didn't take that plane he couldn't go back to look for Elizabeth; he'd be found by one or other of the forces looking for him if he stayed in New York. He passed the baggage counter and went through into the departure lounge. The flight was being called again, for the last time.

Elizabeth heard the announcement as she reached the bar at the other end of the building. She had almost run, knowing that Mathews must be following her; leading him as far away from Keller as she could. She went up to the bar, and looked at her watch. In a few minutes they would be going out to board. The flight left at one o'clock. It was twelve-forty exactly. She leaned against the counter, her sleeve in a circle of damp Scotch; a man on her right was looking at her, but the barman chose not to notice while he checked something at the till. He was feeling bad-tempered; he had little sympathy for the scared travellers, drugging their jumpy nerves before take-off. He thought the woman in the fur coat looked a bad risk to sit next to on any flight. It was the man on Elizabeth's right who spoke first.

‘Hear about the shooting?' he said.

‘No.' She turned towards him, suddenly finding movement difficult. She could feel herself beginning to shake. ‘What shooting.'

‘Jackson,' the man told her. He took a swallow of his beer, and offered her a cigarette. ‘He got shot dead in the cathedral this morning.'

The barman had come over at last. ‘Yeah?' he said in Elizabeth's direction. ‘Whaddya want?'

‘I guess the lady needs a brandy. Make it a double.'

Peter Mathews gave the order from behind. He spoke to the man on her right. ‘I'd like you to identify yourself. Here's my authority.'

Elizabeth hadn't spoken; she watched Mathews blocking off the man's route to the door. She even saw his left hand in his pocket and guessed that he had a gun in it. The man was flustered, staring at Mathews, slowly recovering himself and beginning to show truculence.

‘My name is Harry Wienerstein, and I live in Hampton, New Jersey. What the hell's this about? Here's my driving licence, and my plane ticket to San Antonio.'

‘Brandy, one double; a dollar fifty.'

Elizabeth picked up the glass; Mathews hadn't even looked at her until then.

‘What the hell's all this about?' The man was getting louder, more self-confident.

Elizabeth slowly shook her head. ‘He's not the one, Peter. You're just making a fool of yourself.'

As he looked at her, Mathews knew it was true. He examined the driving licence, and the details on the ticket. He could have taken the drink out of her hand and thrown it in her face.

‘You want to check on me, call my office,' the man called Wienerstein said. ‘So what the hell are you guys bothering ordinary citizens for—why don't you pay more attention to the criminals, eh?'