Wings of the Morning (15 page)

Conrad walked into the transit lounge and made directly for a spot which gave him a clear view out over the apron towards the parked Qantas jet. He pulled a paperback novel from his pocket and
settled to read it. He had about an hour to wait.

He would have been relieved if he could have seen Alexa. She was standing quietly beside Georges Eboli as he made polite conversation to a diminutive figure beside him. The small man had
approached them as they were waiting by the luggage area. He made a charming self-introduction and flashed a beaming smile at Alexa. He was Mr Riaz, Comptroller of your host’s household,
delighted and honoured to welcome you both, responsible for all arrangements for your comfort and entitled to the special airport pass which he was now exhibiting. Alexa noted this old world
gentility, touched a little with self-importance. Mr Riaz was determined to put them at their ease, offering drinks while they waited and apologies for the delay. Outside, he had more staff to
help, plus a van for the luggage as well as the limousine in which he would whisk them to the fine house which awaited them less than an hour’s drive away. What a magical setting it enjoyed,
Mr Riaz rolled his eyes dramatically: quite beautiful and almost new. They had been in occupation scarcely a year, although he had himself been in his position as Comptroller for much longer. A
Pakistani by birth, he had been living here for almost ten years. Mr Riaz was in Arab dress which suited his small stature. He wore a full beard, neatly trimmed. He kept his small feet pressed
closely together, his hands clasped in front of him. Alexa found him innocuous, even engaging and she began to wonder if this whole thing was not a false alarm, whether perhaps Thierry might appear
at any moment, flashing his elegance. With a slight smile on her lips, she unconsciously struck a pose and ran a hand through her shoulder length ash blonde hair. This caught the attention of Mr
Riaz who turned the full beam of his admiring attention on her, murmuring how truly entranced his Master was going to be to meet her. Something in his bland words and the rapacious flash in his
dark little eyes sent shivers down her spine. She was suddenly afraid again. She tried to push down the panic and listened to Georges express his regrets that he was so unsuitably attired due to
the idiot steward on the plane. Mr Riaz smiled encouragingly.

Conrad could only sit and wait. He kept his head in his book and managed to read the script and turn the pages. The clock in his head ticked round towards their action hour. After fifty minutes
on his uncomfortable plastic sofa, Conrad snapped shut his book, stood and stretched before commencing a casual wander closer to the big windows. His timing was perfect. He watched Keith Curtis
descend the front mobile steps, walk round under the inner port engine, and pause to remove his cap and scratch his head. This was the cue to go.

Conrad made his way towards the door marked ‘Toilets’. He didn’t hurry, neither did he meander. Beyond the entrance was the expected division between ‘Men’ and
‘Women’. He entered the gents and locked himself in the middle of five cubicles. He looked up to see a simple roof made of plastic panels carried on a lattice framework which would not
bear weight. But just below the roof and securely mounted to the block wall in front of him protruded the solid iron stanchions which supported the lavatory header tank. There was no pedestal, but
a white tile surrounded hole in the ground. Nothing daunted, Conrad gazed up at the right hand stanchion while he composed himself and relaxed his muscles. He crouched with his head turned upward
and his eyes fixed on his target stanchion. He came up out of this squat position in a long, fluid leap, right arm punched vertically above his head so that at the top of his jump, his hand locked
around the stanchion. He relaxed for a moment, swinging in a gentle arc around the pivot of his arm which took his body weight without effort.

He went on then, bringing up his left hand onto the second stanchion and pulling himself higher, using legs and knees to gain purchase from the solid downpipe which ran from the cistern to the
ground. Then he could position his left arm along the top of the cistern to take his weight and provide balance while his right hand explored further upwards. The roof panels rested on their frame.
He pushed up the one above him and manoeuvred it onto its neighbour so he could move his right hand to grasp the top of the breeze block wall. From there, he used his strength to haul his body
through the gap and into a crouch on top of the wall, which was solid but narrow. He removed the adjacent roof panel giving access to the cubicle on the other side of the wall. He slipped through
to swing from the brackets in reverse procedure to his ascent. He dropped to the floor, flushed the cistern and adjusted his clothes.

So far, so good. Conrad left the cubicle, finding that he was alone in the gents’ block. He made his exit, merging into the wider entrance and on into the arrivals hall. Ten yards in front
of him was a writing shelf set at standing height with piles of landing cards. Conrad made for it with a confident walk.

The place was hardly bustling. No other flights had landed that morning, and Peter Bushell had given him the passenger count, only twenty-three including Eboli and Alexa, of those leaving Qantas
in Bahrain. He could see various groups of uniformed officials around the large hall and at points between, plain clothed cleaners shuffled lethargic mops. All the arriving passengers had completed
immigration, heath and police. He could see them in a group at the extreme end of the hall with the tall black figure of Eboli prominent amongst them. Further away, he could see a group standing
behind the Customs barrier, likely a welcoming party with two tall men of European descent and one woman. Also a fourth figure who stood out: he was immense in stature and bulk, swathed in Arab
dress.

Conrad left the desk and moved towards the group of passengers. He willed Alexa to turn and face in his direction. Sight of him was to be her trigger for action, to follow the single, simple
instruction he had given her in the plane. As he walked, he eyed the gallery above and at the back of the hall. It seemed empty, but the sole occupant had been careful to conceal himself in the
shadows of a supporting roof pillar. He was a man of above average height and slim build, impeccably dressed in a dark suit and carrying a small crocodile attaché case. His wealth was
apparent in every detail. His fine features and dark complexion revealed his provenance from this region. His rapt attention was concentrated on the vision who was Alexa. He was shuddering as he
watched her every move and expression. Thus far, she exceeded his expectations. The client made the colossal effort to retreat to the staircase which would take him down to the front of the
airport, through the crowds of merchants and beggars and welcome wishers and on to his chauffeured car which would follow the limousine to his secure villa.

Standing by Georges and listening to Riaz continue his chatter, Alexa was taut. She had so often turned her head to look that she dare not do so again. But she must and finally she did, then
blinking and looking again to be sure in her tortured mind that it really was Connie standing there, out in the open and studying some piece of paper in his hand. Alexa put a hand up to her mouth
and swallowed twice, stifling a sudden urge to scream with relief. She felt bile rising in her throat. She saw the luggage approaching and was inspired to speak.

‘Georges’, she said, ‘I’ve been standing here long enough and I feel hot and tired and grubby. Fetch me that small case of mine please, and I will go to the Ladies to
tidy up a bit.’

Eboli started to protest but Mr Riaz chimed in to support her and to demonstrate his proficiency in French as he declared it a good idea which would cost them little further delay. He turned to
summon help with the raise of his elegant little arm. Immediately, the single woman and the huge man detached themselves from the welcoming committee and were waved through the barrier by the
customs official.

Conrad viewed this with concern. It amounted to three against one with Alexa as baggage. He could manage, but he did want to keep it discreet and it didn’t help that he was now the only
obvious passenger still milling about whilst the others collected their bags. He withdrew again to his writing table and began to scribble furiously. Alexa was the first to pass him, followed by
the white woman minder who looked East European, fit and strong, not to be underestimated. Mentally, Conrad christened her Olga. Just a few steps behind came Georges Eboli, toting a suitcase and
puffing as he walked. By his side paced the colossus whom Conrad named Black Beauty. Close up, this guy bothered Conrad less. He was big, but too bulky and looked far short of fit.

Conrad slouched after them into the common entrance to the washrooms, walked down the hallway and entered the Gents. He found Black Beauty pacing the floor while Eboli stood in front of a basin.
The three of them were alone. Conrad caught a glare from Beauty as he stepped up to the urinals, then a shorter stop before a basin before making his exit. Eboli would be five minutes more and
expecting Alexa to take longer. Conrad had time, but not to waste. He stood for a few seconds in the common hallway, appreciating its gloom and reckoning that the watchers at the customs barrier
would have trouble in seeing him. But they did know that he had gone in there and they would be watching to see him come out again. Action time. He hunched his shoulders, giving himself a slight
stoop as he crossed the hallway and pushed open the door to the Ladies, hesitating as he entered.

All the cubicle doors were open except one: Alexa must be behind it. Olga was standing to his right, resting her back against a line of basins with mirrors above. She gesticulated to tell him he
was in the wrong place and should be across the hallway. Conrad gave her a befuddled nod and turned to the entrance door which he had allowed to close behind him, pushing at it when he should have
pulled. Olga gave a grunt of exasperation as she pushed herself away from her basin rest and moved to grasp the door handle, to get rid of this oaf as soon as possible.

Standing beside her, Conrad struck. His left hand moved to join Olga’s on the door pull while the right circled behind her head. With all the force he could muster from this short take
off, he swept head and door together. Olga gave a grunt of pain and he could feel her stunned. She might have passed out but he couldn’t take the risk. He took her sagging weight in his arms,
spun her round and ran her head first into the tiled wall opposite. Bloody mess, inert body.

He let Olga fall to the floor and crossed to Alexa’s cubicle, knocking lightly.

‘Open, Alexa, it’s me.’ He heard a sob of relief mingled with fear as the bolt scratched back and the cubicle door swung open. Alexa was sitting there on her throne, fully
dressed, knees pressed together, feet wide apart. She looked up, tears starting to stream down, shoulders hunched and shaking. He could take in the signs easily enough. Alexa was collapsing. He
stepped forward and lifted her into his arms. He held her tightly to him and whispered quietly, sounding calm although he was wound like a spring with the urgency of their timing.

He said, ‘Just do exactly what I say and we’ll be fine.’

As if on cue, the entrance door behind him hissed and he whipped round to see Black Beauty enter. Conrad was never to know what had alerted the colossus to check on his partner. It didn’t
matter. The big man took in the sight of Olga in a crumpled heap, Aveling and Alexa embracing. He drew a knife from beneath his robes and rushed straight in, the huge bull figure threatening to
eclipse them. Conrad felt relief. Beauty should have retreated to raise the alarm, and then they would have been in real trouble. He pushed Alexa away and she flopped back on her loo seat, looking
out on the scene through eyes as wide as saucers.

Conrad jumped forward to meet the assault, twisting his body and ducking his head as the vicious knife scythed just above him and folds of Beauty’s robe swept across his face. He smelt
rancid body odour as he kicked out sharply, connecting with the Arab’s knee which collapsed under the hurtling weight. Beauty was face down on the floor, sliding past Alexa’s cubicle,
screaming fury and hardly hurt with his knife still clasped in his right hand. Conrad whirled round and kicked him twice more in the side of the head, aiming for the ear. He dropped onto his back,
broad as a boat but flabby beneath his knee which he settled under the back of the neck. Ignoring the outstretched arm which flailed vainly with the knife, Conrad linked the fingers of both hands
through the beard and under the chin. He used his strength to pull back sharply against the pressure of his knee. The resulting snap was instant and audible to Alexa. Episode over as reflexes
juggled with the big body in its dying and the knife clattered onto the tiles of the floor.

Alexa was catatonic. He took her by the arms and stood her by the door of the adjoining cubicle. He hefted the big body from the floor and hauled it into Alexa’s cubicle to lie draped over
the pedestal. He fetched the much lighter weight of Olga and dumped her face down over Beauty. Back out to fetch Alexa, pushing her in front of him and telling her to stand still and close her
eyes. He bolted the door behind them and climbed over Beauty’s body to stand on Olga, from which height he could stretch up to reach the roof panels. Their exit became simply the reverse of
his entry. Move a panel, up onto the breeze block wall, move another panel. Now for the tricky bit. Alexa still stood motionless below him, her eyes screwed tight shut, rigid with shock. Conrad
slipped back down to stand beside her, lifted her with his arms wrapped around her knees until he could place her feet on Olga’s back. He stretched to push her face towards the wall and held
her there with one hand while he scrambled up beside her. He forced her hands around the cistern pipe and went on up himself, turning on top of the wall to balance on his stomach, the lower half of
his body sticking through into transit whilst his arms dangled down towards Alexa. He could just reach her and she managed to place one hand in his. Then, for her, it was like going up in a
lift.