Sam
showed the fake passport at the checkpoint in San Francisco airport and smiled
warmly at the lady who examined it. For a moment his right eye watered and
flickered but he winced it away before she looked up.
Dozens
and dozens of people thronged around him. The lady squinted at the picture,
matching the side parting, beard and glasses to his own. She frowned. The name
on the passport was George Barnardo; the beard was fake; he didn’t need the
glasses; the hairstyle was different from the normal slick off his forehead.
He
reran the worst case contingency plan through his mind. Now he was in San
Francisco he was in a better position than he would have been if there was a
problem in London but the airport was unknown and there were more armed guards.
He wouldn’t have to hurt her. It would be unproductive and slow him down if
anything. He glanced at the corridor past her booth toward the exit then back
to her face. He smiled again. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes
sir,” she replied, handing it back over. “Enjoy your stay.”
Sam
beamed at her without registering his relief visibly then passed on through,
sneering inside at her irritating accent.
This
was another country now. The rules were new and despite profound similarities,
he was in a weaker position in many ways though stronger in some. He was
unknown and untraceable here, but he didn’t have the gun. He headed for the
outer doors and a taxi cab, resenting the armed guards and the metal detectors.
There
was grease on the inside of the taxi’s windows. The back seat was covered in a
crumpled paisley blanket that didn’t finish masking the vomit reek. The driver
craned round in his seat but Sam didn’t make eye contact. He gave the address
of Jack’s uncle’s house and folded his hands, keeping his gaze down on the
criss-cross of his fingers in his lap.
No comments:
Post a Comment