Mightier Than the Sword

Rafferty replaced the receiver. Perhaps he would spin the cylinder one more time, and if he succeeded, report back that Martinez was already dead by the time the phone had rung. He’d only ever lied to the area commander once, and there was a finger missing from his left hand to prove it. He told anyone who asked that it had been chopped off by a British officer during an interrogation, which few on either side believed.

He reluctantly returned the gun to his pocket and walked slowly back toward Martinez, who was slumped in the chair, his head between his legs. He bent down and untied the rope around his wrists and ankles. Martinez collapsed onto the floor in a heap. The chauffeur yanked him up by the hair, threw him over his shoulder as if he were a sack of potatoes and dumped him in the back of the taxi. For a moment, he had rather hoped he might resist, and then … but no such luck.

He drove out of the warehouse, locked the door, and set off toward Heathrow, to join several other taxi drivers that morning.

They were a couple of miles from the airport when Martinez reentered this world, and not the next. The chauffeur watched in the rearview mirror as his passenger began to come around. Martinez blinked several times before staring out of the window to see rows of suburban homes rushing by. As the realization began to sink in, he leaned forward and was sick all over the backseat. Rafferty’s colleague wouldn’t be pleased.

Don Pedro eventually managed to force his limp body upright. He steadied himself by clinging onto the edge of the seat with both hands and stared at his would-be executioner. What had caused him to change his mind? Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps only the venue had changed. Don Pedro eased his way forward, hoping to be given just one chance to escape, but he was painfully aware that Rafferty’s suspicious eyes returned to the rearview mirror every few seconds.

Rafferty turned off the main road and followed the signs for the long-term car park. He drove up to the top level and parked in the far corner. He stepped out of the car, unlocked the boot, and unzipped the travel bag, pleased again by the sight of the neat rows of crisp five-pound notes. He would have liked to take the cash home for the cause, but he couldn’t risk being caught with that amount of money, now there were so many extra security guards observing every flight to Belfast.

He removed an Argentine passport from the bag, along with a first-class, one-way ticket to Buenos Aires and ten pounds in cash, then dropped his gun in the bag; something else he couldn’t afford to be caught with. He locked the boot, opened the driver’s door, and placed the keys and the parking ticket under the seat for a colleague to collect later that morning. Then he opened the rear door and stood aside to allow Martinez to step out, but he didn’t move. Was he going to make a run for it? Not if he valued his life. After all, he didn’t know that the chauffeur no longer had a gun.

Rafferty grabbed Martinez firmly by the elbow, pulled him out of the car, and marched him toward the nearest exit. Two men passed them on the staircase as they made their way down to the ground floor. Rafferty didn’t given them a second look.

Neither man spoke on the long walk to the terminal building. When they reached the concourse, Rafferty handed Martinez his passport, his ticket, and the two five-pound notes.

“And the rest?” snarled Don Pedro. “Because your colleagues obviously failed to sink the Buckingham.”

“Consider yourself lucky to be alive,” said Rafferty, then turned quickly and disappeared into the crowd.

For a moment, Don Pedro thought about going back to the taxi and retrieving his money, but only for a moment. Instead, he reluctantly headed toward the British Airways South American desk and handed his ticket to the woman seated behind the counter.

“Good morning, Mr. Martinez,” she said. “I hope you’ve had a pleasant stay in England.”

3

“HOW DID YOU get that black eye, Dad?” demanded Sebastian, when he joined his family for breakfast in the grillroom of the Buckingham later that morning.

“Your mother hit me when I dared to suggest she snored,” Harry replied.

“I don’t snore,” said Emma, as she buttered another piece of toast.

“How can you possibly know if you snore when you’re asleep?” said Harry.

“And what about you, Uncle Giles? Did my mother break your arm when you also suggested she snored?” asked Seb.

“I don’t snore!” repeated Emma.

“Seb,” said Samantha firmly, “you should never ask anyone a question you know they won’t want to answer.”

“Spoken like the daughter of a diplomat,” said Giles, smiling across the table at Seb’s girlfriend.

“Spoken like a politician who doesn’t want to answer my question,” said Seb. “But I’m determined to find out—”