Authors: James Twining
The Double Eagle (39 page)
6:39
P.M.
“S
o that’s put the kibosh on that then?” Archie’s familiar voice broke into Tom’s thoughts. “Thank God.”
Tom shook his head in smiling disbelief.
“Just happened to be passing, did you?” He kept his eyes fixed on the spot where he had last seen Jennifer. Archie stepped forward and rested his back against the low steel rail that Tom was leaning on. He wore a suit and tie, a briefcase in one hand and the
Financial Times
under the other arm, blending in seamlessly with the hordes of businessmen making their way through the terminal.
“Someone’s got to watch your back.” His words were muffled as he took another bite of the sandwich that he was clutching in his right hand. The yellow wrapper matched his Ferragamo tie.
“Last time you were watching my back, you signed me up to do a job for Cassius and nearly got me shot,” Tom said sarcastically.
Archie looked mortified.
“Oh, that hurts, mate, that really hurts.”
“What are you really doing here?”
“Making sure you didn’t do something you might regret. Like get on that plane.”
“Would that have been such a bad idea?” asked Tom thoughtfully.
“Er…yes!” Archie slurped on his drink. “First, she’s a fed. That’s generally bad news if you’re a thief. Second, she lives in America. That’s a long way from home. Third, she’s far too hot for the likes of you.”
“You’re probably right,” said Tom, laughing.
He stood up straight and turned around, leaning against the rail next to Archie, and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. Nestling at the bottom of his left-hand pocket, he felt an unfamiliar shape. He slipped it out into the open.
It was a stainless-steel 1934 Rolex Prince, its case glinting in the sunlight. The one Jennifer had pointed out to him on the morning they had first met. The one she must have slipped into his pocket when they had hugged good-bye. A little trick she seemed to have picked up from Amin Madhavy back in Istanbul.
“Nice piece,” said Archie, peering in for a closer look. “I know someone who’ll take that off your hands if you want to shift it.”
“No, thanks,” said Tom, following Jennifer’s plane as it taxied out onto the runway, imagining her knuckles glowing white as they gripped the armrests in anticipation of takeoff. “I think I’ll hang onto this one.”
There was a silence and the airport throbbed around them, children screaming, baggage trolleys squeaking, phones ringing.
Archie coughed and straightened his tie.
“Actually, Tom, there’s another reason I’m here.”
“Here we go.” Tom rolled his eyes. “What have you done now?”
“Nothing. It’s just that I’ve had this great idea. You and me. Kirk and Connolly. In business together.” Tom sighed and began to walk toward the exit.
“Where are you going?” Archie ran after him. “Your skills and my connections, we’d be unstoppable. Think about it.”
“Archie, I’ve told you. No more jobs.”
“No, that’s my point. A proper business. All kosher and aboveboard. You know, buying stuff here, selling it there, helping people get stuff back. We could make a fortune. We could be the good guys for a change.”
“Archie,” said Tom as he threw his arm around his shoulders. “If you’re involved, how can we ever be the good guys?”
Archie stopped in his tracks, his expression pained.
“Oh, that hurts, mate. That really hurts.”
Tom laughed.
“Maybe a pint will help you get over it.”
“As long as it’s none of this foreign muck.”
The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.
—P
RESIDENT
F
RANKLIN
D. R
OOSEVELT
, Inaugural Address, March 4, 1933
NEAR LYON, FRANCE
Two weeks later—10:07
P.M.
“P
lease remove any metallic objects from your pockets. Keys, coins, mobile phone, glasses. Place them in the containers before stepping through the detector. Thank you.”
The noisy queue snaked back on itself several times, like the entrance to a ride at an amusement park. Most of the people in it—returning from their holidays, judging from the raw redness of their skin—chose to ignore the security guard until they were almost through the metal detector and X-ray machines, only then scrabbling to empty their pockets of any offending items.
It was this that marked the tall man out in particular. Not his immaculate black suit and dog collar amidst the sea of fluorescent Tshirts and sandals but the fact that well before the gate he had carefully separated all his metallic objects into one hand.
Not that the security guards noticed. The airport had only recently been given a new lease on life, plucked from obscurity by an enterprising low-cost airline and rechristened with the name of a large city thirty miles to the north of it. It was why he’d chosen it. The security was not as tight as at one of the major airports; the quality of the personnel not as high. He had done this before when he needed to slip out of a country unnoticed.
He smiled at the guard as he carefully deposited a small pile of loose change and some keys into one of the gray plastic containers placed at the end of the X-ray machines. Just enough to look normal. He then walked through the machine. It beeped loudly. As he knew it would.
“Any other metal objects on you, Father?” asked the guard in French as he directed the man back through the detector. He patted his pockets and shook his head.
“No,” he answered.
“Okay. Step back through the gate, please.” He did as he was told, but the machine beeped again.
“Please stand over here, Father. Move your legs apart a little. Thank you.” The guard ran a handheld scanner over his black suit. It screamed loudly as it passed over his gloved right hand.
“Can I see?” the guard said, pointing suspiciously.
“Oh, of course.” The man shook his head. “How foolish of me. After all this time I forget all about it.” He had thought this part through carefully. The key was to make it look like he’d been this way for years. It mustn’t seem a recent injury. They might be on the lookout for that.
“Forget what?”
“My hand,” he said, pulling off the glove and revealing a pink prosthetic hand attached to his arm. Some girls in the queue behind him tittered at the sight of it.
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the guard, blushing, clearly embarrassed for him by their laughter.
“No, not at all, it’s my fault,” he said. “It happens all the time. I should have remembered.”
“Thank you, Father. Sorry, Father. Where are you going?”
“Geneva.”
“Well, at least the plane should be leaving on time. We’ve had so many delays recently with all the extra security checks.”
“I’m in no hurry,” the man said, retrieving his coins and keys. “Believe me, I’ve got plenty to think about.”
“Have a pleasant flight.”
“Bless you. Bless you, my son,” said Cassius.
The security guard watched the one-handed man walk into the departure lounge.
Out of habit, he made the sign of the cross in the direction of his retreating back.
My thanks to Roy, Claire and Sarah Toft, Bruce Ritchie, David Sale, Jeremy Green, Jeremy Walton, George Hammon, Sean Corbett, Julian Simmons, Charlotte Cameron, Mark Gill, Samantha Axtell, Maria Barrett, Nico Schwartz, Florian Reinaud, and most especially of all Rod Gillett, for their invaluable insight, comments, suggestions, and help. The book is immeasurably better because of it.
Thank you to Alison Callahan, my wonderful editor, for her insight and belief and championing of this book and to Wayne Brookes at HarperCollins UK, for his unfaltering support and infectious enthusiasm.
Thank you, too, to my agents, George Lucas at InkWell Management, in New York, and Jonathan Lloyd and Euan Thorneycroft at Curtis Brown, in London, for plucking me from the depths of their in-tray, spotting the potential of my early drafts, and for believing in me.
For their assistance in researching this book, I would like to acknowledge the Smithsonian Institution (National Museum of American History and National Numismatic Collection), The U.S. Mint, The Department of the Treasury, U.S. Army Armor Center—Fort Knox, Christie’s, Sotheby’s, the Turkish Ministry of Tourism, and the French Ministry of Culture.
And finally, my boundless love and thanks to my parents, Ann and Bob, to my sister, Joanna, to my wife, Victoria, and to our beautiful new baby daughter, Amelia.
London, September 2004
James Twining graduated from Oxford University with a degree in French literature. His first Tom Kirk adventure,
The Double Eagle
, was published with great success on both sides of the Atlantic. He lives in London with his wife and their two children.
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JAMES TWINING’s
extraordinary debut thriller
THE DOUBLE EAGLE
“Meet Tom Kirk, hero of the nimble global romp
The Double Eagle
and heir to the throne of the twisty international thriller, a seat that has belonged to Tom Clancy’s Jack Ryan for more than two decades…Devotees of
The Da Vinci Code
will appreciate the quest…Twining knits fact into fiction well.”
Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Twining lunges into the thriller genre with this globe-trotting adventure…[and] writes with enthusiasm, giving us meaty characters and a story that fairly stampedes along.”
Booklist
“Twining is a worthy successor to Forsyth, Follett, and Higgins. Highly recommended.”
Christopher Reich, bestselling author of
Numbered Account
and
The Patriots’ Club
“Moving fast from the USA to Europe and beyond, through cross and double-cross, this would make the perfect Tom Cruise movie.”
The Independent
(London)
“A compelling fusion of real historical events and modern thrills…Kirk [is] an action hero as adroit and charismatic as Clive Cussler’s Dirk Pitt.”
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