Traffic was horrible as usual. Three miles before the turnoff for the airline terminal, the limousine slowed to a creep, then a halt. Elizabeth looked around frantically for any signs of movement.
“Afternoon rush hour,” the driver said, sympathetically. “It’ll get you every time.”
Elizabeth looked at her watch. Forty-five minutes to go before the Irish flight arrived. Perhaps she could hurry things up just a little bit. She generally balked at using magic for personal gain, but this was in service to OOPSI, wasn’t it? Rationalizations a specialty, she thought wryly, trying to recall if there was an appropriate cantrip in the office grimoire. No, of course not. Flushing poltergeists out of cottages, yes. Bringing up secret writing, naturally. Opening up traffic jams, of course not.
Time for a little impromptu poetry. “Let all cars move to there from here,” Elizabeth said in a low voice, trying out the chant, “open the way to my goal clear.” Not brilliant, but it should do the job of persuading everyone to hurry up just that much more. It was risky, but she could not miss meeting that flight. Repeating her chant, she released a little of her stored-up Earth power, feeling it worm its way forward along the lanes of traffic. It seemed as though it would work when the tiny psychic thread smacked into an overwhelming strong counterforce as firm as concrete that stopped it cold: England itself. Do not interfere with the status quo, the presence said. Nice girls and boys don’t make a fuss.
Elizabeth groaned. One couldn’t be well-mannered all the time, not with a schedule to keep. The push-push-push of greater London, as unlike the surrounding country as an ambitious nephew was from a staid great-aunt, lay behind her to the east. She appealed to it for assistance. All she wanted to do was get where she was going without inciting road rage or using up her carefully hoarded store of power.
Whether England relented or London succeeded, traffic began to break up. The taxi joined the lane of cars rolling towards Terminal One.
To her dismay, no messenger was waiting for her there. She whipped out her small cell telephone and punched in the office number, all the while looking for a chartreuse tabard.
“This is Agent Mayfield,” she said, turning her back on a young businessman in a very expensive suit who kept giving her interested glances, and raised his eyebrows when he overheard her identify herself. “The courier didn’t meet me at my flat, and I still don’t see him anywhere.”
“Sorry, love,” the receptionist said, her voice tinny on the line. “His bike broke down, so he’s on the Tube. We just heard from him. He’s stuck at Acton Park. He’ll meet you in time to brief you at the ticket desk for the American flight. Mr. Ringwall says you’re to meet the subject from flight 334 from Dublin. You’ll be able to board the U.S. flight at the same time as her party, and you’ll sit beside the subject until you arrive in New Orleans. You’re not to let her out of your sight under any circs. Read me back, love?”
“Not in a secure location,” Mayfield muttered back tersely, peering back over her shoulder at the businessman, who was leaning as close as he could but trying to look as if he wasn’t.
“I’ll take it as read, dear,” the receptionist’s voice quacked in her ear. “Good luck.”
* * *
Don’t let her out of your sight, the big boys said. Well, they hadn’t taken luxury travel perquisites into account. Elizabeth ran along the endless corridors, and into the satellite gates in Terminal One just in time to see the famous green suede-cut, surrounded by a dense shell of fans and reporters, emerge from the jetway at gate 87, and sweep down the narrow corridor. The rest of her group, Green Fire, emerged one by one, and the crowd erupted into a frenzy. Elizabeth tagged helplessly along all the way to Terminal Three, determined to stay as close as she could. She couldn’t draw nearer without actually using some of the unarmed combat training that she had been required to learn for her job, and she wasn’t perfectly convinced some of the fans didn’t know martial arts, too. They looked a tough lot.
As soon as Fionna Kenmare and her party reached the American ticket desk they were ushered through check-in and baggage inspection by a member of the airline staff. Elizabeth had no choice at that moment but to abandon her vigil, because she had to find the information desk and pick up her ticket.
Only two people were in the queue at the desk, but they looked to be there for the next decade: an old lady with a very low voice who had some trouble with her luggage, and a large American man with a shockingly loud voice whose luggage had been scratched by the baggage handlers. As soon as a new clerk appeared from the tiny room behind the desk Elizabeth waved him over, showing her ID card in her cupped hand. The man’s eyes lighted with recognition, and glanced from side to side. Neither the woofer nor the tweeter paid any attention.
“Yes, madam, we’ve been expecting you,” the clerk said, very quietly. He reached under the desk for an envelope, and offered her a clipboard with a document from Central Accounting to sign. It had been faxed only moments before. Talk about cutting things close.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said briskly. She opened the envelope to double-check the flight details. “Just a moment,” she said, putting out a hand to stop the desk clerk from walking away. “This is for Economy Class.”
“I am following the instructions to the letter, madam,” the clerk said, looking hurt. He showed her the place on the document where “3rd” had been checked off, instead of “1st.”
“But, this is wrong! I need to be in First Class.”
“I’ll be happy to alter it if I receive further instructions from the head office,” the young man said hopefully, sounding exactly like a junior agent in a 007 picture, which is undoubtedly what he hoped. Elizabeth was in no mood to coddle him. She gave him a wan smile from the teeth out, and hurried to check in. She could not leave Kenmare alone for long. She’d have to phone from the other side of the barrier.
With the greatest of good fortune, Kenmare’s party was still in the ticket hall. Elizabeth joined the mass of fans and photographers milling slowly toward the departure gate.
They sauntered, in no kind of hurry, through the express passport control, and down the hall toward the VIP lounge, still accompanied by those fans who were actually holding travel tickets. Now was the time Elizabeth must catch her and identify herself, before something else happened. She snatched up her purse from the rollers as it exited the X-ray machine, and ran toward the lounge. Just as she got there, the door was slammed firmly in Elizabeth’s face. Fionna’s fans, disappointed, scattered into the Duty-Free shopping area, leaving Elizabeth standing alone in front of the door.
Airport security was admirably tight, but she ought to be in line-of-sight contact with her subject. She knocked on the burgundy wood door.
Her quiet conversation at the desk inside the club did nothing except to create a feeling of smugness among the staff. They weren’t about to let a lowly Economy passenger into the sacred confines even to forestall a death threat. If Elizabeth had official credentials to back up her claim, they might consider allowing her to remain in the corridor. Because of the security order keeping information concerning the mission to “need to know,” Elizabeth knew she wasn’t permitted to show her MI-5 badge, so she was forced to retreat out into the Duty-Free area, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She found a point where she got a decent signal on her telephone yet could still see the door, and made her third call to HQ.
“Sorry, Mayfield,” Ringwall said, ruefully. “Economy measures all round, you know. I’ll try to get Accounting to alter that for you before you board, but you know what they’re like. They absolutely choked at the thought of four thousand pounds for one agent’s transportation. Do your best. Don’t let the woman out of your sight.”
“She’s already out of my sight, sir,” Elizabeth said, desperately. “She’s inside the first-class lounge, and they won’t let me in with an economy-fare ticket.”
“Dammit, do what you can,” Ringwall said. “You’re an Intelligence agent. Be resourceful.”
“Yes, sir,” Elizabeth said, with deep resignation. “I still haven’t seen the courier yet, sir.”
“He’ll be there. Probably meet you at the gate. Best of British luck, and keep us posted.”
Elizabeth hung up the phone. Well, if she couldn’t get in, she must monitor all those coming and going from the club, and hope the courier would arrive with her credentials so she could go inside before things went bad. She took up a position across the pedway in a bookshop with a good view of the door of the lounge. At all costs she must look like an ordinary tourist, interested in ordinary tourist things.