Removing the bright yellow rain slicker and the visored hat, Bourne walked outside and showed his clearance to the guards by the hangar doors. In the distance, the press was being herded through the electronic gates towards the roped stanchions. Microphones had been placed on the edge of the runway, while police vans were joined by motorcycle patrols forming a tight semicircle around the press conference area. The preparations were almost complete, all the security forces in place, the media equipment in working order. The plane from Peking had obviously begun its descent in the downpour. It would land in a matter of minutes, minutes Jason wished could be extended. There were so many things to look for and so little time to search. Where! What! Everything was both possible and impossible. Which option would the killer use? What vantage point would he zero in on for the perfect kill? And how would he most logically escape from the killing ground alive?
Bourne had considered every option he could think of and ruled each out. Think again! And again. Only minutes left. Walk around and start at the beginning… the beginning. The premise: the assassination of the Governor. Conditions: seemingly airtight, with security police training guns from rooftops, blocking every entrance, every exit, every staircase and escalator, all in radio contact. The odds were overwhelmingly against. Suicide … Yet it was these same heavily negative odds that the impostor-killer found irresistible. D’Anjou had been right again: with one spectacular kill under these conditions an assassin’s supremacy would be established – or re-established. What had the Frenchman said? With one kill like that he re-establishes the legend to its full invincibility.
‘Who? Where? How? Think! Look!
The downpour drenched his Kowloon police uniform. He continuously wiped the water from his face as he moved about peering at everyone and everything. Nothing] And then the muted roar of the jet engines could be heard in the distance. The jet from Peking was making its final approach at the far end of the runway. It was landing.
Jason studied the crowd standing inside the roped stanchions. An accommodating Hong Kong government, in deference to Peking and in the desire for ‘full coverage’, had supplied ponchos and squares of canvas and cheap pocket raincoats for all who wanted them. The Kai Tak personnel countered the media’s demands for an inside conference by stating simply – and wisely without explanation – that it was not in the interests of security. The statements would be short, an aggregate of no more than five or six minutes. Certainly the fine members of the journalistic establishment could tolerate a little rain for such an important event.
The photographers? Metal Cameras were passed through the gates but not all ‘cameras’ took pictures. A relatively simple device could be inserted and locked into a mount, a powerful firing mechanism that released a bullet – or a dart -with the assistance of a telescopic viewfinder. Was that the way? Had the assassin taken that option, expecting to smash the ‘camera’ under his feet and take another from his pocket as he moved swiftly to the outskirts of the crowd, his credentials as authentic as d’Anjou’s and the ‘anti-terrorist’ from the Mossad? It was possible.
The huge jet dropped onto the runway and Bourne walked quickly into the roped-off area, approaching every photographer he could see, looking – looking for a man who looked like himself. There must have been two dozen men with cameras; he became frantic as the plane from Peking taxied towards the crowd, the flood- and searchlights now centred on the space around the microphones and the television crews. He went from one photographer to the next, rapidly ascertaining that the man could not be the killer, then looking again to see if postures were erect, faces cosmeticized. Again nothing] No one! He had to find him, take him! Before anyone else found him. The assassination was beside the point, it was irrelevant to him! Nothing mattered except Marie!
Go back to the beginning! Target – the Governor. Conditions – highly negative for a kill, the target under maximum security, undoubtedly protected by personal armour, the whole security corps orderly, disciplined, the officers in tight command… The beginning! Something was missing. Go over it again. The Governor – the target, a single kill. Method of the kill: suicide ruled out everything but a delayed-reaction device – an air dart, a pellet – yet the demands of accuracy made such a weapon illogical, and the loud report of a conventional gun would instantly activate the entire security force. Delay! Delayed action, not reaction! The beginning, the first assumption was wrong! The target was not just the Governor. Not a single kill but multiple killings, indiscriminate killings! How much more spectacular! How much more effective for a maniac who wanted to throw Hong Kong into chaos! And the chaos would begin instantly with the security forces. Disorder, escape!
Bourne’s mind was racing as he roamed through the crowd in the downpour, his eyes darting everywhere. He tried to recall every weapon he had ever known. A weapon that could be fired or released silently, unobtrusively from a restricted, densely populated area, its effect delayed long enough for the killer to reposition himself and make a clean escape. The only device that came to mind were grenades, but he immediately dismissed them. Then the thought of time-fused dynamite or plastique struck him. These last were far more manageable in terms of delays and concealment. The plastic explosives could be set in time spans of minutes and fractions of minutes rather than a few seconds only; they could be hidden in small boxes or in wrapped packages, even narrow briefcases… or thicker cases supposedly filled with photographic equipment, not necessarily carried by a photographer. He started again, going back into the crowd of reporters and photographers, his eyes scanning the black tarmac below trousers and skirts, looking for an isolated container that remained stationary on the hard asphalt. Logic made him concentrate on the rows of men and women nearest the roped-off runway. In his mind the ‘package’ would be no more than twelve inches in length if it was thick, twenty if it was an attaché case. A smaller charge would not kill the negotiators of both governments. The airfield lights were strong, but they created myriad shadows, darker pockets within the darkness. He wished he had had the sense to carry a flashlight – he had always carried one, if only a penlight, for it, too, was a weapon! Why had he forgotten! Then to his astonishment he saw flashlight beams crisscrossing the black floor of the airfield, darting between the same trousers and skirts he had been peering beyond. The security police had arrived at the same theory, and why shouldn’t they? La Guardia Airport, 1972; Lod Airport, Tel Aviv, 1974; Rue de Bac, Paris, 1975; Harrods, London, 1982. And half a dozen embassies from Teheran to Beirut, why shouldn’t they? They were current, he was not. His thinking was slow – and he could not allow that!
What! Where!
The enormous 747 starship of the People’s Republic came into view like a great silver bird, its jet engines roaring through the deluge, whirring down as it was manoeuvred into position on alien ground. The doors opened and the English and Chinese guards rushed down the steps and into position. Then the parade began. The two leaders of the British and the Chinese delegations emerged together. They waved and walked in unison down the metal staircase, one in the tailored clothes of Whitehall, the other in the drab, rankless uniform of the People’s army. They were followed by two lines of aides and adjutants, Occidentals and Orientals doing their best to appear congenial with one another for the cameras. The leaders approached the microphones, and as the voices droned over the loudspeakers and through the rain the next minutes were a blur for Jason. A part of his mind was on the ceremony that was taking place under the floodlights, the larger part on the final search – for it would be final. If the impostor was there, he had to find him – before the kill, before the chaos! But, goddamn it, where! Bourne moved out beyond the ropes on the far right to get a better view of the proceedings. A guard objected; Jason showed the man his clearance and remained motionless, studying the television crews, their looks, their eyes, their equipment. If the assassin was among them, which one was he?
‘We are jointly pleased to announce that further progress has been made with regard to the Accords. We of the United Kingdom…’
‘We of the People’s Republic of China – the only true China on the face of the earth – express a desire to find a mutual communion with those who wish…’
The speeches were interspersed, each leader giving support to his counterpart, yet letting the world know there was still much to negotiate. There was tension beneath the civility, the verbal placebos, and the plastic smiles. And Jason found