“Damn you!” he said.
“No, damn you!” Hannah Bernstein told him.
• • •
Onwards from Dorking, Aaron made for Horsham. On the other side, he moved further into Sussex toward the River Arun, finally turning into a maze of country lanes following signs to Flaxby. He reached it, the kind of village which was a single pub and a scattering of houses. A mile on, he turned into a narrow lane that emerged into a huge overgrown airfield, a tower and several hangars decaying with age. He braked to a halt outside the hangars.
He went round and opened the rear doors. “All out.”
He put a hand up and helped Hannah. She said in Hebrew, “Where are we, or am I being naive?”
“Not really. We’re in the depths of rural Sussex. This used to be a Lancaster bomber base during the Second World War. Notice the lengthy runway, still usable in spite of the grass and weeds. We need a long runway.”
Engines started up, and a moment later a Citation jet moved out of one of the hangars. It stopped close by and the door opened, steps dropping down.
“Do I get to know our destination?” Hannah asked.
“Magical mystery tour. Take her on board, Moshe.”
Moshe urged her up the ladder, and one of the pilots pulled her in and seated her. Outside, Aaron said to Brown, “On your way. We’ll be in touch.”
“I suppose if I was an Arab fundamentalist I’d say, ‘God is good,”’ Brown told him.
“But he is,” Aaron said. “Our God, anyway.”
He went up the steps, pulling them up behind him, and closed and locked the door. The Citation taxied to the end of the field and turned. It paused, thundered down the runway, and lifted. Brown watched it go, then got into the ambulance and drove away.
• • •
In one of the control rooms of the Ministry of Defense, Ferguson, Dillon, Riley, and Blake Johnson sat back and watched as the operator ran the relevant section of the video through.
“All right, enhance the image and work through the crowd.”
The operator did as she was told, bringing up a larger image, concentrating on faces, and Riley cried out, “That’s him there in the raincoat with the briefcase.”
“Freeze where possible,” Ferguson urged.
There were a number of views of Brown from the front and from the side, all different perspectives.
“That should do,” Dillon said. “Now print.”
In a matter of seconds the machine had disgorged several colored prints of various views of the man calling himself George Brown. Dillon passed them to Blake one by one.
“There’s our man.” He turned to the operator. “You can go now.”
“But how do we find him, Dillon?” Ferguson glanced at his watch. “And where the hell is the Chief Inspector? It’s six-thirty.”
The mobile Judas had given Dillon sounded in his pocket. Dillon pulled it out and switched on. He held it up, face expressionless, and handed it over to Ferguson.
The Brigadier said, “Ferguson here.”
“This is Judas, old buddy. I figured you might have hung on to that special mobile I gave the late, lamented Sean Dillon.”
“What do you want?”
“I thought you might be short one Detective Chief Inspector.”
Ferguson had to breathe deeply to stay in control. “What are you saying?”
“She’s winging her way toward me at this very moment at thirty thousand feet in her very own private Citation jet.”
“But why?”
“Just to make sure you don’t step out of line, Brigadier. It’s not one, but two of them now. One wrong move and they both die. Have a good night.”
The line went dead and Ferguson switched off the mobile, his face pale. “That was Judas. He says he’s got Hannah.”
There was a heavy silence and Blake Johnson said, “I suppose I’ll have to inform the President.”
“Yes, by all means. Use the phone in my office.” Blake went out and Ferguson said, “What in the hell are we going to do?”
“It alters nothing,” Dillon said and took a deep breath to combat his rage. “Our task’s still to find Judas.”
“And how do we set about that?”