For some reason, he wanted to think that this girl, who’d so coldly planned her escape, so badly used Jonas and hurt her parents, had been beset with fears and doubts once she’d set off, her emotions in turmoil even now. Sadly for all concerned, he suspected instead that she was breezily happy with her new boyfriend in Uppsala, giving little thought to the people she’d left behind.
Not that he felt in any position to judge Hailey Portman for her human failings. She would at least stand a chance of growing out of hers, this whole episode put down to a moment of youthful madness. His own youthful madness had been rather more prolonged, and had left its marks on him to this day.
He checked in at the airport and made for the business lounge. There were a dozen or so other people there, and Finn studied them casually as he grabbed a coffee and a paper and sat down—a classic selection of business travelers, none of them standing out.
Once he’d started reading, though, he sensed that he was drawing someone’s attention. There was a guy across the lounge from him, overweight in a robust foodie kind of way, checked shirt, yellow tie, red cheeks, and fair curly hair. He looked like a wealthy farmer, and was more likely a hedge fund manager.
Or rather, Finn would have labeled him like that, except for the fact that he kept glancing over. It wasn’t blatant or even obvious to most eyes. He was eating a sandwich and casually looking around the room, but every time he reached Finn the progress of his gaze would stutter for a fraction of a second, as if in response to some gravitational pull.
Finn didn’t think the guy was professional enough somehow, not least because of the very fact that Finn had picked him out. Still, he thought through the ways and means by which he might have been followed to the airport, his movements tracked.
That in turn set him wondering why they might think any of this was worth their time. He’d been completely dormant for six years, so what on earth could make them think it made sense to keep him under constant surveillance for at least two of those years? What were they expecting him to do?
The guy finished his sandwich and put the plate down on the table in front of him. He wiped his hands and mouth on a napkin and threw it on the plate. Finally, he stood and walked toward Finn, and only in the last few feet did Finn notice the book in his hand.
“Excuse me.” He was English. Finn looked up from his paper. “I’m sorry to bother you, and I know you must get this all the time, but are you Charles Harrington?”
“Yes, I am,” said Finn.
The guy smiled. “I’m such a fan of your books. I don’t suppose you’d mind?”
He held out the book, The Hand of Death in hardback. Finn noticed a bookmark about halfway through.
He took the book and said, “I’d be more than happy. Do you have a pen?”
“Of course, sorry. Just a second.” He hurried back to where he’d been sitting and then said from there, “Of course, I haven’t—they always leak, don’t they?” He pointed toward the business lounge’s front desk and set off to ask for a pen.
He seemed genuine, but Finn looked through the book anyway, the marker at the beginning of chapter nine, the pages before that smudged here and there with fingerprints.
The guy came back, saying as he approached, “Sorry about that. I have to be honest, I didn’t think the Black Death would be my thing, but I’m riveted, absolutely riveted.”
“Thank you,” said Finn, taking the pen and opening the cover. “Who’s it to?”
“David. Actually, no, could you sign it for my wife, Georgina—she’s a fan, too. Actually, it was George got me on to you in the first place.”
Finn signed, noting the date and location—people seemed to like that, he’d found—and handed the book back.
“Well, thanks again, and I hope you enjoy the rest of it.”
“I’m sure I will.” He hesitated, as if fearing, correctly, that he was outstaying his welcome. “Do you mind me asking what the next one’s about, or is it top secret?”
“Not at all. There’s a book on the Hundred Years’ War coming out in September. I’m working on something else now, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you what that’s about.”
“Of course.” The guy looked a little embarrassed now as he said, “Thanks ever so much.”
He walked back to his seat. He was genuine, and Finn hoped they weren’t on the same flight. At the same time, now that he’d been put on alert, he took in the other people in the lounge, searching for anyone who might be a less obvious observer.
No one else set alarm bells ringing. But his mind was locked stubbornly back into that mode. He thought of the words from Jonas’s note: BGS = BRAC GLOBAL SYSTEMS. He would still tell Jonas to forget about it when he got back, but he realized now, and had perhaps known all along, that it was fanciful to think that he could do the same.
BGS represented real people, presumably from his own past, perhaps people he’d crossed in some way, and if they’d pursued him this doggedly for two years or more, they were unlikely to give up now.