Page 150 of Hang on St. Christopher

Time to kill in Inverness, but I didn’t feel like sightseeing, so I just stayed in the airport until flight time.

I called Lawson.

“Carrick RUC, this is Sergeant Lawson,” Lawson said.

“It’s Carrick CID and you are Detective Sergeant Lawson. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Sir? Where are you?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not in the building. I’m safely in Scotland. Inverness Airport. Do you want to know why I’m in Inverness Airport?”

“I have a feeling I’m not going to like the answer, sir.”

“Is Crabbie in today? He should be in on this call too.”

Lawson found McCrabban and put me on speaker.

I told them everything: Killian’s lead, the man’s multiple identities and passports.

“What are you thinking, Sean?” Crabbie asked.

“I’m thinking what you’re both thinking. He’s a fucking iceman from America who has been brought in to terminate O’Roarke’s crew. Someone from outside the movement brought in by O’Roarke’s rivals so there is no possibility of this coming back to bite anyone in the arse.”

“So you’re thinking the assassins got assassinated by another assassin before they could assassinate anyone?” Lawson said.

“I maybe wouldn’t have used the wordassassinso much, but that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“Who is this guy?” Crabbie asked.

“A real cool pro. I’m guessing mafia or something. Perhaps ex-CIA ’cause of the tech. Definitely a top guy, though.”

“He sounds like he could be big trouble,” Crabbie said.

“Don’t worry, lads, I’ll be careful. If I find him, I won’t be able to do anything about it but report it to the local cops, so this is where you come in, Lawson.”

“Sir?”

“We’re going to need to act fast on an international arrest warrant. Prep the paperwork, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’ll keep youse in touch.”

I bought a Walkman tape player/recorder and took Iceland Air 134 to Reykjavik.

Flight half-full.

I landed at Keflavik Airport four and a half hours later.

I did my usual routine. I introduced myself to the airport police, showed them my ID, and explained what I was about. Everybody spoke English—better English than mine in several cases. The cops accompanied me as I showed Smith’s photograph to all the airline desks, but Reykjavik was a busier airport than either Knock or Inverness, and no one remembered our boy.

I checked flights out of Reykjavik under the name Brian Smith, but of course, no one matching that name had left in the past twenty-four hours. No one with the name Brian Smith had gone through passport control.

The security footage from passport control was no help either. Several flights had landed at once, and hundreds of men had come through roughly matching Williams’s height and build, but none that looked exactly like him.

He had switched identities again.

This, it seemed, was where the trail went dead.

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