Page 7 of Licence To Howl
The main concourseof Heathrow’s Terminal 5 was busy. Devereau’s gaze swept across the crowds, from the harried looking business men and women to the tired parents and over-excited kids. He cracked his knuckles and hoped this latest venture wouldn’t prove to be a test like the last one.
He used the electronic machines to check in for his flight before dropping off his bag. It was a crying shame that he was travelling economy. He’d rather hoped that MI5 would spring for a better seat. After all, he was a werewolf on a mission and he had a status to maintain. He’d suggest it to Greensmith next time. Unfortunately, Devereau hadn’t yet found the key to unlocking the steely MI5 agent’s cool reserve. But he promised himself that he would sooner or later.
He joined the line for the departure gates, taking up position behind a woman in a flowery dress and long overcoat. She glanced round at him. Then she blinked. His reputation clearly preceded him. Devereau smiled easily at her. He caught her gaze drifting fearfully down towards his ticket. She wanted to make sure that she wasn’t going to be sharing a flight with a werewolf.
‘I’m heading to Rome,’ he told her. He might as well be helpful.
Relief flickered across her expression. She was travelling elsewhere then. ‘Good,’ she said. Then she seemed to realise she’d given too much of her true thoughts away and hastily added, ‘It’s lovely at this time of year. I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time.’
Devereau deliberately bared his teeth. The woman flinched. ‘I’m sure I will,’ he drawled.
They shuffled forward. The woman shrugged out of her coat and placed it on the conveyor belt. Devereau did the same behind her, adding his small bag, keys, wallet and passport to a grey plastic tray. He watched as she walked up to the full body scanner, submitting briefly before continuing. A moment later, the uniformed officer beckoned towards him. He strolled up, aware that a considerable number of other waiting passengers were watching him. The woman hadn’t been the only person who’d recognised him.
‘Step this way, sir,’ the officer said blandly.
Devereau nodded and walked into the scanner, spreading his legs and raising his arms above his head. There was a swishing sound as the machine sprang into the action. It was followed by a high-pitched beep of warning. Huh. The fearful flowery woman hadn’t been beeped.
‘Remain where you are, sir,’ the officer intoned.
The machine swished again. Again there was a beep. Out of the corner of his eye, Devereau saw three more uniformed officers marching in his direction. These ones were armed. Okaaay.
The woman ahead lifted her coat from the other end of the conveyor belt and turned to watch. She permitted herself a tiny nod of satisfaction. As long as dangerous beasts like Devereau Webb were prevented from travelling then all was well with the world. Apparently.
‘Mr Webb,’ one of the gun-toting officers said, ‘please come with us.’
‘I feel like I’m being profiled.’
The officer’s eyes were stone cold. ‘Are you refusing to come?’
Devereau held up his palms in submission. ‘Not at all. I was merely passing comment. I know my place.’
‘I doubt that,’ a second officer muttered under his breath.
Devereau’s wolf itched. He remained outwardly calm, however, and even managed a pleasant smile. ‘Lead the way, gentlemen.’
Two of the officers flanked him while the third took up the front. He noted his bag and belongings were being gingerly scooped up and removed from the conveyor belt. Rather than let the stain of humiliation show on his face, Devereau continued to smile. He also waved enthusiastically at the flowery woman as he passed her.
‘So lovely to meet you!’ he trilled.
She chose not to answer. Devereau wondered whether Italians were friendlier towards supes. And whether he’d get the chance to find out either way for himself. He followed his new entourage through a heavy steel door and decided that at least he would enjoy watching the expressions of the gun loving officers when MI5 got in touch and explained what he was really doing at Heathrow.
Without ceremony, Devereau was deposited in a small room which contained nothing more than a small table and two chairs. He’d barely sat down when the door opened again and Sarah Greensmith herself appeared. Devereau couldn’t mask his emotions quickly enough.
She offered him a quick smile. ‘You seem surprised to see me, Mr Webb. I did tell you I’d make contact before you boarded.’
Devereau’s jaw tightened. This time Greensmith had gained the upper hand on him. It wasn’t something he enjoyed although she certainly appeared happy about it. ‘I was expecting a phone call. Not an arrest.’
Her mouth tightened. ‘Hmm. Yes, well, this wasn’t my idea.’ She shook herself. ‘But this sort of thing is much better when it’s done in person and we can’t risk meeting out in the open any longer.’ She waved an airy hand around. ‘This way nobody beyond a select group of people will ever know that I am talking to you. Even the security officers who brought you here don’t suspect what’s really going on. This is what you signed up for.’
Perhaps. But meeting in public hadn’t been a problem last time. ‘Hauling me into a back room still seems like overkill.’
‘It’s for your safety, Mr Webb.’
Uh huh. ‘It kills two birds with one stone too, doesn’t it? That little charade you pulled out there will have proven to all those other people that their taxes are being put to good use and that supes are being kept in their place.’
Greensmith didn’t bother denying it.
‘You’re reinforcing negative stereotypes,’ he growled.
