Last Chance, page 3
‘Your wife told you she was going to use the toilet at the front of the plane and you haven’t seen her since?’ asked Friday.
‘Yes,’ snapped Mr Lavigne. ‘That’s what I just said.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Friday, turning to the front of the plane.
‘What?!’ demanded Mr Lavigne.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Friday. ‘I’m afraid your wife has left. She’s probably on her way to her lawyer’s office right now to begin divorce paperwork.’
‘What?’ said the man. ‘She got on the plane.’
‘Yes,’ said Friday. ‘That is interesting. She evidently wanted a three-hour window.’
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded the man.
‘This is a ninety-minute flight,’ said Friday. ‘That means that the minimum amount of time it will take you to get back to Oslo is three hours, probably much longer because you’ll have to wait a while for a return flight. Also, you will probably have to talk to the police about the disturbance you’ve caused on this flight.’ Friday turned to the flight attendant. ‘Are you filing a complaint about his behaviour?’
‘Definitely,’ said the flight attendant. ‘The ground crew have already been informed. Police will be waiting for him at the gate.’
‘You can’t do that!’ snapped Mr Lavigne. ‘I’m the victim here.’
‘Yelling on airplanes is frowned upon,’ said Melanie. Her father owned an airline so she knew all about such things. ‘It makes everyone very anxious. Think of all the passengers who can’t speak English. They’ve got no idea what you’re yelling about.’
‘So, by the time you settle all that, get released from custody and manage to fly back – on another airline because this airline will probably never fly you again,’ said Friday.
The flight attendant nodded.
‘Your wife could be anywhere, literally anywhere, in the world,’ continued Friday. ‘You lost her at an airport, which is the worst place to lose someone if you want to follow them. She could be en route to Fiji to sip cocktails, or Borneo to explore the rainforest or Venezuela to observe the Catatumbo storm system. I know that’s where I’d go. I’ve always wanted to see it. You know they have electrical storms on about a hundred and fifty nights of the year.’
‘Lovely,’ said Melanie. ‘Like a free fireworks show.’
‘But how did she get off a moving airplane?’ demanded Mr Lavigne. ‘You just said she can’t have parachuted off and survived.’ A dreadful thought occurred to him. ‘Do you think she didn’t survive?’
‘I’m sure she’s very much alive and well,’ said Friday. ‘You see, this plane is an Airbus A320.’ She smiled as if this fact proved her point.
‘So what?’ asked Mr Lavigne.
‘An Airbus A320 only has two toilets, and they’re both at the rear of the plane,’ said Friday, pointing out the location. ‘It’s clearly indicated by the illuminated pictographs on the ceiling by the cockpit. You’d have to be wildly unobservant – perhaps because you were constantly distracted by a mobile phone – not to notice that.’
‘What are you saying?’ asked Mr Lavigne.
‘When your wife said she was going to the toilet at the front, she was lying,’ explained Friday. ‘The front and rear doors of the plane were still open, because passengers were still boarding there. It would have been so simple for Mrs Lavigne to come in the back door with you, walk straight down the aisle and leave through the front door before it closed.’
‘Preposterous,’ said the man.
‘What does your wife look like?’ asked Friday.
‘Five foot four, dark hair,’ said the man.
Friday turned to the passengers at the front of the plane. ‘Did anyone notice a short, dark-haired woman push past them as they were boarding?’
The passengers looked confused.
‘Was your wife the same age as you?’ asked Friday.
‘Yes, forty-six. Why?’ asked the man.
‘People never notice middle-aged women,’ said Friday. ‘It’s like wearing an invisibility cloak.’
‘A passenger did get off at the front,’ said another flight attendant, who had been attending to the business-class passengers at the front of the plane. ‘I remember, because she looked me in the eyes. Passengers don’t often do that. She smiled the loveliest smile and told me to have a nice day.’
‘Was she short, middle-aged and dark-haired?’ asked Friday.
‘Yes,’ said the flight attendant.
‘There you go,’ said Friday. ‘Mystery solved.’
‘No,’ said Mr Lavigne. He seemed to be going into shock.
‘Oh yes,’ said Friday. ‘I’m afraid your wife ran away. There are two ways of running away from someone. You run. Or you stand still while they run – or in this case fly. She chose a very energy-efficient way of gaining her freedom.’
‘We have to go back,’ muttered Mr Lavigne.
‘We can’t turn the plane around, sir,’ said the flight attendant.
‘But I need to find her,’ pleaded Mr Lavigne.
‘Good luck,’ said Friday. ‘If she is clever enough to stage this, I doubt you will. Now we’ve resolved that, would you mind not yelling anymore? I need to read a book.’
The flight from Oslo to Paris only took ninety minutes, but there is something about being jammed in a confined space with two hundred strangers while hurtling through the air and eating unconscionably bad food that makes you always feel slightly grotty when you get off. Friday and Melanie trudged with their hand luggage towards the baggage claim. In Friday’s case, her hand luggage was all her luggage (having lost her suitcase on the way to Norway, she had barely any personal items now) but Melanie had used every ounce of her checkable baggage allotment.
Airports are designed to be calming, or at least emotionally deadening. The soft, inoffensive music. The cool tile floor. The long wide corridors to traverse. The whole thing encourages quietness. People keep their voices down in airports if for no other reason than because they sense anything they say loudly will bounce of all the hard surfaces. It’s classic behavioural control through architecture. If everyone speaks softly, everyone stays calm. But this was not the case today. As Friday and Melanie came down the escalators into the baggage collection area, there was a disturbance taking place.
People weren’t exactly screaming in panic, but there were definite yelps of alarm and raised voices of parents urging their children to stay back. It was hard to see what was going on because there were so many people and luggage carts, but Friday and Melanie could hear a distinct voice yelling over the rest of the noise.
‘Hands where we can see them!’ bellowed a man. ‘Hands where we can see them!’
From their raised position on the descending escalator, Friday and Melanie could see that heavily armed police officers in fatigues and body armour had pinned someone to the ground. The person held under the officers’ knees looked small, much smaller than the police officers. Friday realised the person they were restraining was a woman. She was wearing a grey pants suit, so her gender was not immediately apparent, but she had a large swathe of black hair that indicated she was female. Two other officers stood back with their weapons trained on her.
‘Get off me!’ demanded the woman. She was straining but she couldn’t move with three much larger men pinning her to the ground.
‘Don’t move!’ ordered the chief officer.
‘I’m a law enforcement officer,’ said the woman. ‘I have ID.’
‘DON’T MOVE!’ he screamed even louder. She evidently had moved. People in the crowd screamed as the two officers who were still standing lunged forward with guns raised.
‘I was just going to show you my ID,’ said the woman.
‘Take her gun,’ the chief barked at one of his men.
‘Please don’t take my gun,’ said the woman. ‘I am an Interpol officer. I need it for work.’
Friday’s feet were drawing her towards the fray.
‘We should stay back,’ said Melanie, grabbing her by the arm. ‘You just got out of hospital.’
But Friday noticed something abandoned on the ground near the melee. A clipboard with the words ‘FRIDAY BARNES and MELANIE PELLY’ written in big bold type.
‘I think she’s here for us,’ said Friday. She stepped forward and took out the Interpol ID that had been inside her satchel. ‘Excuse me, we’re with Interpol. We are expecting Agent Okeke to meet us.’
‘That’s me,’ said the woman. Her voice was very muffled, as it came from beneath the scrum of officers. ‘I am Agent Okeke.’
‘Hello,’ said Friday.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Melanie, bending over to try to make eye contact with Agent Okeke, whose face was now being squashed into the ground. ‘Sorry, you don’t seem to be having a good day.’
The chief inspected Friday and Melanie’s IDs. He looked like he wanted to tear them up.
‘Since when did Interpol start recruiting teenagers?’ he asked snidely.
‘Since adult behaviour became so ridiculous,’ suggested Friday, looking from him to her colleague restrained on the ground.
The chief glowered at her, then spoke into a walkie talkie that was clipped to his shoulder strap. ‘I need a background check on two alleged Interpol analysts named . . . Friday Barnes and Melanie Pelly.’
‘She’s got one too,’ said one of the officers kneeling on Agent Okeke as he went through her pockets. He handed an Interpol identity wallet to his superior.
The chief’s expression barely changed. But there was the slightest slump of his shoulders, characteristic of someone who realises they have just made a terrible mistake that means they will have to do a lot of paperwork.
‘They both check out, chief,’ came a voice over the walkie talkie, ‘Freitag, alias Friday, Barnes and Melanie Pelly are with Interpol and it was flagged on our database that they would be passing through the airport today. They were to be met by armed agent Briana Okeke.’
‘Let her up,’ said the chief. ‘Weapons down.’
The officers released Agent Okeke. She got to her feet and brushed off her clothes. Airport floors aren’t terribly clean. No-one would choose to lie on one. Certainly no-one would choose to lie on one while several great big men wearing body armour kneeled on her.
Now she was standing up, they could see that Agent Okeke was very slightly built and not terribly tall. She was also of African descent, so she stood out in contrast against the five men who had detained her. But her most distinguishing feature was her rage. It was evidently towering. She glared hard at the chief.
‘I know this is because I am black,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘No, it is because you are carrying a gun in an airport,’ said the chief. ‘A security guard noticed your weapon and sounded the alert. To carry a weapon in an airport in France, you must wear appropriate identification.’
‘Like this one,’ said Agent Okeke, holding up another Interpol ID badge that had been hanging on a lanyard around her neck the whole time.
‘Apparently a mistake was made,’ said the chief.
‘You saw the gun, you saw my skin colour and you assumed I was a terrorist,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘That is racial profiling. That is racist.’
The chief shrugged. ‘Not at all. In France we are a multicultural country. We treat all gun-wielding women at the airport equally.’
‘I’m going to report you,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘Fine,’ said the chief. ‘I was just doing my job. The people of France want to be kept safe.’
‘Who keeps them safe from you?’ asked Melanie.
The chief turned and glared at her. But Melanie had asked her question so nicely, as if she was genuinely curious, so there was no way he could take exception.
‘Anyone who brings a handgun into the airport is not safe from me,’ said the chief.
He slouched off with his men.
Agent Okeke glared at him. She looked like she wanted to run after him and punch him in the back of the head.
‘Are you all right?’ said Friday.
‘Yes,’ said Agent Okeke. She bent to pick up her clipboard. ‘This sort of thing happens all the time.’
‘Really?’ said Melanie. ‘That must be wearisome. And so expensive for your dry-cleaning bill.’
‘Come with me,’ said Agent Okeke, snapping into business mode. She turned and started striding towards the exit.
‘Um . . . my bags,’ said Melanie, not moving.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘You had better get those.’ She was clearly more shaken up than she wanted to let on.
Once they were in the car, Agent Okeke had apparently decided to pretend that she hadn’t just been assaulted by a squad of heavily armed men, and Friday and Melanie instinctively went along with this.
‘Were you able to read the briefing papers on the plane?’ asked Agent Okeke.
‘Yes,’ said Friday. ‘But I have a few questions.’
‘Really?’ said Agent Okeke. ‘I thought my information was exhaustive.’
‘Yes, the information about the crime is incredibly detailed,’ agreed Friday. ‘But I don’t understand the motive.’
‘Italian nationalism,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘Vincenzo Peruggia stole the Mona Lisa because he wanted to return it to Italy. Because he was an idiot. He thought Napoleon had looted it from Italy.’
‘He hadn’t?’ asked Melanie.
‘No,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘Da Vinci gave the King of France the Mona Lisa as a gift.’
‘Yes, I get the motive for the original crime,’ said Friday. ‘I don’t get the motive for the investigation. Why now? Rumours have swirled about the Mona Lisa’s theft for years.’
‘I wasn’t authorised to brief you on that aspect of the investigation,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘Why not?’ asked Friday.
‘I wasn’t authorised to brief you on that either,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘But I can’t investigate without all the information,’ said Friday.
‘Fine,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘I’ll be sure to report that you feel incapable of doing your job.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Friday.
‘Look,’ said Agent Okeke, slamming on the brakes and glaring at Friday even though they were in the middle of a motorway and stopping suddenly was incredibly dangerous. ‘I didn’t get a master’s degree in criminology and graduate top of my class at L’École Nationale de la Police to babysit a couple of kids. This mission . . .’ She pointed at Friday and Melanie to make it clear they were her mission. ‘. . . this is an insult to me professionally. Getting you two sacked would make my day.’
‘Okay,’ said Friday. Obviously this was not okay, but Friday’s main concern was not antagonising the very angry, very upset, lady with the gun.
‘Would you like to have a good cry?’ asked Melanie. ‘I find that can be very nice when I’m feeling upset. Or perhaps a lovely nap.’
Agent Okeke just growled in response. She turned back to look at the road, put the car in gear and started driving again. They drove in silence for a few minutes before Friday found the courage to ask, ‘Um . . . so are you taking us to see Uncle Bernie?’
‘Inspector Barnes?’ asked Agent Okeke.
‘Oooh, he’s an inspector now,’ said Melanie. ‘That’s lovely. He deserves to be promoted.’
‘He’s not in Paris,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘He’s in Leipzig, Germany.’
‘Why?’ said Friday.
‘Because the director of the Louvre won’t let us test the chemical composition of the painting,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘If he did, we could all move on with our lives. The authenticity of the Mona Lisa would be confirmed in twenty-four hours. But no – heaven forbid someone in the arts community be reasonable.’
‘To test it you would need to take a sample,’ said Friday.
‘You mean, actually cut a bit out of the Mona Lisa?’ asked Melanie.
‘Only a little bit!’ argued Agent Okeke. ‘But the director refuses to allow it. And by refuses, I mean he practically has a brain aneurism at the suggestion. So now we all have to carry out this ridiculous investigation.’
‘So where are we going?’ asked Melanie. ‘Head office to meet with the governor?’
Agent Okeke made a scoffing noise. ‘You’re not high level enough to meet with her.’
‘But we did meet with her – three weeks ago in Florence,’ said Friday.
‘You did?!’ Agent Okeke looked even angrier. ‘I’ve been with the organisation for four months and I’ve never met with her. She doesn’t meet with operatives under normal circumstances. She certainly won’t meet with you now. It would compromise your cover IDs.’
‘Cover?’ said Friday. ‘We’re going undercover?’
‘Yes, that’s the arrangement,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘But we’re not trained to go undercover!’ protested Friday. ‘We don’t have any skills or know-how.’
‘Pfft,’ said Agent Okeke.
Friday wasn’t sure what this sound was supposed to mean, but she gathered it was dismissive.
‘You’re going to pose as annoying foreign teenagers,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘It will be easy for you.’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ said Melanie. ‘Friday is terrible at lying.’
‘Most people are,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘Just don’t lie. If someone asks you a question, don’t answer it. Trust me, it’s a lot easier to do than it sounds. People are surprisingly incurious.’
‘So what are our cover IDs?’ asked Friday.
‘You’re art students,’ said Agent Okeke.
‘But I’m terrible at art!’ protested Friday.
‘That’s not true,’ said Melanie. ‘Remember that time at Highcrest when you hit your head on a ceiling fan and did a lovely expressionist painting?’
‘I can’t get a head injury every time I need to create something,’ said Friday.
‘Pah,’ said Agent Okeke. ‘Most modern art is dreadful, so if you’re dreadful at it, no-one will notice.’
‘That’s a strange attitude for someone who works in the arts and antiquities unit at Interpol,’ said Friday.
