‘Something a bit odd, skipper. Someone left this propped between two coffee cups in the midsection galley. Never showed himself. Anonymous, I suspect.’
He held out the envelope.
Adrian Fallon’s stomach turned over. In thirty years with the company he had never had a hijack and never a bomb-scare, but he knew several colleagues who had. It was the abiding nightmare. Now it looked as if he had one or the other. He tore open the envelope and, perched on the edge of the bunk, read it. The note began:
‘Captain, I regret that I am unable to sign this, but I absolutely do not want to get involved. Nevertheless, I hope I am a dutiful citizen and feel I should let you know what I have observed. Two of your passengers have been behaving extremely strangely and in a manner that defies logical explanation.’
The letter went on to describe in detail what the observer had seen and why it had seemed so odd as to rank as very suspicious. It ended:
‘The two passengers concerned are a man who looks like a hippie: scruffy, disreputable, the sort probably no stranger to what are called exotic substances; he is seated in 30 C. The other I cannot place but he certainly came from First or Club Class.’
There was a description of the elegant man and finally the words:
‘I hope I am not causing trouble, but if these two men are colluding with each other over some matter, it could be a matter about which the authorities would wish to be informed.’
Pompous ass, thought Fallon. What authorities, if not Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise, and spying on his own passengers was something that stuck in his craw. He passed the letter to Harry Palfrey. The CSD read it and pursed his lips.
‘Midnight assignation?’ he suggested.
Fallon knew about Harry Palfrey, who knew he knew, so the captain chose his words.
‘Nothing to indicate they fancied each other. And anyway, where could they have met before, if not Bangkok? So why not make a rendezvous in Heathrow? Why outside a loo door which they did not attempt to enter? Blast and damn. Harry, get me the passenger list, would you?’
While the CSD went on his errand, Fallon combed his hair, straightened his shirt and asked the relief captain, ‘Current position?’
‘Greek coast coming up. Something amiss, Adrian?’
‘Hopefully not.’
Palfrey came back with the list. Seat 30 C was down to one Kevin Donovan.
‘What about the other man? The elegant one?’
‘I think I’ve seen him,’ said Palfrey. ‘First Class, seat 2 K.’ He riffled through the passenger list. ‘Down as Mr Hugo Seymour.’
‘Let’s confirm it before we jump anywhere,’ said the captain. ‘Slip down quietly and patrol both First and Club. Look for cream silk trousers coming out from under the blankets. Check in the wardrobes for a cream silk jacket to make up a suit.’
Palfrey nodded and padded downstairs. Fallon rang for a strong black coffee and checked the flight details.
The Flight Management System into which the route had been loaded before take-off nine hours earlier had ensured that Speedbird One Zero was right on track and schedule, passing over Greece four hours from touchdown. It was 2.20 a.m. London time and 3.20 a.m. Greek time and still pitch-black outside. There was broken cloud far below, showing the occasional twinkle of lights, and the stars were bright above.
AdrianFallon was no more civically minded than the next man, and certainly less than the anonymous prat he was carrying in Economy, but he had a quandary. Nothing in the note indicated his command was in danger, and that being so his first reaction was to ignore it.
The trouble was, the British Airline Pilots’ Association, BALPA, had a security committee and he was its vice-chairman. If anything was discovered at Heathrow, if either passenger Seymour or Donovan fell foul of the police or Customs for committing a pretty substantial offence, and word leaked out that he had been specifically warned about both passengers and had done nothing, the explanations would be difficult. A rock and a hard place. As Greece gave way to the Balkans he made a decision. Harry Palfrey had seen the note, not to mention the ‘dutiful citizen’ who had written it, and if anything blew up at Heathrow, who would stay silent to protect his rear end? So, better safe than sorry. He decided to transmit a brief non-panic forewarning, not to Customs and Excise but just to his own company duty officer yawning through the night shift at Heathrow.
To broadcast on the open channel would be to tell half the pilots heading towards Heathrow and there would be a score or more at that very moment, so he might as well take an ad in The Times. But BA airliners carry a gizmo called ACARS.
The Aircraft Communications, Addressing and Reporting System would enable him to send a message to BA (Ops) at Heathrow with some confidentiality. After that it would be thankfully out of his hands.
The CSD came back from below. It is Hugo Seymour, he said, no doubt about it. Right, said Fallon, and sent his brief message. They passed over Belgrade.
Bill Butler never received his four thirty wake-up alarm. At ten to four the phone rang. It was his duty man at Terminal Four, Heathrow. As he listened he slipped his legs from under the duvet and came awake fast. Twenty minutes later he was in his car, driving and calculating.
He knew all about decoys and anonymous denunciations. They were almost the oldest trick in the book. First, the anonymous phone call from a public booth somewhere in the city, denouncing someone on an incoming flight as being a carrier.
It was impossible for Customs to ignore the call, even though they might be 90 per cent certain the described tourist was simply an innocent, spotted and chosen at the point of departure. The caller would of course be a gang member based in London.
The described person would have to be intercepted while unnoticed in the throng the real carrier slipped past, looking innocent as the morning dew.