***
Somehow, Martin McFosters survived the journey. The menu was the same as last week, and he wouldn’t mind a quid for every time he’d seen ‘The Hunt for Red October.’ Sean Connery as a Russian submarine captain with a Scottish accent was the only faintly entertaining thing about the whole film. But he’d never heard of any of the others, so he’d half watched it again, and pretended to doze, between glasses, to prevent neighbours from getting too chatty.
Now he ambled with the crowds towards the immigration desk at Washington's sprawling Dulles International airport, with his mind almost in neutral. Not because of the free drink, of course. It had already been a long and tiring day, and in any case, he knew automatically where to go and what to do. There was no novelty in it for him any more.
Eventually he got to the head of the queue - inevitably, the others had moved quicker than the one he’d chosen to join. He shoved his passport towards the immigration officer, as he had done so often before. The man smiled, took it, glanced at it, looked up, and turned to his hidden computer screen. His fingers moved deftly across the keyboard, although, an Irish-American himself, Clint thought he recognised the passport's owner. The computer confirmed McFosters identity, and flashed up special instructions, in red. This often happened with VIPs or semi-VIPs.
"You're expected," said Clint, looking up. "There's a guy waiting for you outside."
"There always is", said McFosters, wondering who it would be this time.
Clint squinted again at the passport. This was one they'd been waiting for all right, and although he'd been told to hang on to it, it looked OK to him.
“I need to get this checked out," he said, waving the passport towards McFosters. "You go through, and this will catch up with you later. I guess we know where you're staying."
They should do, thought McFosters - they made the booking. Probably the Sheraton again. He hoped so, anyway. Very comfortable that was.
But he was uneasy. He never liked being parted from his passport, even if he was being treated like a VIP.
“I’ll hang on to it, if you don’t mind,” he said, holding out his hand to take it back.
“Sorry,” said Clint, “orders.” And he waived vaguely towards the computer monitor in his cubicle, as if that explained everything.
“Why can’t you check it out now, while I wait?” demanded McFosters.
“Because I can’t, that’s why,” said Clint, getting annoyed. “Just relax. We know who you are and where you’re staying, and we’ll get it back to you as soon as we can. OK?”
McFosters thought it probably was OK after all, nodded, and went through. If the worse came to the worse, he had another passport at home - and an Irish one, too, just in case of emergencies. But they were both forgeries. Good ones mind, but forgeries none the less. He always preferred to use the real thing when on legitimate business, even if it was a British one. Anyway, he was tired, and was looking forward to a hot shower and a decent meal. The man smiled again, as he headed for baggage reclaim and customs.
"You needn't bother with that this time, Mr McFosters," said a voice.
It belonged to a tall, crew-cut man in a loose fitting raincoat. McFosters had never been met ‘air-side’ before - always after customs. The man did not introduce himself, but they shook hands.
“Sorry about the passport,” said the man. “Don’t worry about it - just red tape, or another survey or some damned thing. I’ll see you get it back. Anyway, we can skip customs. We'll find your bag and have it taken to your hotel, along with the passport. I've got a car for you right outside. You’re booked in to the Sheraton - they say you like it there."
“Yes I do.” said McFosters.
This was different. McFosters grinned his thanks. Perhaps, after all, people were beginning to take him and his cause seriously again, on this side of the Atlantic, if not the other.
“Personally,” said the man, “personally, I prefer motels. They’re clean, cheap, and don’t ask too many questions about who you’re with. Know what I mean?” he said with a wink.
McFosters followed his escort, down long, dimly lit corridors, through the customs admin. offices - almost empty at this time of night - and out on to one of the myriad of small internal roads that carved the airport into a small town. They got into the waiting limo, and drove off in silence.