Suzanne Fessey took the turnoff to Johannesburg’s O. R. Tambo International Airport. It had been a six-hour drive from Durban. She felt invigorated despite her lack of sleep.
Bilal, the last surviving member of the team that was supposed to have met her at the Mozambican border and escorted her north to Tanzania, dozed with his head against the passenger-side window.
Dunn’s ex-wife had given her the lead she needed to catch up, or even overtake the fugitives. She had decided to let the woman live; if she had killed Tracy then Dunn would have found out and known she was closing in on him. The risk was that Mike Dunn might call her, or the real South African police might pay her a visit, but Suzanne balanced that thought with the fact that Dunn had not called her so far, so he was unlikely to ask her for help from Zimbabwe.
Bilal stirred as she parked her latest stolen car, a Chevrolet Aveo, in the high-rise car park.
‘Stay here,’ Suzanne said to Bilal. ‘I’ll go buy our tickets and come back for you. I’m going to change my appearance and then you can do the same, separately from me. The authorities will be looking for a couple.’
Bilal nodded. He was a foot-soldier, used to following orders. If he objected to being commanded by a woman, as some men did, he gave no sign of it.
Suzanne headed to the left luggage office and presented a dog- eared, crumpled ticket to the grey-haired attendant.
He checked the card. ‘Ah, but this bag has been here a long time.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘You’ve been travelling in our beautiful country?’
Suzanne looked at her wristwatch then at the man. ‘Please, I’m in a hurry, my flight leaves very soon. It’s a small black wheelie bag.’
The man checked the ticket again and turned and shuffled slowly into the storeroom behind him. Suzanne drummed her fingers on the counter top while she waited. A few minutes later the man returned with her dusty bag.
‘It took me a while to find it. Sorry for the wait.’
‘No problem.’
The man worked out the cost and Suzanne paid in cash.
‘Would you like a receipt?’
‘No, thanks, I must rush.’
Suzanne walked through the terminal to the nearest toilets. She had stopped at the shopping mall at Pietermaritzburg, outside of Durban on the road to Johannesburg, and bought herself jeans, a couple of T-shirts and some flat shoes. She had ditched her police uniform in a rubbish bin.
She let herself into a disabled bathroom and locked the door. Then she unlocked the padlock on the bag with the tiny key on her key ring and unzipped it. Inside was an Irish passport in the name of Mary O’Sullivan with her picture on the identity page, though her hair was black. Also in the bag were another change of clothes, underwear, a hand towel, a leather purse containing five thousand US dollars and twenty thousand rand in cash, and a counterfeit credit card also in her assumed name.
There was also a zip-up toiletry bag. From it Suzanne took a bottle of hair dye and a small plastic contact lenses case. She draped the hand towel around her shoulders, ran some water in the hand basin and set about dying her hair.
When she was done she rinsed her hair then opened the contact lenses case and changed the colour of her eyes from blue to brown. She stepped back a pace and regarded her new self in the mirror. She wetted a paper towel and wiped black dye from her hairline, then nodded to herself and threw the bottle in the bin. She let herself out and went into the terminal.
She made her way through Terminal A, where international departures was located, and found the British Airways office. She greeted the woman in blue behind the counter. ‘Do you have any seats available on the next flight to Zimbabwe, please?’
‘Harare, ma’am?’
‘Yes, please.’
Her red-painted nails clattered on her computer keyboard. ‘Only two seats left, ma’am, but they’re both in business class. Would that be fine?’
‘Yes, no problem, I’ll take one.’
‘OK, ma’am, I’ll make the booking. Will you be paying by card?’
‘Cash.’
‘Fine.’
The woman processed the ticket. It was expensive, but money meant nothing to Suzanne. All that motivated her was getting to her child, and the microchip in Hassan’s little body.
Suzanne looked around her, ever watchful, expecting at any minute to see a posse of armed police or CIA operatives in plain clothes. She had been trained to fight through tiredness and exhaustion and to draw sustenance from her mission. She tried not to think about the personal losses she had suffered. Her husband had died for the cause and he was in paradise. She loved their son, but she saw him as a warrior as well. His path may very well be martyrdom, but she hoped he would live.
‘Are you all right, ma’am?’ the woman asked from behind the counter.
Suzanne felt the wetness and wiped her eyes, blinking. ‘Death in the family.’
‘My deepest condolences,’ said the woman. ‘Is that why you’re going to Zimbabwe?’
Suzanne felt a surge of strength energise her and banish her tears. ‘Yes, that is why I am going to Zimbabwe.’
‘Shame. I’m so sorry.’
Suzanne nodded her thanks and left. She walked back out to the car park, trailing her wheelie bag. Bilal was leaning against a pillar, reading a discarded newspaper. He looked up as she came nearer and she indicated for him to meet her at the car.
When they were reunited she bent and unzipped her bag. ‘Get in the car.’
He did as ordered and took the passenger seat. From the bag Suzanne took out the Tokarev pistol with a silencer attached. After a quick check to make sure no one was in view or close enough to hear the muffled report, she opened the driver’s door and shot Bilal twice in the head.