Chapter 43

It was well past midnight and George did not leave the terminal at Beirut airport, strikingly modern after Larnaca. As soon as he had cleared immigration and collected his bag he headed for the ticket desks and after studying the departure boards for several minutes, bought a single ticket for an early flight to Nice before settling down in a waiting area to try to get a few hours’ rest – the first since being woken by Stelios’ telephone call. To his surprise he dozed fitfully until finally disturbed by a cleaner’s machine, polishing the floor around his feet in the first pale grey of the new day. The policeman who checked his passport gave him a bad moment when he looked at the arrival stamp. In response to the raised eyebrows, he brandished his creditless mobile telephone and mumbled a few words about ‘business’ and ‘problem’ that seemed to satisfy the official.

At Nice he bought a single ticket to Stansted for the following day on a budget airline and trusted a taxi driver to take him to a hotel so he could shower, change, sleep and regain his composure. Slightly light-headed with fatigue and relief from strain, he had checked into the quiet, back street hotel as George Firethorn. Bushed, he hung the ‘do not disturb’ sign on his doorknob and, feeling safe for the first time in two days, slept until late afternoon. In the moment between waking and sleeping, he realised he had been dreaming about Susan. It was a pleasant dream and he struggled to recover it but it had slipped away. Showered and rested, he went for a stroll, looking for a restaurant where he could book a table for dinner. Even this late in the season, there were still plenty of tourists on the streets, most of them French, he thought. The sun was already behind the mountains and to avoid the growing chill he went into a seafront bar and ordered a kir. Out of habit, he took note of people who followed him in or seemed to pass more than once along the pavement outside the open door but he told himself that it was unnecessary. If someone planned to do him harm it would not happen here and, in any case, it would have been almost impossible for anyone to follow him from Cyprus or to have predicted his movements so as to lay a trap. He told himself firmly that he was worrying about nothing, let out the long breath he had been holding inside, relaxed and ordered another drink. An hour and a half after he had left his room, he returned to the hotel, collected his key from the concierge and took the lift to the second floor. Still a little too early for dinner, he put on the jacket he had come to collect, poured himself a duty free whiskey and stepping out on to the narrow balcony, he leaned lightly against the wrought iron balustrade to watch the cars stopping and starting at the traffic lights below him. Just before he allowed his full weight to bear on the railing he felt it shift and a slip beneath his elbows and stepped back. One end of the railing had come loose from the wall sending a small shower of pebbles of mortar on the pavement below and generating an angry expostulation from a passer by. The railing hung precariously, one end free in the evening air, the other barely held by crumbled mortar and stonework. George was breathing heavily and felt a prickle of sweat. An accident; of course it was an accident. He peered at the end of the railing. It was rusty but showed no sign of interference. The fragments of mortar remaining in the broken angle of the wall just looked like old concrete that had crumbled with age. Of course it was just an accident. Nobody would know that he would lean on the railing. Come to that nobody could even know that he would go on to the balcony. The dried pigeon droppings on the balcony swam into sharp focus and he stepped back into the room and tipped his head back to swallow the whisky in a single gulp that made him cough. His room had been serviced while he was out, the bed was smoothed, the clothes he had tossed on a chair had been folded and hung over its back. The curtains he had closed to sleep had been opened. It had been nearly dark when he had gone out. It must have been fully dark by the time the chambermaid had serviced the room. He pulled himself together and went down to the concierge’s desk. In his halting French he managed to explain about the broken balustrade. He had half expected a reaction that implied that he had carelessly damaged hotel property but before he had finished speaking, the concierge broke into a fulsome apology and expressions of relief that his guest had been fortunate to escape any injury. He would send someone immediately to make the railing secure until it could be properly repaired. Even in French, the apology sounded rehearsed, like a script. Perhaps the aging hotel had many mishaps. Ten minutes later, the concierge himself appeared with a length of string and, tutting his dismay at the damage, secured the railing to the handle of the balcony doors which he closed firmly with instructions that Monsieur was under no circumstances to go on to the balcony again. George went to dinner. Returning an hour and a half later, he carefully checked all the equipment and appliances in the room and bathroom before double locking his door and carefully balancing a glass on the door handle. Waking with a start in pale light and with the sound of traffic filtering through the curtains his first thought was that he had not checked on the safety of his file of papers. In a panic he leapt out of bed and went straight to his bag. The file was not in the back pocket. Frantically he rummaged in the other compartments and almost cheered with relief when his hand found it in the outside, zipped compartment. Surely he had not put it there? He must have. And the glass was still balanced on the doorknob. It was okay; he had been exaggerating his danger. Again. He wanted very much to go home but he did not know where that was. Stansted was the next stop.

Still in a state of nervous agitation, he presented his passport at the immigration desk. The official looked at the page with the photograph and glanced up at George’s face. Something in George’s expression must have triggered a twinge of suspicion because the immigration officer changed her mind at the last second and, instead of handing the passport straight back, she flicked through the pages showing entry and exit stamps before raising her eyes again to look impassively at George. He thought he was going to be sick but he grimaced in what he hoped was an innocent smile and forced himself to say nothing. The official held his eyes for a long half second and handed back the passport. George almost grabbed it and moved away from the desk, fiercely crushing the impulse to hurry. His bag was almost the last on the carousel and by the time it popped up the conveyor, he had all but convinced himself that it had been identified by some invisible security process and that he was to be held at the airport. He almost ran through the customs hall but there was nobody there to see him and he headed straight for the train to London finally arriving in Croydon in the afternoon, still in a state of anxiety. Deborah handed him his couriered package and told him he would have to sleep on the sofa. If there was any ambiguity in his reception he was unaware of it.