The sun was a pale red circle rising through a veil of clouds.
The first of the planes appeared in the distance – a Bombardier 6000 private jet. It touched down and came to a slow roll at the end of the runway. As it taxied around in their direction, the five UN representatives stood in a line in front of their chauffeur-driven cars.
‘Tell me this wasn’t a bad idea,’ Longstaff said to Hill.
Hill replied with a shrug and a sip on her drive-through coffee.
‘Come on, Trevor,’ Popov said, hands dug in the pockets of his black suit trousers. ‘This can’t be the worst thing you’ve ever done.’
‘High treason?’ Longstaff huffed. ‘Oh no, not at all.’
Zhao smoked a cigarette. ‘How did you convince the secretary general?’ he asked Blanc between drags.
The French representative pulled the lapels of her navy overcoat tight to her neck and pushed the breeze out of her hair. ‘It was easy,’ she said, watching the second plane glide into view. ‘I told him that if he didn’t, I’d never sleep with him again.’
Popov choked on his vodka-laced coffee.
‘That and the threat of nuclear war,’ Blanc continued.
‘Well, there is that,’ Hill said, watching the second plane arrive.
In the space of an hour, four more private jets came in to land. They completed a full set of six, arranged in a semicircle across the tarmac from the delegates. An orange airport bus trundled into view and parked off to the right. Its doors opened and the driver climbed out and lit a cigarette. A handful of UN peacekeepers waited on board in blue-grey fatigues, armed with assault rifles.
‘So, who goes first?’ Blanc asked.
‘How about all at the same time?’ Hill suggested.
Zhao nodded with a satisfied grunt. Longstaff and Popov concurred. They each took out a phone and made a call to their people.
One by one, the doors on the idling jets opened, staircases lowering to the ground. The first person to appear was Yuri Baptiste, freed by Dominique Blanc. He looked impeccable in a dark-blue suit and white open-necked shirt. He strolled down the steps in handcuffs with a young male assistant of Blanc’s in tow.
‘Is that what they wear in your prisons?’ Popov asked of Baptiste’s attire.
‘We arrested him at the Louvre,’ Blanc said. ‘An art exhibition.’
‘You don’t burn the clothes?’ Zhao asked.
‘Burn a Givenchy?’ Blanc said in disbelief. ‘Certainement pas.’
The second of the trades appeared in the doorway of a Learjet with gold Arabic writing on the fuselage.
‘The Australian, he one of yours?’ Popov asked Hill.
She nodded. ‘He was a private contractor protecting US personnel. So technically, yes.’
‘Looks like you found him in a cave,’ Zhao said.
Hill warmed her hands on her coffee cup. ‘You’re not far off.’
Russell Pope shuffled down the steps and looked up at the sky. He took a giant gulp of air, as if relieved.
Next appeared Sunny Wells, dressed as if fresh from a morning jog. Then Maria Rios, swamped by an orange jumpsuit, her hand in a bandage. She plodded down the stairs with one of the hired security men Hill had dispatched to Colorado.
Like Rios, Isobel Lim appeared in her prison uniform – light-blue bottoms and a white vest. Her hands were cuffed, an armed guard in a black stab vest accompanying Zhao’s pencil-thin male assistant.
Zhao puffed out his cheeks as he considered Lim. ‘Whose idea was it to release her?’
Longstaff scowled across the line at Zhao. ‘Yours, remember?’
‘I must have been drunk,’ Zhao said, blowing smoke from his nostrils.
‘Where’s your second one?’ Blanc asked Hill.
‘I don’t know,’ Hill said, eying the remaining jet with concern.
‘Why do you get two, anyway?’ Zhao asked.
Hill cracked a smile. ‘Because it was my idea.’
‘This one’s worth at least three,’ Popov said.
‘Tell it to Gilmore,’ Hill said. ‘She’s the number one draft pick.’
The sixth and final trade appeared in the doorway of her jet, direct from Siberia. With a bandaged left wrist and straggling blond hair in a ponytail, she swayed like a drunk at closing time. Her blue eyes shot red and her face white like a ghoul, she sported filthy prison clothes caked in blood. The woman staggered down the stairs and blinked into the light as if she’d just woken up.
‘Jesus,’ Hill murmured.
‘How many’s she had?’ asked Longstaff.
‘Prisoner Ninety-Three,’ Popov said with a rueful shake of the head. ‘Can’t believe we’re handing her over.’
As Hill’s last prisoner stepped onto the tarmac, the new arrivals stood waiting at the foot of the stairs to their planes. All except Lim, held on her knees with an M4 rifle to the back of her head.
Longstaff ran a hand over his craggy old face and motioned to the assembled prisoners. ‘This is what we’re pinning our hopes on?’
‘I was definitely drunk,’ said Zhao.
‘Let’s get on with it,’ Hill replied, signalling her two assistants. ‘I’ve got a busy day.’
The other delegates each raised a hand. Their assistants nudged their respective prisoners on in the direction of the airport bus. They trudged in single file across the runway. The armed UN guard pulled Lim to her feet and marched her at gunpoint. She shuffled in chains, a safe distance behind the others.
One at a time, the prisoners boarded the bus. Still in cuffs, but otherwise released. Lim’s armed guard looked as if he couldn’t wait to get away from her. She followed Ninety-Three onto the bus and the doors closed.
As the delegates’ assistants hurried over to join their superiors, the bus set off and pulled around in a circle.
‘Well, that’s it,’ Longstaff said, breaking from the group. ‘Let’s hope to God this works.’
‘See you in the next emergency meeting,’ Hill replied, as the delegates walked to their cars.
‘If I don’t see you in the nuclear bunker,’ Longstaff said.
‘Jeez, cheer up, Trevor,’ Hill said. ‘You’ll live longer.’
Popov paused in front of his car. ‘A smile won’t save you from a nuke.’
‘Or The Hague,’ Zhao added, grinding the last of his cigarette under a polished heel.
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ Hill said, as the delegates slipped inside their cars. As she settled into the plush leather surroundings of the stretch Mercedes, hope was all she had.