Wollerton arrived at the airport after walking most of the night and immediately went to the men’s room to wash away the filth and fatigue. He emerged looking more like a normal traveller and went to the Hainan ticket desk where he was tested for coronavirus. When he was confirmed negative, he booked a flight to London using a false passport and credit card in the name of John Tucker. Brigitte had provided the identity so he knew there was a risk it would be flagged. Even after the payment cleared and the helpful representative gave him his boarding pass, Wollerton wasn’t able to shake the ominous feeling the police or people far more sinister were circling, and might seize him at any moment. He passed through security and found a pay-by-the-minute Internet terminal in the departure lounge, which he used to send a warning to Leila and Pearce.
He wandered around the airport, marvelling at the luxury goods adverts and shops that were a sign of just how much wealth now flowed through China. When his gate was announced, he made his way to border control.
Wollerton shifted uneasily as he waited in line. This was the final check before he could get to his flight. He looked at the row of stern-faced men and women, wearing surgical masks, sealed in the tiny booths, each studying the documents of early morning travellers. Most of the passengers manifested the nervous concern of the innocent and the fear of authority that came with it. Wollerton tried to emulate it. He didn’t want to appear too casual, but at the same time he had to keep a lid on the corrosive anxiety that threatened to overwhelm him.
The woman in front of him was waved forward, and as she approached the booth directly opposite, the knot in Wollerton’s stomach tightened. He was next in line. If Brigitte had given up his false identity this was where he’d find out. The border official’s computer would be connected to police and intelligence systems and when the John Tucker passport was scanned, it would flag any problem immediately.
The border officer, a young woman with a long black ponytail and an unforgiving face, handed the passport back to the traveller and waved her on. She looked at Wollerton and signalled him to step forward.
‘Passport,’ she said flatly, as he reached the booth.
‘Oh, sorry,’ he replied, fumbling in his pockets. He handed over his passport and boarding pass. ‘There we go,’ he said with a smile.
He got nothing but a stern look in reply. She took the documents and scanned them. The time she spent studying the screen seemed to last a thousand nerve-racking years. Wollerton felt sick, but he swallowed back a mouthful of bile and smiled again. Freya and Luke rose in his mind unbidden, and he fixed on the memory of his children’s sweet faces and prayed they would protect him from harm.
‘OK,’ she said, handing him his passport and boarding pass.
‘Thank you,’ Wollerton said, as he walked away.
The tension melted, but he didn’t truly relax until he felt the undercarriage retract as the Airbus A330 rose into the sky.