Cameron could see from his seat the glass Jet Bridge closing in on the side of the Boeing.
The two men stood and approached Rachelle. She was awkwardly hunched forward peering up through the hatch window, coordinating with the Jet Bridge operator by means of a black telephone receiver jacked into the side of the cabin door. Rachelle smiled widely at Pepe and Cameron and flirtatiously raised her eyebrows as they approached. The men appreciated they were to have remained seated. She merely continued to respond to the operator with monosyllabic statements, “Clear… Clear… Five and… Clear…”
With a subtle jolt, the Jet Bridge fastened to the side of the fuselage. Rachelle seated the receiver and pulled the latch to release the cabin door.
“Welcome to Heathrow gentlemen,” said Rachelle, pulling the door clear for Pepe and Cameron to exit.
“Merci,” said Pepe.
A series of faint bells rang through the cabin. Passengers began to lift themselves from their seats and gather their carry on luggage from the overhead compartments.
“Ms. Conroy will be to the right of the Jet Bridge,” said Rachelle. Her voice raised an octave, “Thank you for flying.”
This time Cameron responded, “Thank you.” Then he shot out the hatch to catch up with Pepe, already in the glass corridor.
* * * * *
Ms. Conroy, a petite woman with her blonde hair fashioned no hassle pixie style, briskly walked toward Cameron and Pepe from the entrance of the Jet Bridge. She wore a Heathrow blazer and on her arm, a clipboard filled with sheets of itinerary that had been shuffled and flipped through already a number of times before her latest wards had arrived. In her other hand, she held a two-way mobile.
“Good morning Mister Laroque, Mister Kincaid. My name is Ms. Conroy. Welcome to London Heathrow. If you could follow me please.”
“Please step aboard gentlemen,” said Ms. Conroy, an expedient machine a moment before now paused and courteous. Cameron and Pepe climbed into the van, each nodding to the smiling young woman. She threw the door closed once they were clear and then hurled herself into the front passenger seat. Cameron raised a brow to Pepe and both were rocked back into their seats as the van accelerated away from the Jet Bridge out onto the tarmac across a road designated only by two white painted lines. The van shifted to either side, negotiating the course, the large single wiper slicing the gathering water from the windscreen, the onboard radio chirping porter information across the complex. Ms. Conroy was on her two-way as well, a different channel, flipping through her clipboard and marking the lists of flights with notations of names, checkmarks, or times with circles, a lot of circles.
Cameron and Pepe had spent years of their lives on tarmacs and found the ride familiar. While thousands of patrons roamed the terminals, the hidden underbelly of the great animal that was London Heathrow functioned as a giant organism. The van a corpuscle surging through a momentum under the wings of jets, around trains of baggage carts, petrol trucks, and dozens of other vehicles that were all part of the Heathrow eco, all moving to a breakneck choreography to accommodate the two hundred thousand people being served each day.
“Mister Laroque,” said Ms. Conroy. “As London is not your final destination arrangements have been made for Mister Kincaid and yourself. This will only take a moment. Please have your passports ready.”
The van cleared the back of a petrol truck and then spun a 180-degree turn, pulling up next to a small white concrete block building. Ms. Conroy threw open her door and in a single borderline acrobatic maneuver, swung out and slid the side panel of the van open as well.
Every time Ms. Conroy spout an order her voice would raise a polite pitch. “This way please,” she said, again marching away before Cameron or Pepe could respond.
The white building was as Spartan on the inside as out, consisting of four walls and a glassed-in customs officer on one end. To the side a small room divider leading away from the customs desk masked a table. Cameron and Pepe followed Ms. Conroy through the door and waited for her cue. “Wait here please,” said Ms. Conroy. She approached the customs officer then said something the two men could not hear that prompted the customs officer to nod his head.
“Ok, very good then,” said Ms. Conroy. “Mister Laroque you first please, and then Mister Kincaid.”
Pepe walked the four steps to the glassed in customs agent. The agent held up his open hand and said nothing. Pepe offered his French passport. The agent placed the passport on his desk. He did not scan the passport or even bother to look at the picture. He opened the passport to the middle and then, finding the pages full, flipped until he found a blank. With a thud, he stamped the ID then handed the passport back. Cameron stepped forward and the process was repeated. Before Cameron had his passport back into his hands, Ms. Conroy was at the door.
Ms. Conroy led Pepe and Cameron to the rear of a black Bentley that had driven up to the door of the discrete customs building. Seeing his passengers exit, the driver stepped out of the black limo and opened the rear door. Ms. Conroy handed Pepe a packet. “The tickets for your next leg are here. Instructions with the flight time and where to enter the airport are included.” Ms. Conroy sneered, “Please be prompt. The driver your friend has arranged also has these instructions so you should be fine. You will not need to go through customs again as you have never left the airport. Your friend felt the formality of the stamp beneficial in the event your stay is prolonged. One never knows.”
“One never knows Ms. Conroy. Merci,” said Pepe.
Ms. Conroy flashed a broad smile, and then in her manner briskly marched back to the van, chatting into her two-way, and flipping through reshuffled itineraries.
* * * * *
* * * * *
More Cameron Kincaid to come in
The Somali Deception EPISODE I
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The Somali Deception EPISODE II
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The Somali Deception EPISODE III
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Or
The Somali Deception THE COMPLETE EDITION
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