Pilots, engineers, mechanics, managers, and other members of the star-studded team were crossing the bustling hall, heading towards the check-in counter. They drew attention not only of the fans shouting farewell congratulations, but of the other passengers – because the orderly crowd dressed in distinctive brand attire moved like a single organism.
Mechanic Richard Bateman, broad-shouldered and tall – over six feet – walked in step with everyone, his blue eyes were fixed on the floor, a baseball cap on his head, a brand jacket hugging his torso, a bag in his hands. He exchanged sparse conversation with colleagues, the morning flight after a busy weekend – with only one Monday off that everyone usually spent catching up with sleep – was the usual routine. He had shaved the day before and now looked younger, the skin of his cheeks and chin had time to grow unaccustomed to the razor and was now sore.
At the turn, in the passageway between halls, the crowd split – some of the Bulls fell behind, stretching into a column as they passed the rows of waiting chairs. There was another crowd approaching – faces that jumbled into a kaleidoscope from months of travel, Richard was maneuvering through bodies automatically, hardly taking his eyes off the glistening floor, the heels and backs of his colleagues were his navigation cues.
Suddenly, someone from the oncoming crowd moved in his direction, Richard instantly recoiled, his body was faster than his mind – but not only did the stranger not change trajectory, he collided with him, grabbing Richard’s right shoulder with one arm and with the other, pressing against his left side.
Richard extended his left arm, bent at the elbow, to push the stranger – in the same jacket and baseball cap as him – away, but it didn’t save him from the blade hitting his left hypochondrium. Richard instantly felt the knife pierce his flesh – and it was a mix of sudden pain and astonishment – as if he was an air balloon, burst with a needle.
The stranger had fair eyebrows and light brown eyes, he was average height, with an unremarkable face, he smelled of sweat and laundry detergent.
“You’re a dead man, Richard North,” he said, his voice toneless, he spoke English, but with an Eastern European accent.
Only a couple of seconds had passed – but they felt like a free-fall eternity. A moment later, the stranger disappeared into the crowd, Richard was staring after him, his heart pounded loudly in his throat, blood roared in his ears, counterpointing the cacophony of the airport sounds.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” someone called out, the voice was right next to his ear, but Richard didn’t turn.
His left side was pulsating oddly, as if hot water was pouring onto it from a faucet – or as if he himself was a faucet. Richard finally realized what had happened. He tried to press down on the wound, but the hall began to sway before his eyes, he couldn’t move his hand, he didn’t even have the strength to hold it at waist level.
“Richard!”
In the back of his mind, Richard knew he was wounded, but it was as if he, from outside his body, watched his undercover colleague Dario Fisher, a radio engineer in the Rote Stier team, call to him – being kneeled in the hall of the Singapore airport – and how Fisher fails to hold him – keeling over – upright.
Fisher took his jacket off and was pressing down on the wound, trying to stop the gushing blood, a crowd of onlookers gathered around them, filming the incident. Richard didn’t see the managers’ horror or the arrival of the ambulance – he blacked out.
He didn’t remember the Singapore hospital – National University Hospital – well, he came to after the surgery when the anesthesia had worn off. The sensations were comparable to a severe hangover and a simultaneous food poisoning – a throbbing head and a fervorous churning stomach. Richard’s worst hangovers occurred in Berlin, during the Station mission, the worst poisoning of his life was in Indonesia, when he had a task as a paramedic on a medical boat.
Richard saw Fisher sitting in the chair at his bedside, he closed his eyes hoping that it was just a vision, but it didn’t help. Richard regretted not seeing any visions or dreams when he was blacked out … Thoughts, multiplying exponentially, were already beginning to tear his skull apart from the inside.
He needed to know who had wounded him, and what he should do now.
Richard opened his mouth, but only an indistinct rasp came out.
“It’s Wednesday, 4 AM, you’re in Singapore, and you look like crap,” Dario said.
Richard glanced at the wide floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Kent Ridge Park, at the panorama of the pre-dawn city, he looked around the spacious, comfortable hospital room … Rote Stier tried to take good care of him – and he could only wonder how the incident would affect future events, including those of the racing world.
The stranger was wearing brand clothing, it appeared to be an attack on the team, even though Richard knew that the Bulls had nothing to do with it.
It was a warning – not an attempt to kill him. Had the stranger wanted to kill him, he would have aimed for another, more definitively lethal spot … He called him Richard North, only those who took part in the Poets mission knew Richard North – those who knew him as the British theater actor … and those who knew Alexandra.
At that notion, Richard turned cold. He opened his mouth again, he wanted to ask for the phone, he wanted to call right away, to warn her, hear her voice …
“Everyone’s gone to Nagoya, I barely convinced them to let me stay – and I promised to be in Suzuka by Thursday. They’ll fire me if I let them down.”
Richard wanted to say that it’s the punishment of the Circus he should fear – if he lets MI6 down, but his tongue wouldn’t budge.
“The phone,” he managed, finally.
Dario opted not to ask, he instantly got up and handed him the phone that was on the bedside table next to the wallet and documents.
The hand that rose from the bed next to his wooden body felt like it was not his own. Richard stared at the dark screen, thinking.
“And my clothes.”
“Planning an escape?” Fisher chuckled.
He stood next to the hospital bed, smiling – but not long. A few moments later, he was already rummaging through Richard’s bag to retrieve fresh clothes – without Rote Stier logos. Richard, meanwhile, remained still and stared off into space, still clutching the phone in his unsteady hand.
“I need to make a call. Wait for me outside,” Richard said.
Dario didn’t ask, he left, making a face, Richard sank into thought again, hardly noticing Dario leave the room.
If he calls Alexandra and warns her that she’s being watched – or that someone means to hurt her – he’ll make her act on her own. He was sure that she was okay now – but wasn’t sure about the future. His intuition was still handicapped by the anesthesia, Richard couldn’t stay focused for a long time, he couldn’t feel his body and couldn’t tell if he was afraid or nauseous …
If she flees Moscow, she’ll be found instantly – unless she uses a private plane … Richard didn’t want her to turn to her friend McKellen5, the British historian who had, in the past, put up a brilliant play with Circus agents in lead roles – who had both a private plane and a bag of tricks for disappearances.
They would handle this on their own – and the time has come to use his position to, for once, do something for himself.
Richard sat up on the bed, after a few