"Linda Evans - Time Scout 5 - License Invoked" - читать интересную книгу автора (Evans Linda)

would be an ideal time for an assassin to strike. Any one of a million
handbags or shoulder bags could conceal a weapon or magical
impedimenta, without the least concern for all the innocent civilians
between hunter and prey. Elizabeth tried to push her way through the
group to the center, and got twenty elbows in the ribs before she'd
moved five paces. Stuck between a tall young man in an Army surplus T-
shirt and a woman in a rust-colored, silk Armani business suit,
Elizabeth could see flashes of the long, manicured hands as the star
scribbled a few tributes on ticket envelopes and magazine covers.

The mass of people gradually moved down the hallway and through the
glass doors. At the gate, Fionna Kenmare and her people were winnowed
out of the crowd by the airline personnel. She swept through passport
protocol and onto the plane, a privilege of a First Class ticket and
her famous face. Elizabeth tried to follow her, but the staff stopped
her at the barrier.

"May I see your ticket, madam?" asked a nice young man with dark hair
and blue eyes.

"Here," Elizabeth said, desperately trying to see over his shoulder.
"But I must get on the plane now."

"Yes," the attendant said, very patiently. "We all saw her. But you'll
have to wait for a while. Economy Class boarding will commence shortly.
Will you please take a seat in the meantime?"

Elizabeth looked past him at the jetway, feeling at a loss. Every
moment Kenmare was alone, disaster could strike. She thought about
showing the staff her MI-5 warrant card, but that would lead to other
questions which she could not answer. And the airport authority would
demand, quite rightly, to know why no one had notified them that there
was a "situation" in progress. Protests would be filed with the
Ministry of Transport, the Secret Service, the Metropolitan Police, and
there might even be embarrassing questions asked in Parliament. Mr.
Ringwall would be cross. Elizabeth winced involuntarily.

She moved away from the crowd and opened her telephone.

"Sorry, love," the receptionist said, halfway between sympathy and
amusement. "Your man's still stuck somewhere between Hatton Cross and
the International Terminal. Track delays. You'll have to go it alone.
Your briefing is being faxed to the FBI. Your contact will bring it to
you at New Orleans."

"So I've got to sit an entire flight without knowing the full nature of
the threats? In Economy Class? Damn all horrid bureaucrats," Elizabeth
said irritably, and then remembered too late that all incoming phone
calls were taped.