Murder, she felt fairly sure, was not the kind of âPurpose of Visitâ calculated to speed her through the notoriously difficult US immigration channels. âPleasureâ, she ticked, deciding it might not be entirely a lie. At least no one would suspect the truth that lay behind the occupational description of âsystems consultantâ. In spite of the books and films that indicated otherwise, hers was not a job people expected to be carried out by a woman.
She finished filling in the form and looked out of the windows of the jumbo jet. They had chased the sunset west across the Atlantic, and now it was firmly dark blue night out there. Streetlights formed a glittering web when they passed above small towns. Over bigger cities, the lights seemed to be enclosed beneath a dimly glowing bowl that held them trapped, the highway lights leading away from them like chains of refugees. Somewhere out there, her target. Watching TV, eating dinner, reading a book, talking to her lover, gossiping on the phone, composing e-mail. Whatever it was, she wouldnât be doing it tomorrow. Not if the woman was successful in her mission.
She turned away from the window and pulled her paperback novel out of the seat pocket. She opened it where she had carefully dog-eared a page to mark her place and carried on reading Northanger Abbey.
A change in engine note signalled the start of the descent into San Francisco. It was a sign she noted with relief. A transatlantic, transcontinental flight was quite long enough for her body to feel permanently realigned into the shape of the aircraft seat. That might be just about bearable in first class, but back in anonymous economy it provoked the irresistible fear that she might never walk properly again. The woman stretched her spine, thrusting shoulders back and chest out. The sleeping man next to her snorted and shifted in his seat. Thankfully, heâd been like that for most of the flight. She never liked talking on public transport unless she had instigated the conversation, usually for professional reasons.
She couldnât believe how quickly she cleared immigration. It had been half a dozen years since sheâd last set foot in America, and her abiding memory of arrival had been spending the thick end of an hour shuffling forward foot by foot in an endless queue that snaked across the concourse while sadistic immigration officers with faces impassive as hatchets questioned every new arrival. As she collected her luggage, she wondered idly what had brought about the change. It couldnât be that the Americans had become less xenophobic or less paranoid about terrorism, that was for sure, especially after Oklahoma. She only had to think about the drop in the numbers of American tourists to Britain in the wake of the IRAâs abandoning of their precarious ceasefire.
Slinging her suit carrier across her shoulder, the woman headed for the taxi rank and gave the name of the hotel where she hoped a room would be waiting for her. Even though sheâd been up all night, she feared that sleep would abandon her as soon as her head hit the pillow. It didnât matter. She had time. According to her briefing, the best opportunity sheâd have wouldnât come before six in the evening of the following day.
Sheâd heard about the fog rolling in across the bay in the late afternoon, but sheâd never quite believed it could be so tangible a phenomenon. She sat among the Sunday tourists in one of the Fishermanâs Wharf cafés and watched the bank of fog envelop the rust-red curve of the Golden Gate, leaving the twin towers stranded above and below. She stirred the last inch of her cappuccino. It had been about the only thing sheâd recognised on a list of beverages. They didnât have iced mocha latte in the coffee bar where she picked up her morning carton of steaming pale brown liquid that smelled mostly of its polystyrene container. She supposed this was what they called culture shock.
Sheâd spent the morning on a whistle-stop sightseeing tour of the crucial highlights. None of her clients had ever sent her to San Francisco before, and she always liked to make the most of her trips at other peopleâs expense. Her one regret was that she hadnât had time for Alcatraz. Now she was reading through her brief one last time, making sure there wasnât something important sheâd failed to notice. But it was all as she remembered it. The photographs â well, snapshots really. Directions to the targetâs home. Suggested lines of approach. And the number to call when sheâd achieved her mission.