The Hawker is on final approach.
Simon Edwards—Executive Services Officer at Biggin Hill Airport—paced the control
tower, squinting nervously at the rain-drenched runway. He never appreciated being
awoken early on a Saturday morning, but it was particularly distasteful that he had been
called in to oversee the arrest of one of his most lucrative clients. Sir Leigh Teabing paid
Biggin Hill not only for a private hangar but a “per landing fee” for his frequent arrivals
and departures. Usually, the airfield had advance warning of his schedule and was able to
follow a strict protocol for his arrival. Teabing liked things just so. The custom-built
Jaguar stretch limousine that he kept in his hangar was to be fully gassed, polished, and
the day's London Times laid out on the back seat. A customs official was to be waiting
for the plane at the hangar to expedite the mandatory documentation and luggage check.
Occasionally, customs agents accepted large tips from Teabing in exchange for turning a
blind eye to the transport of harmless organics—mostly luxury foods—French escargots,
a particularly ripe unprocessed Roquefort, certain fruits. Many customs laws were
absurd, anyway, and if Biggin Hill didn't accommodate its clients, certainly competing
airfields would. Teabing was provided with what he wanted here at Biggin Hill, and the
employees reaped the benefits.
Edwards's nerves felt frayed now as he watched the jet coming in. He wondered if
Teabing's penchant for spreading the wealth had gotten him in trouble somehow; the
French authorities seemed very intent on containing him. Edwards had not yet been told
what the charges were, but they were obviously serious. At the French authorities'
request, Kent police had ordered the Biggin Hill air traffic controller to radio the
Hawker's pilot and order him directly to the terminal rather than to the client's hangar.
The pilot had agreed, apparently believing the far-fetched story of a gas leak.
Though the British police did not generally carry weapons, the gravity of the situation
had brought out an armed response team. Now, eight policemen with handguns stood
just inside the terminal building, awaiting the moment when the plane's engines powered
down. The instant this happened, a runway attendant would place safety wedges under
the tires so the plane could no longer move. Then the police would step into view and
hold the occupants at bay until the French police arrived to handle the situation.
The Hawker was low in the sky now, skimming the treetops to their right. Simon
Edwards went downstairs to watch the landing from tarmac level. The Kent police were
poised, just out of sight, and the maintenance man waited with his wedges. Out on the
runway, the Hawker's nose tipped up, and the tires touched down in a puff of smoke.
The plane settled in for deceleration, streaking from right to left in front of the terminal,
its white hull glistening in the wet weather. But rather than braking and turning into the
terminal, the jet coasted calmly past the access lane and continued on toward Teabing's
hangar in the distance.
All the police spun and stared at Edwards. “I thought you said the pilot agreed to come
to the terminal!”
Edwards was bewildered. “He did!”
Seconds later, Edwards found himself wedged in a police car racing across the tarmac
toward the distant hangar. The convoy of police was still a good five hundred yards
away as Teabing's Hawker taxied calmly into the private hangar and disappeared. When
the cars finally arrived and skidded to a stop outside the gaping hangar door, the police
poured out, guns drawn.
Edwards jumped out too.
The noise was deafening.
The Hawker's engines were still roaring as the jet finished its usual rotation inside the
hangar, positioning itself nose-out in preparation for later departure. As the plane
completed its 180-degree turn and rolled toward the front of the hangar, Edwards could
see the pilot's face, which understandably looked surprised and fearful to see the
barricade of police cars.
The pilot brought the plane to a final stop, and powered down the engines. The police
streamed in, taking up positions around the jet. Edwards joined the Kent chief inspector,
who moved warily toward the hatch. After several seconds, the fuselage door popped
open.
Leigh Teabing appeared in the doorway as the plane's electronic stairs smoothly
dropped down. As he gazed out at the sea of weapons aimed at him, he propped himself
on his crutches and scratched his head. “Simon, did I win the policemen's lottery while I
was away?” He sounded more bewildered than concerned.
Simon Edwards stepped forward, swallowing the frog in his throat. “Good morning,
sir. I apologize for the confusion. We've had a gas leak and your pilot said he was
coming to the terminal.”
“Yes, yes, well, I told him to come here instead. I'm late for an appointment. I pay for
this hangar, and this rubbish about avoiding a gas leak sounded overcautious.”
“I'm afraid your arrival has taken us a bit off guard, sir.”
“I know. I'm off my schedule, I am. Between you and me, the new medication gives
me the tinkles. Thought I'd come over for a tune-up.”
The policemen all exchanged looks. Edwards winced. “Very good, sir.”
“Sir,” the Kent chief inspector said, stepping forward. “I need to ask you to stay
onboard for another half hour or so.”
Teabing looked unamused as he hobbled down the stairs. “I'm afraid that is impossible.
I have a medical appointment.” He reached the tarmac. “I cannot afford to miss it.”
The chief inspector repositioned himself to block Teabing's progress away from the
plane. “I am here at the orders of the French Judicial Police. They claim you are
transporting fugitives from the law on this plane.”
Teabing stared at the chief inspector a long moment, and then burst out laughing. “Is
this one of those hidden camera programs? Jolly good!”
The chief inspector never flinched. “This is serious, sir. The French police claim you
also may have a hostage onboard.”
Teabing's manservant Rémy appeared in the doorway at the top of the stairs. “I feel like
a hostage working for Sir Leigh, but he assures me I am free to go.” Rémy checked his
watch. “Master, we really are running late.” He nodded toward the Jaguar stretch
limousine in the far corner of the hangar. The enormous automobile was ebony with
smoked glass and whitewall tires. “I'll bring the car.” Rémy started down the stairs.
“I'm afraid we cannot let you leave,” the chief inspector said. “Please return to your
aircraft. Both of you. Representatives from the French police will be landing shortly.”
Teabing looked now toward Simon Edwards. “Simon, for heaven's sake, this is
ridiculous! We don't have anyone else on board. Just the usual—Rémy, our pilot, and
myself. Perhaps you could act as an intermediary? Go have a look onboard, and verify
that the plane is empty.”
Edwards knew he was trapped. “Yes, sir. I can have a look.”
“The devil you will!” the Kent chief inspector declared, apparently knowing enough
about executive airfields to suspect Simon Edwards might well lie about the plane's
occupants in an effort to keep Teabing's business at Biggin Hill. “I will look myself.”
Teabing shook his head. “No you won't, Inspector. This is private property and until
you have a search warrant, you will stay off my plane. I am offering you a reasonable
option here. Mr. Edwards can perform the inspection.”
“No deal.”
Teabing's demeanor turned frosty. “Inspector, I'm afraid I don't have time to indulge in
your games. I'm late, and I'm leaving. If it is that important to you to stop me, you'll just
have to shoot me.” With that, Teabing and Rémy walked around the chief inspector and
headed across the hangar toward the parked limousine.
The Kent chief inspector felt only distaste for Leigh Teabing as the man hobbled around
him in defiance. Men of privilege always felt like they were above the law.
They are not. The chief inspector turned and aimed at Teabing's back. “Stop! I will
fire!”
“Go ahead,” Teabing said without breaking stride or glancing back. “My lawyers will
fricassee your testicles for breakfast. And if you dare board my plane without a warrant,
your spleen will follow.”
No stranger to power plays, the chief inspector was unimpressed. Technically, Teabing
was correct and the police needed a warrant to board his jet, but because the flight had
originated in France, and because the powerful Bezu Fache had given his authority, the
Kent chief inspector felt certain his career would be far better served by finding out what
it was on this plane that Teabing seemed so intent on hiding.
“Stop them,” the inspector ordered. “I'm searching the plane.”
His men raced over, guns leveled, and physically blocked Teabing and his servant
from reaching the limousine.
Now Teabing turned. “Inspector, this is your last warning. Do not even think of
boarding that plane. You will regret it.”
Ignoring the threat, the chief inspector gripped his sidearm and marched up the plane's
gangway. Arriving at the hatch, he peered inside. After a moment, he stepped into the
cabin. What the devil?
With the exception of the frightened-looking pilot in the cockpit, the aircraft was
empty. Entirely devoid of human life. Quickly checking the bathroom, the chairs, and the
luggage areas, the inspector found no traces of anyone hiding . . . much less multiple
individuals.
What the hell was Bezu Fache thinking? It seemed Leigh Teabing had been telling the
truth.
The Kent chief inspector stood alone in the deserted cabin and swallowed hard. Shit.
His face flushed, he stepped back onto the gangway, gazing across the hangar at Leigh
Teabing and his servant, who were now under gunpoint near the limousine. “Let them
go,” the inspector ordered. “We received a bad tip.”
Teabing's eyes were menacing even across the hangar. “You can expect a call from my
lawyers. And for future reference, the French police cannot be trusted.”
With that, Teabing's manservant opened the door at the rear of the stretch limousine
and helped his crippled master into the back seat. Then the servant walked the length of
the car, climbed in behind the wheel, and gunned the engine. Policemen scattered as the
Jaguar peeled out of the hangar.
“Well played, my good man,” Teabing chimed from the rear seat as the limousine
accelerated out of the airport. He turned his eyes now to the dimly lit front recesses of the
spacious interior. “Everyone comfy?”
Langdon gave a weak nod. He and Sophie were still crouched on the floor beside the
bound and gagged albino.
Moments earlier, as the Hawker taxied into the deserted hangar, Rémy had popped the
hatch as the plane jolted to a stop halfway through its turn. With the police closing in fast,
Langdon and Sophie dragged the monk down the gangway to ground level and out of
sight behind the limousine. Then the jet engines had roared again, rotating the plane and
completing its turn as the police cars came skidding into the hangar.
Now, as the limousine raced toward Kent, Langdon and Sophie clambered toward the
rear of the limo's long interior, leaving the monk bound on the floor. They settled onto
the long seat facing Teabing. The Brit gave them both a roguish smile and opened the
cabinet on the limo's bar. “Could I offer you a drink? Some nibblies? Crisps? Nuts?
Seltzer?”
Sophie and Langdon both shook their heads.
Teabing grinned and closed the bar. “So then, about this knight's tomb . . .”
