The Game by Tom Wood Page A

carousels until only a scattering of people remained, all anxiously waiting for their suitcases to magically appear through the black rubber curtain, but slowly accepting the fact that their trip had been ruined before it had even begun. His overnight bag did three laps until he exhaled, shook his head and lifted it away. It contained a change of clothes and some toiletries, but he wasn’t expecting to use any of the bag’s contents. Whatever guise the meeting with the unidentified broker took, it wouldn’t last all night, but Victor had the bag for another reason.
    He strolled through customs, head angled down, trying not to make eye contact, shoulders bunched defensively, and was waved over by an official who looked as bored with life in general as he was with his job. The official checked Victor’s bag and sniffed the contents of the numerous unnecessary miniature bottles of shampoo and shaving balm. The lack of anything even remotely interesting had a palpable effect on the official, who waved Victor away with a heavy sigh, his face a picture of disappointment and hopelessness.
    By the time Victor descended the escalator to the ticket hall there were only nine passengers from his flight that hadn’t gone before him. The rest had dispersed throughout the terminal and were now drinking coffee, queuing for taxis or on their way to parked cars, or else were boarding buses and trains. What would have been a dense crowd of people waiting to meet the arrivals had thinned to just four. Two of those four were holding signs with names, where before there might have been dozens. Both of the signs were held no higher than chest height, their holders having endured gravity’s unyielding effect for some time.
    Victor ignored the two without signs. If Muir’s intel was correct Kooi had never met the broker or anyone affiliated with him. There could be no visual recognition to identify Kooi to his contact, or vice versa.
    Of the two signs, one was held by a man, the other by a woman. The man was about forty and wore a suit and overcoat and a neck brace, and didn’t look at Victor once. Acute disappointment that had once been expectant excitement was etched into the man’s face. Victor had seen no single woman waiting in baggage collection, so the man in the neck brace wasn’t going to break into a huge grin anytime soon.
    When the waiting woman saw Victor she grew a little taller as her back straightened and she raised the sign above shoulder level. It was a taxi company whiteboard with a name Victor didn’t recognise written on it by hand in thick black upper-case letters. The name had no doubt been agreed by Kooi and the broker in one of the deleted emails Muir’s team hadn’t been able to recover, or else had some significance to Kooi that would have enabled him to identify who was picking him up. Already the gaps in the information were showing. Victor knew there would be others. Now, there was no fallout. Later might be different.
    There was relief in the woman’s expression, but no recognition. There was no first name on the whiteboard but either she had been given one and therefore knew she was collecting a man, or she had been told she was. She wore faded blue jeans, flat shoes and a baggy checked shirt that hung down to her hips. A trucker’s cap covered her long dark hair, which was unwashed and tied back into a loose ponytail. She was pale skinned, five feet seven inches tall, and he estimated about one hundred and thirty pounds. She looked somewhere in her late thirties, a little tired and overworked, but attractive despite the lack of grooming and the clothes that went a long way to hide her figure.
    The woman pointed at the name on the sign, then at Victor as he approached and then back to the sign. Victor nodded.
    She reached for his bag but Victor moved it outside her reach and shook his head. She shrugged and led him through the airport, walking fast in an attempt to make up some of the time she had lost