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 aSaturday morning, but it was particularly distasteful that he had been called in to oversee the arrestof one of his most lucrative clients. Sir Leigh Teabing paid Biggin Hill not only for a privatehangar but a "per landing fee" for his frequent arrivals and departures. Usually, the airfield hadadvance warning of his schedule and was able to follow a strict protocol for his arrival. Teabingliked things just so. The custom-built Jaguar stretch limousine that he kept in his hangar was to befully gassed, polished, and the day's London Times laid out on the back seat. A customs officialwas to be waiting for the plane at the hangar to expedite the mandatory documentation and luggagecheck. Occasionally, customs agents accepted large tips from Teabing in exchange for turning ablind eye to the transport of harmless organics—mostly luxury foods—French escargots, aparticularly 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 wasprovided 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'spenchant for spreading the wealth had gotten him in trouble somehow; the French authoritiesseemed very intent on containing him. Edwards had not yet been told what the charges were, butthey were obviously serious. At the French authorities' request, Kent police had ordered the BigginHill air traffic controller to radio the Hawker's pilot and order him directly to the terminal ratherthan to the client's hangar. The pilot had agreed, apparently believing the far-fetched story of a gasleak.

　　Though the British police did not generally carry weapons, the gravity of the situation had broughtout an armed response team. Now, eight policemen with handguns stood just inside the terminalbuilding, 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 arrivedto handle the situation.

　　The Hawker was low in the sky now, skimming the treetops to their right. Simon Edwards wentdownstairs 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 fromright to left in front of the terminal, its white hull glistening in the wet weather. But rather thanbraking and turning into the terminal, the jet coasted calmly past the access lane and continued ontoward Teabing's hangar in the distance.

　　All the police spun and stared at Edwards. "I thought you said the pilot agreed to come to theterminal!"Edwards was bewildered. "He did!"Seconds later, Edwards found himself wedged in a police car racing across the tarmac toward thedistant hangar. The convoy of police was still a good five hundred yards away as Teabing's Hawkertaxied calmly into the private hangar and disappeared. When the cars finally arrived and skidded toa 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-degreeturn and rolled toward the front of the hangar, Edwards could see the pilot's face, whichunderstandably 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 warilytoward 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. Ashe gazed out at the sea of weapons aimed at him, he propped himself on his crutches and scratchedhis head. "Simon, did I win the policemen's lottery while I was away?" He sounded morebewildered than concerned.

　　Simon Edwards stepped forward, swallowing the frog in his throat. "Good morning, sir. I apologizefor 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 foranother half hour or so."Teabing looked unamused as he hobbled down the stairs. "I'm afraid that is impossible. I have amedical 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 amhere at the orders of the French Judicial Police. They claim you are transporting fugitives from thelaw on this plane."Teabing stare............