Ben was by himself, and he was terrified, his mind whirling with everything he had to remember. He showed his boarding card to the official, who glanced at it, and stared at him, and went on staring until the next traveller claimed his attention. Now there was a difficult bit. Over and over again Rita and Johnston had told him what to do. Ahead would be a kind of black box, with an opening that had things hanging down. He must go to it and put his case on the shelf there. The case would disappear into the opening, and he must look for the metal arch, close to, go through it when told, and then a man would search him, feel his pockets and down his thighs. Ben had said, 'What for?' And they had said, 'Just to make sure you're all right.' The word 'guns' would have scared him. This was the part Rita feared most, because she knew how unpredictably Ben reacted to being touched.

Ben saw the machine ahead. It seemed to him frightful, and he wanted to run away. He knew he must go on. There was no one waiting to help him. He stood with his case in his hand, helpless, until a man behind him said, 'Put it there — look.' And when Ben did not move he took the case and put it into the machine. This unknown helper went ahead of him to the arch, since Ben hesitated, and so Ben saw what he had to do.

Meanwhile his holdall was moving through the x-ray machine. Under the top layer of clothing, among paper packets of the terrible white powder, were inserted here and there toilet things, scissors, a nail-file, clippers, a razor — all in metal which would show up on the screen. But this was the key moment, when ill-luck might lay its hands on Ben and — unless Ben remembered, when interrogated, never to say Rita's name or Johnston's — on them too.

If the girl at the x-ray machine was doing her job, absorbed in it, the official whose job it was to frisk Ben hardly touched him. He was staring at the shoulders, the great chest, thinking, Good God! What is this? Ben was grinning. It was from terror, but what this official saw was the smile of a celebrity used to being recognised — he saw plenty of celebrities. If he had laid his hands closely on Ben he would have found him trembling, sweating, cold — but he waved Ben on. Now Ben had to remember to retrieve his case from the machine's exit. He did not know that here was his moment of greatest danger: descriptions of what he had to do were not put to him in terms of danger. But luck held: 'Is this your case, sir?' was not said to Ben, but to the man coming after him. Ben stood there grinning, and then, understanding at last that this blue case jiggling there beside him was his, remembered instructions, took it up and went on towards ... He was in a daze, and a dazzle, feeling sick and cold. This great space with its lights, its crowds, the shops, the colours, so much movement and noise — in any case it would have frightened him, but he knew that he must remember, must remember . He was on the edge of sending out little whimpers of helplessness, but then he saw that just ahead a man behind a desk was waving him on and he must show his passport. It was in his hand. How had it got there? He couldn't remember . But the official merely glanced at it and back at Ben. What he was thinking was, If he is a film star then I've never seen him in anything.

Now Ben was standing well beyond the line of passport desks and he did not know what to do next. He had been told there would be someone there looking out for him, Johnston's friend, and yes, there he was, a young man was hurrying forward, scared eyes on Ben's face.

It was at this point that something happened that had not been foreseen. Johnston — had he been watching — would have said, 'That's it! I've done it!' Barring some really unfair bad luck he would shortly be the owner of several million pounds sterling.

The young man, Ben's minder, was — literally — shaking with relief, and from the reaction. He arrived directly in front of Ben, trying to smile, saying hurriedly, 'I'm Johnston's friend, I'm Richard.'

Ben said, 'I'm cold. I want my jersey.' He put down the holdall, and tried to unzip it, not seeing at first the tiny lock. He said, 'Where is the key? Why is it locked up?'

Richard Gaston (but he had many names in his life) had arrived in London yesterday on the ferry from Calais, and had spent hours with Johnston being given instructions for this day's events, and for afterwards, in Nice. He travelled out to Heathrow on the Underground, stood at a distance watching the scene with the minicab driver and Ben at check-in, had gone separately through passport control and customs, with the economy travellers, had waited for Ben to emerge, all the time enlarging his ideas of himself with reflected glory from Johnston, who was so clever. He had had many doubts about this scene, just like Rita, but look, it had succeeded.

And here was Ben, bending down, tugging at the zip, pulling at the lock. It was evident that those hands could tear the holdall apart, if Ben decided to do it that way. Richard imagined those packets scattered everywhere, the security people coming up .

'I'm cold,' said Ben.

It was a warm afternoon and Ben already had a jerkin on over his shirt — a very posh shirt, as Richard noted.

'You can't be cold,' was Richard's injudicious order to Ben. 'Now, come on. We've cut it a bit fine. They're boarding. Don't be difficult, now.'

These words had an effect which caused Richard to jump back and away from Ben, who was apparently about to grip him by the arms and then ... Ben was seething with rage.

'I want my jersey!' shouted Ben. 'I've got to have my jersey!'

Richard was scared, but not numbed by it. He was rallying himself. He had been told that Ben was a bit funny ... he had moods ... he had to be humoured ... he was a bit simple. 'But he's all there, so don't treat him like a dummy.'

These descriptions of Ben, scattered through the hours of discussion with Johnston, seemed to Richard all off the point. Johnston would call this 'a mood', would he? Richard was sending nervous glances all around. Was anyone watching? Well, they soon would, if Ben went on shouting.

If that zip broke, if that little lock sprang open .

Richard said, gasping, 'Listen, Ben, listen, mate. We're going to miss the plane. You'll be OK in the plane. They'll give you a blanket.'

Ben stood up, letting the holdall fall. Richard couldn't know it, but it was the word 'blanket' that reached him. The old woman had used to say, 'Take this blanket, Ben, wrap yourself up a bit. The heating's a bit low tonight.'

Richard saw that things had changed: Ben was no longer breathing pure murder. Now, unwittingly, he added to his advantage, 'Johnston wouldn't want you to spoil it now. You've done good, Ben. You're right on. You're a bit of a wonder, Ben.'

It was the word good.

Ben picked up the holdall, went with Richard along the corridors, the moving pavements, to the right places. It had all been nicely judged: they would be in the middle of the crowd of people boarding. At the desk Ben found his passport and boarding card in his hand, put there by this new friend, who had taken them from him, it seemed, while they argued — Ben had let them fall as he wrestled with the zip and the lock — and then on they walked, along and down and around and down, and then there was a door and by it a smiling female, who directed the two to club class. Ben stood helpless in the aisle, and Richard took the case from him and slid it up into the bin, feeling as if he were handling a snake. He had told Johnston that on no account would he touch that case, so that he could tell any interrogator that he knew nothing about it, but now he saw how foolish that had been. Ben was in his seat, the seatbelt was fastened across him, and Richard was about to ask for a blanket, and then explain to Ben about the take-off, the flight — there would be clouds underneath them and then . But Ben had fallen asleep.