as his jetliner sailed over the Atlantic, bound for London at 550 miles an hour.
It felt as if his life was moving at the same speed.
When he’d returned to the WPA headquarters in Manhattan two days ago, he’d landed in the middle of high-level crossfire. Melody Lyon had ordered him to her office, where she was advising George Wilson that she was dispatching Gannon to London.
“London?” Wilson said. “The guy was a disaster in Brazil—he’s not ready for international assignments. And you want to send him to London based on a flimsy lead? Let our people over there check it out.”
“It has to be Jack. His source will only meet with him because of the people he met in Rio,” Lyon said.
“Look.” Wilson turned to Gannon. “You got lucky and I’m glad you’re still alive—the last thing we needed was another staff funeral—but you need more domestic experience. Keep him here on desk duty, Mel. Sending him to England, or anywhere right now, is a mistake.”
“He’s on to something that may be tied to the bombing,” Lyon said. “I want him on this. And, I want the support of our London bureau, George, even if it means staying out of his way.”
Wilson took stock of Gannon, shaking his head at the bruises on his face as if they were badges of incompetence.
“You’re the boss, Mel. I’ll warn Ian and Miranda at the bureau. Gannon, try not get arrested, beaten up or taken hostage. Try being a reporter like you were in Buffalo. Only better.”
After Wilson left, Lyon said, “Don’t mind him. We’re still raw after losing Marcelo and Gabriela.”
“I know.”
“How are you holding up, Jack? Are you sure you’re up to this?”
“I’ll be okay.”
She gave him a large brown envelope.
“Now, it’s not a requirement for Americans entering Britain,” she said, “but get over to our travel doctor on Broadway and get your main shots. Rachel has set it up. I want you prepared for anything. This envelope has money and other things for you. Rachel’s got you on an early flight out of JFK to Heathrow tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Ever been to London?”
“Nope.”
Gannon turned from the plane’s window. His arm still aching from his shots, he lowered the metal tray, switched on his laptop and reviewed his files. Maria Santo’s friend, Sarah Kirby, had put him in touch with Oliver Pritchett in London. He headed Equal Globe International, the human rights group they had been working with. Pritchett knew more about the human trafficking situation. He’d agreed to share information, but his responses to Gannon’s e-mailed questions were clear.
I will only meet you alone and face-to-face in London. It will be completely off the record, but I assure you it will be significant. I give you my word you are the only journalist who knows of this case and I will not speak to any other news organization.
Gannon studied the notes on his laptop until metropolitan London sprawled below. He recognized the Thames just as the landing gear lowered and locked into position. At Heathrow, a young British Customs officer, curious about Gannon’s bruises, accepted his explanation about his ordeal in Brazil.
“I trust you won’t have any similar problems in the U.K.”
It took Gannon’s taxi a little under an hour to slice through traffic and get him to the WPA’s London bureau on Norwich Street.
It was situated in a six-story stone building built on the site of a bakery destroyed by Nazi bombs during the Second World War. It was a five-minute walk from Fleet Street, now the address of more law and business offices than newspapers. But the Associated Press and other foreign wire services were nearby, reminding Gannon that the risk of losing the story increased as time ticked by. The bureau was on the first floor and the reception desk was empty. A man in a suit came from an office to place a folder on it.
“Excuse me.” Gannon set his luggage aside. “Jack Gannon from WPA New York. I’m looking for Ian Shelton?”
“You’ve found him.” Shelton shook Gannon’s hand. He was a tall, gaunt man in his thirties. “Welcome to London. George Wilson advised us that you were coming to work on your Brazil story.”
“That’s right.”
“I take it you had quite a drama in Rio’s slums, judging from your face.”
“A little bit.”
“Dangerous stuff, given what happened to our friends there. Why don’t you let us help you here, Jack? We do know something about the U.K., enough to ensure you aren’t taken hostage.”
“Thank you. I’m good right now.”
“I see.