Stone introduced himself and Dino, then showed him the photograph of Morgan.

“I’ve already circulated it,” Bartlett said.

“He’s shaved the mustache, and he’s wearing a raincoat and a trilby hat,” he said. “And he’ll be carrying a canvas valise, I’m sure of that. He’s calling himself Sir William Mallory, and he has a British passport in that name.”

Bartlett used his radio, passing on the new description. “Let’s go,” he said to Stone.

“How many people have you got working right now?” Stone asked, hurrying to keep up.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, but I’ve pulled every available man and woman off nearly everything else. We’re concentrating on the security checkpoint, since every passenger has to pass through it.”

“Let’s start there,” Stone said.

With Bartlett leading the way, they made off across the busy terminal.

Morgan reached the security checkpoint, and immediately he was approached by two men in suits, one of whom flashed an ID card.

“Please step over here, sir,” one of them said, taking his arm and moving him out of the line.

“What’s going on?” Morgan asked, as innocently as he could.

“May I see your passport and ticket, please?”

Morgan produced both.

“You are . . .” The officer looked at the passport. “Mr. Barry Trevor?”

“That’s right,” Morgan said. “What’s this about?”

“Just a routine security check, sir. And is this your current address?” The officer held up the passport.

“Yes, it is, and I’ve got a plane to catch.”

“We won’t be a moment, sir. Would you remove your sunglasses, please?”

Morgan took them off and gave the officers a big smile. He knew his security photograph at Eastover made him look dour.

The officers compared him to a photograph one of them produced. They looked at each other; one shook his head. The officer handed back Mr. Barry Trevor’s passport and ticket. “Thank you, sir; sorry for the inconvenience. Here, let me get you through security.” He led Morgan to one side of the checkpoint and signaled to the officer on station, who ran a detector wand over Morgan’s clothes, then waved him through.

Morgan headed for the gate. With a little luck, his timing would be perfect.

Stone arrived at the security checkpoint, and Bartlett called two men over.

“Any sightings?” he asked.

“No; we’ve checked three men, but all seemed okay.”

“Any of them carrying a canvas valise?”

“No; one of them had a briefcase, but there were only business documents inside.”

“Any of them wearing a raincoat and a trilby hat?”

“No, sir.”

Bartlett turned to Stone. “Anything else you want to try?”

Stone nodded. “I hear Spain is a favored destination for fugitives.”

“That’s right; we’ve no extradition treaty with them.”

“Let’s go to the gates that have flights departing for anywhere in Spain.”