Three Way (25 page)

‘Jason, when’s the next flight to Jo’burg?’ Paul shouts to the travel guy, Jason. A guy that looks like he should be doing shampoo adverts. Jason looks up from his monitor.

‘Hang on,’ he calls and peers back at his computer. ‘Nineteen twenty-five, Terminal three,’ he says. Paul turns to me.

‘You okay with this?’ he asks.

‘Sure, you can count on me,’ I say. Johannesburg…South Africa…fuck yeah!

As I sit in the cab on the way to Heathrow I ponder on the circumstances that lead me to this moment. Here I am, Ollie Hayward, a nobody on the way to Heathrow, paid for by someone else to take a shitload of cash to colleagues in South Africa. Outstanding. I’m still pissed off with Parker but what can I do about that now? He’ll have to wait.

The cab pulls into Terminal three and I jump out. I have nothing on me other than the clothes I’m wearing and my passport. I walk into the terminal and look for the check in desks. I join the queue and wait patiently. Excited but also nervous. Jason gave me a few pointers and key pieces of information on the way. In no particular order, they are:

My flight code is JSZTRD.

When I pick up the money, I have to count it and count it again.

When I go through customs, I MUST NOT get caught with it in my pocket. I MUST NOT say anything to anyone (this part sounded a bit naughty but what the hell, I take the drugs mule attitude to this sort of work.)

I MUST NOT tell anyone how much cash I’m carrying.

When they give me one of those green cards to fill in on the plane, I MUST tick ‘Tourist.’

I finally get to the front of the queue. The pretty brunette at the counter smiles as she calls me forward.

‘Hello sir, where are you travelling this evening?’

‘Uh Johannesburg,’ I say, trying not to fidget.

‘May I see your passport, please?’ I quickly hand it over. She taps something into the computer and scans my passport. The computer beeps, an eyebrow heads north. She looks at me. I smile and swallow at the same time, my face displaying a slightly druggy look. She picks up the phone and waits. Oh shit. She knows. She knows what I’m doing is illegal and I haven’t even got the cash yet. Doesn’t matter, she can see right through me. She’s calling security. Maybe I should just walk away. Oh God, Jason didn’t tell me what to do in this situation. She whispers into the phone, I can’t hear what she’s saying. I glance round at the passengers waiting, they stare right back. They know. They all know. I want to scream ‘I’m not a drug’s mule! I’m a journalist!’ but I can’t. Have to wait for judgement to pass. She puts the phone down and looks at me.

‘I’m sorry sir, there is a little problem here. We seem to be overbooked on this flight,’ she says.

‘Oh, right,’ I reply. Unexpected. I suppose, good, given a second ago I was thinking arrest and incarceration.

‘I’m afraid we will have to upgrade you to First Class.’ Afraid? She’s afraid she’s going to have to upgrade me! That’s a hoot.

‘Oh, that’s fine,’ I say. Fine? It’s the fucking best thing that’s happened all year. A boarding pass prints out and she hands it to me.

‘Here you go sir. I’m sorry for the inconvenience,’ she says with a face that appears genuinely sorry.

‘No, it’s a good thing, really. Thank you,’ I reply, taking the boarding pass. I can’t believe it. First Class. I’m going to fly to South Africa First bloody Class!

I head over to the travel money counter. I flip out the reference code Jason gave me. A tall man in a waistcoat but no jacket greets me. He has too many teeth for his mouth and his smile is mildly uncomfortable.

‘Hello sir, how can I help you?’

‘Ollie Hayward from TBN, I believe you have some US dollars for me,’ I say. I hand over my passport and Press Pass.

‘Yes indeed sir, hold on two seconds,’ he replies. He leaves the desk but quickly returns with a clear plastic bag. He pulls out a chunk of money. My eyes widen. Each note is one hundred dollars with the entire wodge being the thickness of a brick!

‘Twenty thousand US Dollars. Would you like me to count it for you?’

‘Yes please,’ I say, not taking my eyes off the money. He counts it out. It takes five minutes. That’s right, five minutes. Because I make him do it three times, after which, I sense he wants me to leave. I sign for the money and tuck it into the inside pocket of my coat.

I head towards security. Moment of truth, this is where I either get on a plane in First Class or go to jail for money trafficking. I show my boarding pass to the man on the entrance, he examines it and stares at me. I attempt a non-guilty smile, he frowns. Shit. He looks back at the boarding pass then waves me through. Phew, first bit out of the way. I join a security queue and shuffle along patiently. I feel the wodge in my pocket then quickly remind myself not to draw attention. I glance at the security men in front of me. The first guy is asking a whale of a man to remove his belt. Hope nothing falls down, that would be horrible. Fatty walks through the metal detector, it beeps. Another security guy wands him then waves him through. I get to the conveyor belt and remove my jacket, careful to fold it so nothing is visible. All change and metal goes in the little box and I step up to the metal detector. I don’t look at the x-ray machine as my coat moves slowly inside. I step through, nothing happens. The security man indicates for me to carry on. I head to the end of the x-ray conveyor. The belt has stopped. The guy on the monitor is peering intently at it. Oh shit. He’s seen it. This is it. Nice one Ollie. Should have had the cash on my person. So stupid. The conveyor moves, I see my coat pop out and roll towards me. I glance at the security man on the monitor again. His face has resumed its bored expression. I grab my coat and carefully put it back on. I subtly feel for the money, it’s still there. I walk into duty-free hearing nothing but the cheers of imaginary people inside my head.

When I board the plane (before anyone else), I show my boarding pass to the stewardess.

‘Welcome onboard Mr. Hayward, this way please,’ she says, smiling as First Class stewardess’ do. Because they don’t have to deal with the riff-raff. Only people of a certain class, First Class, one might say chuff, chuff.

She leads me to the left which is my new favourite direction when boarding a plane. She takes me to my seat which also doubles as…a bed. A freaking bed! I know, I know I need to calm down but look at this.

‘Here you go, sir,’ she says.

‘Great, thanks,’ I say, barely able to contain myself.

‘Would you like a glass of Champagne, sir?’ Hmm. Would I like a glass of Champagne? Interesting question.

‘That would be lovely,’ I reply, exactly like someone who does this every week. The stewardess disappears to the bar. And I mean proper bar. Not the place at the back and middle of the aircraft you’re not allowed to see because they close the curtains. I mean bar like you get in London. With bartender and everything. Brilliant. I can’t help it, I’ve got to call someone. I dial Lauren’s number. It rings, once, twice-

‘Hello?’

‘It’s Ollie.’

‘Hi, I was just leaving work,’ she says. I glance at my watch. Ten past seven.

‘Bit late, isn’t it?’

‘Had some bits to catch up on. A weekend away is great but there’s always payback when you get back. How are you?’

‘You’ll never guess where I am?’

‘Uh, having tea with the Queen?’

‘No. I’m sitting on the tarmac at Heathrow, about to start drinking a glass of Champagne on my way to, wait for it…Johannesburg.’

‘What?’

‘They want me to take some cash to a reporter there. So,’ I lower my voice to a whisper, ‘I’m sitting here with twenty thousand dollars, in cash, in my pocket, and they put me in First Class! How cool is that?’

‘That is very cool. You lucky sod.’

‘I know. I can’t believe it.’

‘How long are you out there?’

‘Not long, I have to come straight back but even so…’

‘Still very cool. Have one for me, okay?’

‘I will, oh she’s coming back, better go. See you soon.’

‘Okay, bye,’ she whispers back. Don’t know why she was whispering but still. The stewardess returns with a tall glass of Champagne and sets it down next to me.

‘There you go, sir. Would you like a massage during the flight?’ If there had been a camera filming me at this point, I would have turned to face it and pulled a big smiley face. Hmm, would I like a massage during the flight, let me think, uhh-

‘Sure,’ I say. The stewardess smiles. I obviously gave her the right answer.

‘Very good sir, I’ll come and find you once we’re airborne. If there’s anything at all you need, please do not hesitate to call me. I’m at your disposal.’

‘Thank you,’ I reply.

We take off and I swear I cannot stop smiling. What’s wrong with me? I know it’s not that amazing but somehow these things are always more special when someone else is paying. I feel light-headed from the Champagne. One thing I’m not doing is thinking about Rupert ‘crapshag’ Gilbert. The seat belt sign clicks off and the stewardess comes to find me, just as she said she would.

‘Is now a good time for your massage, sir?’

‘Sure,’ I say.

‘Come this way please,’ she says. I stand, remove my coat (with the twenty thousand inside) and follow her to the bar area, leaving the money on my seat. What? It’s First Class, no one’s going to steal anything here. Twenty thousand is small change to these guys. A couple of other passengers sit at the bar chatting to each other. The stewardess asks me to sit in a special seat and lean my face forward into this towel covered ring. I do exactly as I’m told.

‘So what brings you to Johannesburg,’ she asks, beginning to kneed and push my skin through my shirt. I need to tell her a believable story here. I’m a businessman going for a set of meetings. No, I’m professional skier, South Africa is great this time of year. I don’t know what to say.

‘I’m a journalist working for TBN, I’m supposed to take twenty thousand US Dollars in cash to the correspondent out there and give it to him then take the next plane back.’ Shit. I don’t see her reaction but her voice doesn’t sound surprised.

‘Oh, that sounds very important, sir,’ she says. Hmm, maybe it isn’t that impressive. I guess if you hang round these sorts of people all the time, movie stars, important business men, I guess my story is a little lame. I’m aware suddenly that I’m looking at the floor, away from my seat with the money sitting in my jacket. And I just told this girl where it is. Yeah I know, pretty stupid.

Luckily she finishes the massage and I head back to my seat to discover…the money is still there. Phew! Close one. Ha, you thought something was going to happen with the money, didn’t you? Well it didn’t, so there.

I arrive in Johannesburg, rested and more ready for the day than after any flight I’ve ever been on. I move cautiously through customs. For some reason I’m not so nervous going through passport control here, couldn’t tell you why. I make it to baggage pickup and await my luggage. I stand for maybe two whole minutes before remembering I don’t have any bags. Feeling mildly stupid and cursing myself for wasting time, I head to the ‘Nothing to Declare’ corridor. Here we go. There are four guys in blue uniforms wearing baseball caps. Two of them have already got passengers, but the other two are on the lookout. Shit. Just stay cool. What you’re doing is totally legal. Twenty thousand dollars. Twenty thousand dollars. Just here. In my pocket. I walk, eyes front, as we all do. I would tell you the customs guy asked me to stop. I would say I nervously turned to face him, only for him to hand me the wallet that had dropped out of my back pocket. And both you and I would breathe a sigh of relief. However, that would be embellishing the story. It just didn’t happen and I’m not going to lie to make you like me more.

I walk out of a set of double doors and into a crowd of people, most of whom hold signs. I search for my name. Nothing. I get to the end of the line then I spot someone almost hiding behind a large woman with a silly looking hat. ‘Ollie Hayward – TBN.’ I walk over to him.

‘Hi, I’m Ollie Hayward,’ I say.

‘I am Jeffrey. I am here to take you to Mr. Arnold, sir. Do you have any bags?’ he replies. Jeffrey is a broad, black man with what looks like a small scar on his cheek. He’s in his mid-forties and wears a smart suit.