• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“Got it. Does it look crowded?”

“No, but the bird’s pulled up to the jetway, and the posted departure time is in twenty-five minutes. Better get a move on.”

“On my way.” John walked to the desk, had to wait for one business puke to get his ticket, then smiled at the desk clerk. “Flight one-one-zero-eight to Chicago, please. First-class, if possible, but I’ll take coach.” He handed over his gold MasterCard.

“Yes, sir,” the clerk said politely. She proved to be wonderfully efficient, and the computer printer spat out the cardstock ticket in just three minutes.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“To the right.” She pointed in case he didn’t know where right was. John walked evenly. Twenty minutes to make the flight. No problem. That came at the metal detector. It pinged, rather to John’s surprise. Then a uniformed rent-a-cop waved the magic wand over him and it pinged at his coat pocket. John reached in and found that his U.S. marshal’s badge had tripped it. This metal detector was really turned up.

“Oh, okay, sir.”

“I’m not even here on official business,” Clark said, with a shy smile. “Is that it?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Right.” Next time he’d toss it on the conveyor, John thought, and let the whole world think he was a cop. It had not pinged on the pen in his pocket. Wasn’t that interesting, or could be, if he had the Magic Pen. But he didn’t. Too bad.

It was a Boeing 737. Seattle must have sold a lot of them, Clark thought, looking around the uncomfortable lounge. Same architect, same crummy chairs. The same company who did the airliner seats? he wondered. Was that a conflict of interest, maybe?

There was Hadi, sitting in the nonsmoking sitting area. Not trying to call attention to himself? If so, good fieldcraft. Just sitting there reading a magazine, Newsweek, with cursory attention. Ten more minutes and they called the flight. Clark had lucked out and gotten a first-class seat, 4C. On the aisle, which was useful. He thought back to a recent commercial flight, but he’d had a pistol back then, unbeknownst to the British Airways cabin crew; would have alarmed them about as much as a carry-on bag full of dynamite sticks. Well, flight attendants were pretty girls for the most part, and it wouldn’t do to annoy them in any way. They worked hard for their lowly salaries. Hadi walked aboard with three people ahead of him, John saw, and ended up in 1A, the most forward window seat on the left side, maybe fifteen feet ahead of Clark and to the left. Three steps and he could snap the guy’s neck like a twig. He hadn’t done that, exactly, since Vietnam, where the men often had scrawny little necks. But that had been a long time ago, and even back then, he’d nearly blown it. Memories of old days. More to the point, fifteen feet to the forward head. The older he got, the more he needed to keep track of that kind of thing.

The usual safety briefing. The seat belt is just like the one on your car, dummy, and if you really need it, Mommy will come buckle it up for you—but no booze for you! The bathrooms are fore and aft, and they’re marked with pictures if you’re too dumb to read. Dumbing down society was happening in Canada, too. A pity, John thought. Unless United flew only American citizens.

The flight was grossly ordinary, with nary a bump, taking hardly an hour before they touched down at O’Hare, named for a World War Two naval aviator who’d won the Medal of Honor before getting splashed, probably by friendly fire, which could kill you just as dead as the other sort. Clark wondered how hard it was for the pilot to find the right jetway, but then he’d probably made this flight before, maybe a hundred times. Now came the hard part, John realized. Where was Hadi going, and could he bag a seat on the same flight? A pity he couldn’t just ask the bastard. He had to go through immigration, because America had gotten serious about controlling who came into the country. Really that meant tough enough that the bad guys had to devote maybe a whole minute of thought before sneaking