The Nassau Secret (The Lang Reilly Series Book 8) by Gregg Loomis

sedately as the procession of a state funeral. For a brief moment, Lang had a view of the passenger terminal and the head lights of cars scurrying like a train of ants along the A233 behind it. Somewhere on the other side of the field were replicas of both a Spitfire and a Hurricane, guardians of the memorial to the Royal Air Force pilots who never returned to base here during World War II. Like a pre-opening stage curtain, the mist sealed it from his view.
                  He yawned.
                  Of course he hadn’t slept here or in the small cabin with bed aft of the seating area. He could never sleep in flight no matter how much of the Gulfstream’s wine bin he depleted or how many over the counter sleeping pills he took. Yes, he knew it was irrational and yes, at thirty thousand feet plus if something went wrong, there was little he could do about it. Tell that to his psyche or subconscious or whatever psychobabble described that part of his mind that kept him awake.
                  As the engines spooled down, he stretched. The pretty young woman who acted as stewardess-he still called them that-brought him a silver tray with a couple of small, steaming towels on it. The wet heat against his face seemed to chase some of the cobwebs from his mind and certainly the sandy grit of a sleepless night from his eyes.
                  She collected the towels with what looked like fire tongs as though she feared contraction of some loathsome disease from the man with whom she flew two or three times a month. Lang supposed lessons learned in stewardess school stuck with her just as his Agency training did with him. Why else would she read the safety features of the G656 from the same list each time even though he was the only passenger on board most of the time and knew the list as thoroughly as Francis his litany. Or present him the two item menu (chicken or beef) when he always chose the filet with a vintage Petrus?
                  “Mr. Reilly,” she said with a smile impossible for one who has been up all night, “The pilot tells me customs will be on board shortly. Would you like me to fetch your suitcase from the stateroom?”
                  Lang stood unsteadily. “No, thanks. My shave kit’s in it and I’ll try to brush my teeth before they arrive.”
                  At least he could get rid of a taste like burnt matches that coated his tongue.
                  As he stood over the sink in the small head, he regarded his reflection: Dark beard stubble, eyes rimmed with red and a wrinkled shirt that clung to him like some malignant skin disease. He’d seen members of Francis’s street people ministry look better.
                  “Why not call?” Gurt had asked the night before he left. “Quicker, cheaper and easier.”
                  “And a whole lot less private.”
                  Since his Agency days, Lang had been aware of ECHELON, the world-wide listening station in northern England that monitored every conversation transmitted by satellite worldwide. Even land lines at some point were potentially susceptible. The huge intake was shared by the various intelligence organizations of the US, the UK, Australia, Canada and New Zealand, the wheat separated from the insurmountable amount of chaff by the use of key words.                 
                  Since National Security Agency contractor Edward Snowden’s revelations in 2013 and subsequent defection to Russia, the possibility information gained this way could become front page news had to be considered by anyone transmitting sensitive information. Lang’s visit to his old acquaintance Jacob Annulewicz was hardly a matter of national security but he and Jacob had a history in addition  to Jacob’s own.
                  Born to Holocaust survivors, Jacob’s family had immigrated