flight line, he watched operations, looking for anything that struck him as unusual, just letting his instincts work. Nothing stood out, though, nobody seemed out of place, and operations continued with fluid precision.
There were storms muttering to the north, and as he sat in the first-class lounge waiting for the flight to be called, he watched blue flickers of lightning reflected on runways where planes moved like ghostly sea creatures, coming and going in the dark.
His flight was called on time, and he filed on with the other first- and business-class passengers. He was now deep in the character of Grauerholtz, right down to the German accent and the courtly manners of an upper-class Swiss.
The plane was an older 747 with a recently refurbished interior. If Aeon knew he was on it, they would cause it to crash, but not before coming aboard and capturing him. His fellow passengers would find a great secret revealed to them ⦠as they died.
They went after him when he was at his most vulnerable, on lonely roads sometimes, but more often in planes, where he was, essentially, trapped. They didnât try for public places like airports and train stations or, usually, city streets. They knew from experience that he would elude them unless he had no place to go. And even then, he had escapedâso far.
Once the meal service was over, he turned out his light and flattened the bed, not to sleep but to think through events in microscopic detail. It was this method that had, in the past, enabled him to overcome impossible odds, and he was convinced that this situation was no different. A weapon was pointed at the White House, but who was going to pull the trigger? Above all, when that was done, what would happen?
He slept, then, an uneasy sleep, although never deep enough for dream. It took him into the glow of dawn over the Irish Sea. He woke up and drank coffee and worried. Had the thingâwhatever it wasâalready happened?
The flight landed at eleven. His next plane left Gatwick at one forty-five, and he spent most of the time between airports getting through customs, finding a cab, and sitting out the London traffic.
Another seven-hour flight, this time on Emirates, then a five-hour layover in Dubai. Most of his work was done in the U.S., so he wasnât all that familiar with places like this. The airport was a gleaming extravaganza, as luxurious as first class had been on the Emirates plane. On the flight, heâd had what amounted to a private room. Heâd even been able to take a shower in a small bathroom reserved for first class.
A U.S. agent masquerading as an arms dealer might give himself away by flying coach. Arms dealers didnât fly coach. In fact, the big ones used their own planes. By traveling commercial, Grauerholtz was saying that he was prosperous, but not yet a major player.
Not knowing how long it might be until his next meal, he ate again in the airport, at an Indian place called Gazebo. He ate everythingâthe meltingly tender paya yakhni shorba, lamb trotters simmered in curry; a fluffy saffroned biryani tikka bahar; vegetables grilled on a skewer with pineapple. He could have used a beer, but not in Dubai.
He noticed, on boarding the Tehran flight, that the general atmosphere of the airport was far less tense than what one found in the United States. And why not? It was doubtful that terrorists would target Arab airlines.
He watched the world from the window, first the bright blue of the Persian Gulf, then the brown emptiness of the Iranian hinterland.
He reviewed his approach to the foreign ministry. He would be seeking an end-user certificate for imports from the European Union. The goods he intended to offer would be of the most intense interest.
As they had never seen him before, they would be suspicious. He trusted that his curriculum vitae would be convincing. If it wasnât, he was in trouble, because he couldnât arrange to carry his weapons on
There were storms muttering to the north, and as he sat in the first-class lounge waiting for the flight to be called, he watched blue flickers of lightning reflected on runways where planes moved like ghostly sea creatures, coming and going in the dark.
His flight was called on time, and he filed on with the other first- and business-class passengers. He was now deep in the character of Grauerholtz, right down to the German accent and the courtly manners of an upper-class Swiss.
The plane was an older 747 with a recently refurbished interior. If Aeon knew he was on it, they would cause it to crash, but not before coming aboard and capturing him. His fellow passengers would find a great secret revealed to them ⦠as they died.
They went after him when he was at his most vulnerable, on lonely roads sometimes, but more often in planes, where he was, essentially, trapped. They didnât try for public places like airports and train stations or, usually, city streets. They knew from experience that he would elude them unless he had no place to go. And even then, he had escapedâso far.
Once the meal service was over, he turned out his light and flattened the bed, not to sleep but to think through events in microscopic detail. It was this method that had, in the past, enabled him to overcome impossible odds, and he was convinced that this situation was no different. A weapon was pointed at the White House, but who was going to pull the trigger? Above all, when that was done, what would happen?
He slept, then, an uneasy sleep, although never deep enough for dream. It took him into the glow of dawn over the Irish Sea. He woke up and drank coffee and worried. Had the thingâwhatever it wasâalready happened?
The flight landed at eleven. His next plane left Gatwick at one forty-five, and he spent most of the time between airports getting through customs, finding a cab, and sitting out the London traffic.
Another seven-hour flight, this time on Emirates, then a five-hour layover in Dubai. Most of his work was done in the U.S., so he wasnât all that familiar with places like this. The airport was a gleaming extravaganza, as luxurious as first class had been on the Emirates plane. On the flight, heâd had what amounted to a private room. Heâd even been able to take a shower in a small bathroom reserved for first class.
A U.S. agent masquerading as an arms dealer might give himself away by flying coach. Arms dealers didnât fly coach. In fact, the big ones used their own planes. By traveling commercial, Grauerholtz was saying that he was prosperous, but not yet a major player.
Not knowing how long it might be until his next meal, he ate again in the airport, at an Indian place called Gazebo. He ate everythingâthe meltingly tender paya yakhni shorba, lamb trotters simmered in curry; a fluffy saffroned biryani tikka bahar; vegetables grilled on a skewer with pineapple. He could have used a beer, but not in Dubai.
He noticed, on boarding the Tehran flight, that the general atmosphere of the airport was far less tense than what one found in the United States. And why not? It was doubtful that terrorists would target Arab airlines.
He watched the world from the window, first the bright blue of the Persian Gulf, then the brown emptiness of the Iranian hinterland.
He reviewed his approach to the foreign ministry. He would be seeking an end-user certificate for imports from the European Union. The goods he intended to offer would be of the most intense interest.
As they had never seen him before, they would be suspicious. He trusted that his curriculum vitae would be convincing. If it wasnât, he was in trouble, because he couldnât arrange to carry his weapons on
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