Kowalski was silent. Then: “As for the first question, the answer is complicated. As for the second, I truly don’t know.”
“Then forget it.”
“These people, they will pay you one million dollars just to meet. Say the word and they’ll send a plane for you.”
“No. But the person who asked for help, I’ve known him a long time. And — you know I don’t care much about these things — but he’s on what you would call the right side.”
“You know what people say about things that sound too good to be true. One million dollars. To work for the right side.”
Kowalski was silent, letting the hook dangle. Wells could truly say he didn’t care about money. Yet the thought of being paid a million dollars for a day’s work was hard to resist. “All right,” he said. “Tell your friends I’m in.”
“But I want the money first.”
“Spoken like a true mercenary. I approve.”
THAT NIGHT WELLS TOLD Anne about the offer.
“And who is this guy, Kowalski?”
“Swiss. Lives in Zurich. An arms dealer.”
“You’re friends?”
Wells shook his head.
“But you trust him.”
“Betraying me isn’t in his interest.”
“Why do it? If the money doesn’t matter.”
“For someone who doesn’t understand me, you understand me pretty well.”
“I know what
Wells put his arms around her, pulled her close, kissed her until her mouth opened to him. And without another word he picked her up and carried her to her — their — bed.
CHAPTER 7
AT KENNEDY AIRPORT, THE LIMOUSINE TURNED OFF THE ACCESS road short of the main terminals and stopped at a gatehouse whose black-painted sign announced “General Aviation.” The driver passed over his license and the gate rose. The limo swung right along a cyclone fence and stopped at an unmarked concrete building.
Wells stepped out of the limo, blinking in the sunlight and wishing for sunglasses. A tall man with close- cropped gray hair emerged from the building, walked toward Wells, extended his hand. “Captain Smith. You must be Mr. Wells. Pleasure to meet you, sir.” His accent was English, surprising Wells, who had somehow expected an ex- flyboy.
“Captain Smith. Not Captain Jones.”
“Yes, sir. Smith, not Jones. Sorry to disturb you, but I must ask. Are you armed?”
“No.” Kowalski had specified no weapons.
“Your passport, please.”
Wells handed it over. His real passport. His real name. He wasn’t used to traveling under his real name, wasn’t used to being a civilian. Smith flipped through it, handed it back. “Do you have any electronic gear with you? Laptop, BlackBerry, phone?”
“Just my phone.”
“I’d like to keep it, sir. Only for the duration of the flight.”
Wells handed over his phone, a cheap silver Samsung. “This way, please.” Smith led Wells to a giant twin- engine passenger jet.
“
“Correct, sir.”
“Please stop calling me sir. Is anyone else coming?”
“No, sir.”
The jet was a Boeing 777. Normally it would hold about three hundred passengers. “Where are we going, captain?”
“I’m not meant to give you that information until we’re airborne, sir.”
Three flight attendants waited at the top of the jetway. All women. They wore demure jackets and knee- length skirts, but all three could have modeled on their days off. Wells supposed that anyone who could afford this jet could afford whatever crew he wanted.
“Mr. Wells,” the prettiest attendant said. “I’m Joanna. Please come this way.”
At the center of the jet, four leather chairs were arranged before a fifty-inch television and a fully stocked bar. Despite its opulence, the interior was studiously anonymous. No books or flags gave away the name or nationality of the owner. The exit signs were in English. The jet seemed to be part of a fleet. In that case, the pool of possible owners shrank even further. The Russian and Chinese governments were the most obvious suspects. But Wells’s recent adventures hadn’t made him friends in Moscow or Beijing. The Saudi or Kuwaiti royal families. Maybe the French, though in that case this jet ought to be an Airbus. Maybe an oil company.
Nobody very nice. The short answer was that nobody very nice owned a plane like this.
“Mr. Wells,” the attendant said, “we have a video-on-demand library with six thousand movies. There’s also a live satellite feed. Whatever you’d like to watch.” She gave Wells a smile that could be described only as saucy. “If you’d rather sleep, the bedrooms are this way.” She nodded toward the front of the cabin.
“And we’ll be in the air about ten hours?”
“Less than eight, sir.”
Information, of a sort. Eight hours meant Western Europe or South America. “Thank you.”
The jet took off fifteen minutes later. An hour after that, Captain Smith walked into the cabin. “Sir. You asked our destination. It’s Nice.” As in France. “We get in around eight in the morning local time.”
“Who’s waiting for me?”
“I don’t know. Truly.”
“When a man feels the need to say truly, he’s usually lying. And I told you about calling me sir.”
“Yes, Mr. Wells. In any case. We’re expecting a smooth flight. But if you need medicine to sleep, Joanna can help.”
The bedroom was as pointlessly luxurious as the rest of the jet. Wells lay on the white cotton sheets and closed his eyes. But he couldn’t sleep. He found himself thinking of Evan, his son. He wondered how he could be so strong and so weak at the same time. Death hardly scared him, but the idea of picking up a telephone and calling his own blood had paralyzed him for years. Evan was a teenager now, old enough to decide for himself whether to allow Wells in his life. Wells supposed he feared that Evan would reject him, leaving him even more alone. But he had to take that chance. He needed to drop his guard and tell the boy that he’d never forgotten him, not in Afghanistan or anywhere else.
Just as soon as this mission was over. How many times had he made that promise to himself? Too many. He closed his eyes and lay in the dark as the jet crossed the sea.
