the aircraft when it's rolled out for inspection.'
'If you could direct me…?'
'We'll have one of our carts drive you down.'
'I'd prefer to walk, if you don't mind. I'd like to stretch my legs.'
'Suit yourself, but stay in the street. Security here is touchy and there are all kinds of alarms.'
'I'll run from streetlight to streetlight,' Milos said, smiling. 'Okay?'
'Not a bad idea,' the girl replied. 'Last week a Beverly Hills hotshot got juiced in here and wanted to walk, too. He took a wrong turn and ended up in the San Diego jail.'
'For simply walking?'
'Well, he had some funny pills on him—’
'I don't even have aspirin.'
'Go outside, turn right to the first street, and right again. It's the last hangar on the edge of the strip. Mr. Grinell has the best location. I wish he'd come in here more often.'
'He's a very private person.'
'He's invisible, that's what he is.'
Varak kept glancing around while nodding his head at the drivers of carts and low-slung motor scooters who approached him from both directions, some slowing down, others rushing past. He saw what he wanted to see. There were trip lights between the row of hangars on the right, connecting beams from opposing short poles in the ground designed to look like demarcations—of what? wondered the Czech. Lawns between suburban houses of the future where neighbour feared neighbour? On the left side of the street there was nothing but a vacant expanse of tall grass that bordered an auxiliary runway. It would be his way out of the private field once his business was concluded.
The clerk at the preflight lounge had been accurate, Milos mused, as he neared the immense open doors of the final hangar. Grinell's plane was in the best location. Once cleared, the aircraft could move out to the field through the opposite door, take off subject only to control by the tower—no minutes wasted during slow hours. Some of the rich had it better than he had thought.
Two uniformed guards stood inside the hangar at the edge of the drive where the tarmac met the concrete floor of the interior. Beyond them a Rockwell jet with men crawling over its silver wings stood immobile, a metal bird soon to soar up into the night sky. Milos studied the guards' uniforms; they were neither federal nor municipal; they were from a private security firm. The realization gave birth to another thought, as he noted that one of the men was quite large and very full in the waist and shoulders. Nothing was lost in trying; he had reached his post for the kill, but how much more satisfying it would be to execute a traitor at close range, making certain of the execution.
Varak walked casually down the asphalt towards the imposing entrance of the hangar. Both guards stepped forward, one crushing out a cigarette under his foot.
'What's your business here?' asked the large man on the Czech's right.
'Business, I think,' answered Varak pleasantly. 'Rather confidential business, I believe.'
'What does that mean?' said the shorter guard on the left.
'You'll have to ask Mr. Grinell, I'm afraid. I'm merely a messenger and I was told to speak to only one person who should convey the information to Mr. Grinell when he arrives.'
'More of that bullshit,' added the shorter patrol to his companion. 'If you got papers or cash, you gotta get 'em pre-cleared. They find somethin' on the plane they don't know about, it don't head out, and Mr. Grinell will explode, you get me?'
'Loud and clear, my friend. I have only words that must be repeated accurately. Do you get me?'
'So talk.'
'One person,' said Varak. 'And I choose him,' continued Milos, pointing at the large man.
'He's dumb. Take me.'
'I was told whom to choose.'
