him, but he quickly averts his eyes, flipping open his cell phone.
“Everything okay?” the pilot asks.
“Yeah… of course,” I insist as we reach the doors.
The woman at the reception desk hits a button, and there’s a loud magnetic thunk. The doors unlock, and the pilot shoves them open, ushering us outside. No metal detector… no wanding… no screening… no luggage… no hassle. Fifty feet in front of us, sitting on the runway, is a brand-new Gulfstream G400. Along the side of the jet, a thin blue and orange stripe shines in the late afternoon sunlight. There’s even a tiny red carpet at the base of the stairs.
“Beats the heck outta flying coach, huh?” the pilot asks. Viv nods. I try to act unimpressed. Our chariot awaits.
As we climb the stairs to the plane, I look back at the plate-glass window of the hangar, trying to get another look at the thin man inside. He’s nowhere in sight.
Ducking down and stepping into the cabin, we find nine leather club chairs, a buttery tan leather sofa, and a flight attendant who’s waiting just for us.
“Let me know if there’s anything you need,” she offers. “Champagne… orange juice… anything at all.”
A second pilot’s already in the cockpit. When they’re both on board, the flight attendant shuts the door, and we’re on our way. I take the first chair in front. Viv takes the one all the way in back.
The flight attendant doesn’t make us put on our seat belts or read a list of rules. “The seats recline all the way,” she offers. “You can sleep the whole flight if you want.”
The sweetness in her voice is at fairy godmother levels, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. Over the past six months, Matthew and I spent countless hours trying to figure out which of our friends and coworkers were potentially playing the game. We narrowed it down to everyone — which is why the only person I trust anymore is a seventeen-year-old who’s terrified and hates me. So even though I’m sitting on a thirty-eight-million-dollar private airplane, it doesn’t change the fact that two of my closest friends in the world are gone forever, while some killer for hire is chasing after us, ready to make sure we join them. No question, there’s nothing to celebrate.
The plane rumbles forward, and I sink down in my seat. Outside the window, a man in blue cargo pants and a blue-and-white-striped button-down shirt rolls up the red carpet, stands at attention, and salutes us as we leave. Even when he’s finished, he just stands there, frozen in place — which is why I notice the sudden movement over his shoulder. Back in the hangar. The thin man on the cell phone presses his open palms against the plate-glass window and watches us leave.
“Any idea who that is?” I ask the flight attendant, noticing that she’s staring at him, too.
“No idea,” she says. “I figured he was with you.”
30
“They’re on a plane,” Janos said into his phone as he stormed out of the Hotel George, signaling the doorman for a cab.
“How do you know?” Sauls asked on the other line.
“Believe me — I know.”
“Who told you?”
“Does it matter?”
“Actually, it does.”
Janos paused, refusing to answer. “Just be content with the fact that I know.”
“Don’t treat me like a schmuck,” Sauls warned. “Suddenly, the magician can’t reveal his tricks?”
“Not when the assholes backstage are always opening their mouths.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Sell any good Renoirs lately?” Janos asked.
Sauls stopped. “That was a year and a half ago. And it was a Morisot.”
“I’m well aware what it was — especially when it almost got me killed,” Janos pointed out. This wasn’t the first time he and Sauls had worked together. But as Janos knew, if they couldn’t get back in control soon, it easily could be their last.
“Just tell me how you-”
“Redial on Harris’s phone said he was talking to the mayor.”
“Aw, piss,” Sauls moaned. “You think he’s going to Dakota?”
As a cab stopped in front of him and the doorman opened the door, Janos didn’t answer.
“I don’t believe it,” Sauls added. “I got an embassy dinner tonight, and they’re fuckin’-” He cut himself off. “Where’re you now?”
“In transit,” Janos said as he tossed his leather duffel into the backseat.
“Well, you better get your ass to South Dakota before they-”
Janos hit the End button and slapped his phone shut. After his run-in with the Capitol Police, he already had one headache. He didn’t need another. Sliding inside the cab and slamming the door, he pulled a copy of
“Where to?” the cabbie asked.
Janos glanced up from the magazine for barely a moment. “National Airport,” he replied. “And do me a favor — try to avoid the potholes…”
31
The South Dakota sky is pitch black by the time our Chevy Suburban turns west onto Interstate 90, and the windshield is already covered with the rat-a-tat-tat of dead bugs kamikaze-ing toward the headlights. Thanks to FedEx, the Suburban was waiting for us when we landed, and since it’s their rental, we didn’t have to put down a license or credit card. In fact, when I told them that the Senator was trying to be more conscious of cultivating his farm-boy image, they were more than happy to cancel the private driver and just give us the car instead. Anything to keep the Senator happy. “Yessiree,” I say to Viv, who’s sitting in the passenger seat next to me. “Senator Stevens would much prefer to drive himself.”
Refusing to say a word, Viv stares straight out the front window and keeps her arms crossed in front of her chest. After four hours of similar treatment on the plane, I’m used to the silence, but the further we get from the lights of Rapid City, the more disconcerting it gets. And not just because of Viv’s mood. Once we passed the exit for Mount Rushmore, the bright lamps on the highway started appearing less and less frequently. First they were every hundred or so feet… then every few hundred… and now — I haven’t seen one for miles. Same with other cars. It’s barely nine o’clock local time, but as our headlights joust through the darkness, there’s not another soul in sight.
“You sure this is right?” Viv asks as we follow a sign for Highway 85.
“I’m doing my best,” I tell her. But as the road narrows to two lanes, I glance over and notice that her arms are no longer crossed in front of her chest. Instead, her hands grip the strap of her seat belt where it runs diagonally across her chest. Holding on for dear life.
“Is this right?” she repeats anxiously, turning toward me for the first time in five hours. She sits higher in the seat than I do, and as she says the words, her saucer-cup eyes practically glow in the darkness. Right there, the adolescent who’s mad I got her into this snaps back into the little girl who’s just plain scared.
It’s been a long time since I was seventeen, but if there’s one thing I remember, it was the need for simple reassurance.
“We’re doing fine,” I reply, forcing confidence into my voice. “No lie.”
She smiles faintly and looks back out the front window. I’m not sure if she believes it, but at this point —
