Hot Ice

34

Jason hated transoceanic flights, even more so in economy class. Hours of being crammed into close quarters with nearly two hundred strangers, none of whom had paid the same price for their ticket. Even military transport was more generous with legroom.

Add to that the all-night drive from Durham to London that had forced him to drink what he guessed was more coffee than the little car’s gas tank would have held. Certainly enough to make him promise his souring stomach that he would swear off the stuff for the next twenty years.

In the wee hours of the morning, he left the Morris beside the embassy and handed the keys to a somewhat puzzled Marine security guard at the gate. By this time, the Underground’s first trains of the day were beginning to run. A quick check revealed the number of police in the tube stations from the day before had been sharply reduced: only one automatic weapon — carrying officer that Jason could see. Still, he made himself extremely camera shy, shielding his face from the overhead lenses as much as he could without being obvious.

He had dozed off during the ride to St. Pancras Station, where he purchased a Eurostar ticket for the two-hour-and-fifteen-minute Chunnel ride to Paris, falling asleep again as the train left the station. From de Gaulle he would return to Washington by a route he hoped sufficiently circuitous to have eluded anyone looking for him, whether Scotland Yard or former Spetsnaz.

The airline, of course, had nearly frustrated his plan. During multiple coffee breaks on the drive back to London, and the equally frequent stops necessitated thereby, Jason had used his BlackBerry to book a first-class ticket Paris — Washington, reservations he had electronically confirmed upon his arrival at Gare du Nord in Paris before getting on the Métro for Charles de Gaulle.

His arrival at the airport revealed a somewhat different story: Yes, of course his reservations were in the system, the pretty young Frenchwoman assured him in delightfully accented English. But what did the system know, she asked with that Gallic shrug that says there is no understanding to be had. The equipment had been changed to an aircraft with a smaller first-class section. The row including Jason’s seat had been eliminated. Management had not told the reservations people, she confided, this time with a forefinger tugging at a bottom eyelid, the French gesture that says the words are not to be believed.

A seat was available in economy. She smiled with this information as though Delta was doing him a real service just to let him on the airplane. No? There would be plenty of first-class seats on the next flight.

When would that be? he wanted to know.

She checked her watch as though it displayed airline timetables rather than the hour. Its scheduled departure was only an hour or so away.

Jason wasn’t going to get screwed by the airline twice in the same day. “Could you give the actual departure time?”

There was a hitch: the next flight, the one with a surplus of first-class seats, had a small problem. Something about some silly little light that would not go off no matter how many switches, buttons, and levers the pilot had used on the flight over earlier that day. It should be no problem: the necessary part was on its way, being trucked over from Orly, Paris’s other international airport.

Jason had flown enough to be wary of both “minor” maintenance problems and flights with a plethora of available seats. Since admission of a major mechanical problem was bad PR, all glitches were classed as ‘minor.’ Second, a flight with a number of empty seats, particularly transoceanic, was likely to be canceled for some fabricated reason other than the real one: that the airline would lose money on it.

He took the seat in coach.

With his single bag in the overhead bin, he shoehorned himself into a middle seat that had obviously been designed by someone with minimal knowledge of human anatomy. Or a sadist. To his right, next to the window, was a gray-haired woman who began to unload a collection of travel guides to France from a voluminous purse. Why she would find the attractions of, say, the Loire, of interest when departing the country was a mystery.

Just as the cabin door was about to close, a young woman with a bad blond bleach job plopped down in the aisle seat to Jason’s left. She also carried a purse that could have served as a suitcase. From it she began to unload a collection of cosmetics: face powder, mascara, eye liner, and a number of items Jason could not have identified had he tried. Once the items were arranged in her lap, she began to apply them with the aid of a small mirror. Another mystery: where was she going in the next eight or so hours where such an effort would be necessary?

At least he had nothing in common with his seat mates sufficient to provoke an effort at conversation. Enduring a recap of some stranger’s recent vacation, business trip, or whatever was not what Jason had in mind. To make sure, he stood, unzipped his suitcase, and took his iPad out and put the buds in his ears. If relaxation would have been difficult with the seat back released to its customary six inches, it was impossible in the pre-takeoff upright or rigid position.

Religious music, per se, was of little interest to Jason but J. S. Bach’s Mass in B Minor was a composition of pure beauty regardless of the subject matter. Like all of this composer’s work, vocal or instrumental, this was more of a journey than an experience, returning over and over to same or similar themes and patterns. The a cappella choral prelude was blending into strings when Jason looked up to see a flight attendant who was saying something.

He removed the ear buds.

“Sir, as has already been announced, electronic devices must be shut off before takeoff. The captain will announce when it is safe to use such devices. You need to check the in-flight magazine to see which electronics may be used on board.”

Both of Jason’s seat mates were scowling at him, someone who was carelessly endangering their safety. Jason knew from his own flight training that iPads, cell phones, e-readers, and the like had as much influence on the aircraft’s navigational systems as the wizard Merlin had had on raising up Stonehenge. Neither legend would die, however. The difference was the airlines had a motive in promoting theirs: a passenger allowed unlimited access to his own electronics was far less likely to pay for earphones to watch the in-flight entertainment.

Reluctantly, Jason made a show of turning the contraption off.

He put it in the seat pocket in front of him. His fingers went to his own pocket. The matchbook he had taken from the assassin in Durham.

He pulled it out, examining it. HOTEL EL CONVENTO, 10 °CALLE CRISTO, SAN JUAN, PUERTO RICO was embossed on its cover.

What was the connection between a Spetsnaz killer and a hotel in San Juan? Not much of a clue, but the only one Jason had.