had me worried, sir. You approached from the wrong direction.”
A shrug. “I’m a bit of a rebel.”
He was a smartass, Sharon saw immediately, but he gave a tired, friendly smile after he said it, so she let it go. She stepped up against the cockpit door to allow the man to pass into the cabin.
“Welcome on board,” she said. “You must be something special; we were heading to Luxembourg on a priority movement when we were diverted here to pick you up.”
The man shrugged. “Not special. Somebody at Langley wants a word, so I’ve been summoned.”
The woman raised her eyebrows at this. “Well, good luck with that. Can I get a drink for the condemned?”
“No thanks. I’ll be no trouble.” With that he moved to the back of the plush Gulfstream, tossed his pack into a chair, and sank into the port-side window seat next to it.
The aircraft had seating for fourteen in the form of leather cabin chairs and an overstuffed leather sofa. A TV monitor inlaid in a rosewood front bulkhead showed their position here in Zurich, and bottled water rested in every cup holder in the cabin.
Sharon closed the hatch and leaned into the cockpit to speak with the pilot, and soon the aircraft began rolling. She moved back to her single passenger and sat down in a chair across from him. “We’re to deliver you to D.C., but I’m afraid we have two stops to make en route. We’ll land in Luxembourg, pick up our passengers there, and deliver them to an airfield in the UK. We’ll refuel and get back in the air for the hop over the Atlantic. ETA at D.C. is around eleven a.m. local.”
“Works for me.”
“You really are no trouble, are you?” She stood, turned, and headed up to the cockpit.
The man looked out the window at the darkness.
The plane lifted into the night sky moments later, and Courtland Gentry, CIA code name Violator, drifted off to sleep soon after.
* * *
• • •
He only awoke as they touched down at Luxembourg City. Court knew the Agency preferred using smaller or even private airfields when possible, but the big international airport here in the suburb of Findel was the only paved runway in the tiny nation.
Just as in Zurich, the aircraft taxied and then stopped on the ramp, wide of any activity on the property.
Court looked idly out the port-side window for a moment with a yawn.
He saw headlights approaching on the ramp, and soon a pair of commercial vans pulled to a stop at the bottom of the jet stairs. The doors opened and a group of men began climbing out. Court glanced idly to the front of the cabin and saw the flight attendant standing in the open passenger doorway, holding an M4 rifle slightly behind her back, muzzle down but ready to whip it up at the first sign of danger.
She looked like she knew how to handle the weapon, which came as no shock to the CIA asset watching her. The Agency trained their transportation staff for anything.
Court himself was packing a Glock 19 9-millimeter, a .38 revolver, and a .22 caliber suppressed pistol. One on his hip, one on his ankle, the other in his pack, and he was ready to go for them if he sensed any danger. But the flight attendant seemed to have it all under control. She spoke with someone just outside the cabin on the stairs, then hung the M4 back in the coat closet and beckoned the man in.
Court closed his eyes and pulled his cap down; he was ready to get back to sleep.
* * *
• • •
Forty-six-year-old CIA officer Doug Spano boarded the aircraft while his men waited on the ramp behind him for his all clear.
Once inside he spoke to the attractive woman at the door, and then he turned to look over the darkened cabin. Immediately he saw a man seated in the back, a ball cap pulled down over his face. Spano cleared his jacket out of the way of his sidearm and gripped it, and then without taking his eyes off the man, he addressed the flight attendant. “Who the fuck is that?”
“Agency personnel, sir. He’s cleared.”
“Not by me, he’s not. This is a priority movement.”
“So is he, sir. We were told to deliver your group to Ternhill and then to fly him on to Washington.”
Spano grimaced in anger. Somebody had fucked up, and it was getting in the way of his op. He moved