Gil turned and looked out the window as they talked. It wasn’t his job to be part of things. To have opinions. On the road, he could see the marine layer hanging low, lampposts vanishing into the mist. Only a hoary glow at height indicated they were whole.
Twenty minutes later, parked on the tarmac, Gil waited for the lead car to disgorge the advance team before he gave the okay to exit. The two lead men were scanning the airfield for irregularities. Gil did the same, trusting them and not trusting them at the same time. As he reviewed the area (entrance points, blind spots), the family climbed from the car. Sparrow was asleep by this point, draped across Condor’s shoulder. Gil made no offer to help carry bags or children. His job was to protect them, not to valet.
From the corner of his eye, Gil saw Avraham sweep the plane, climbing the deployable stairs. He was inside for six minutes, walking fore to aft, checking the washroom and the cockpit. When he emerged, he gave the high sign and descended.
Gil nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
The family approached the gangway, boarding in random order. Knowing the plane was swept clear, Gil was the last to board, protecting against attack from the rear. He could feel the chill of the cabin before he was halfway up, a ghostly kiss on his exposed neck, cutting through the August musk. Did he feel something stir in his lizard brain in that moment, a low foreboding, a wizard’s sense of doom? Or is that wishful thinking?
Inside, Gil remained standing, placing himself by the open door. He was a big man—six foot two—but thin, and somehow found a place in the narrow entryway that kept him out of the aisle as passengers and crew settled in for the flight.
“The second party has arrived,” said a voice in his earpiece, and through the door Gil could see Ben and Sarah Kipling on the tarmac, showing ID to the advance men. Then Gil felt a presence off his right shoulder and turned. It was the flight attendant holding a tray.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “did you want some champagne before we take off, or—can I get you something?”
“No,” he said. “Tell me your name?”
“I’m Emma—Lightner.”
“Thank you, Emma. I’m providing security for the Batemans. May I speak to your captain?”
“Of course. He’s—I think he’s doing his walk-around. Should I ask him to speak to you when he comes back?”
“Please.”
“Okay,” she said. Clearly, Gil felt, something was making her nervous. But sometimes the presence of an armed man on a plane did that to people. “I mean, can I get you anything, or—”
He shook his head, turned away, because now the Kiplings were climbing the front stairs of the plane. They had been fixtures at Bateman events over the years, and Gil knew them on sight. He nodded as they entered, but moved his gaze quickly to deter conversation. He heard them greet the others on the plane.
“Darling,” said Sarah. “I love your dress.”
At that moment the captain, James Melody, appeared at the foot of the stairs.
“Did you see the fucking game?” Kipling said in a blustery voice. “How does he not catch that ball?”
“Don’t get me started,” said Condor.
“I mean, I could have caught that fucking ball and I’ve got French toast hands.”
Gil moved to the top of the stairs. The fog was thicker now, blowing in trails.
“Captain,” said Gil. “I’m Gil Baruch with Enslor Security.”
“Yes,” said Melody, “they told me there’d be a detail.”
He had a slight, unplaceable accent, Gil realized. British maybe or South African, but recycled through America.
“You haven’t worked with us before,” he said.
“No, but I’ve worked with a lot of security outfits. I know the routine.”
“Good. So you know if there’s a problem with the plane or any change in the flight plan I’ll need the copilot to tell me right away.”
“Absolutely,” said Melody. “And you heard we had a change in first officer?”
“Charles Busch is the new man, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’ve flown with him before?”
“Once. He’s not Michelangelo, but he’s solid.”
Melody paused for a moment. Gil could sense he wanted to say more.
“There’s no such thing as an insignificant detail,” he told the pilot.
“No, just—I think there may be some history between Busch and our flight attendant.”
“Romantic?”
“Not sure. Just the way she acts around him.”
Gil thought about that.
“Okay,” he said. “Thank you.”
He turned and went back inside, glancing into the cockpit as he did. Inside, Busch was in the copilot’s seat, eating a plastic-wrapped sandwich. He looked up and met Gil’s eye and smiled. He was a young man, clean-cut but with a slight glaze to him—he’d shaved yesterday, not today, his hair was short, but unbrushed—handsome. Gil had to watch him for only a moment to know that he’d been an athlete at some point in his life, that he’d been popular with girls since childhood, and that he liked the way it made him feel. Then Gil was turning back to the main cabin. He saw the flight attendant, Emma, approaching with an empty tray.
He gestured to her with one finger. Come here.