“Just trying it out. Don’t get used to it.”
Gibson pushed through the revolving doors into Russert Aviation. Indistinct jazz filled the wide, tastefully furnished lobby, which reminded Gibson of a hotel. Russert offered a gourmet bistro, conference room, fitness center, and showers. Everything needed for a budding jet-set lifestyle. At this late hour, the lights, tastefully dimmed, accentuated the views out the floor-to-ceiling windows. Not that there was anyone there to appreciate the effect apart from the counter agent, who greeted Gibson with a cheerful wave.
“Greetings, friend!” the counter agent said as if Gibson’s unexpected appearance had just made life worth living again. The man’s perky, energetic persona belied the fact that it was almost midnight. A night owl for the night shift, and a little ray of sunshine on a cold, dark night. Although Russert was technically a competitor of Gibson’s putative employer, he hadn’t seen any trace of rivalry among the employees, who largely saw themselves as brothers-in-arms against the barely controlled chaos of airport life. Gibson was depending on exactly that now.
They exchanged pleasantries while the agent continued typing busily at his terminal. Behind him sat Jenn’s brand-new luggage—four expensive, hard-sided suitcases decorated in brash floral patterns that proved money didn’t buy taste. Overkill, perhaps, but their weapons and gear weighed significantly more than clothes, so they’d chosen to spread them out to avoid raising suspicion. The counter agent finished typing and looked up at Gibson.
“So what brings you to our humble corner of the world?”
Gibson leaned on the counter and adopted a weary posture. This part of the plan demanded finesse, because to work it required his new friend here to break protocol. If the counter agent picked up the phone and called over to Tyner Aviation, then they were cooked. It would be the sensible thing to do, so Gibson would have to give the man a good reason not to do it.
Gibson looked around the empty lobby. “Well, I was hoping you could help me out, but it doesn’t look like it.”
“Sorry to hear that. What’s the problem?”
“Well, I’ve sort of lost a plane,” Gibson confessed.
“You lost a what, now? How is that . . .”
The counter agent trailed off as a woman burst out of the bathroom at the far end of the lobby. Gibson turned and joined him in staring. Intellectually, he knew it was Jenn, but that didn’t mean he recognized her.
She had warned him that she intended to go bold and loud, but he hadn’t known exactly what that meant until now. She wore a cap-sleeve black cocktail napkin of a dress with a plunging V-neck that ended not far from where Gibson imagined her belly button to be. That was about all it did leave to the imagination. Add to that four-inch heels and enough gold jewelry to start a new currency, and the garishness of her luggage suddenly made much more sense. The oversized black sunglasses were an especially nice touch, given the hour.
Jenn crossed the lobby toward them much the way German panzers had crossed into Poland—rampant and undeniable. She had not been subtle applying makeup—her cheekbones stood out like defiant cliffs, and the cruel red of her lips accentuated a contemptuous sneer. She slapped a burgundy Chanel handbag down on the counter like she’d just planted a flag on a newly conquered continent.
“Well,” Jenn demanded in a hard Russian accent. “Have you found my fucking flight yet?”
Gibson bit down on his tongue to stifle a laugh at her audacity. It worked perfectly.
“No, but I am still looking,” the counter agent said.
“I cannot be late,” she said. “If you make me late, I will . . .” She finished her threat in Russian before returning to English. “How is it you cannot find an airplane? Are there so many that you do not know where one is? Are you an idiot?”
“Ma’am, I am looking, but I have nothing scheduled for this morning. Are you certain you have the right day?”
Jenn’s expression turned to molten rage. Through clenched teeth, a stream of hot Russian poured out. Gibson didn’t speak a word himself, but he knew tone of voice well enough to know that the counter agent’s family had just been cursed for generations to come. The counter agent looked miserable but stood politely by while Jenn belittled him. Somehow his helpful smile never wavered. Gibson waited for an opening and threw him a lifeline.
“Excuse me. Did you say you were meeting a plane?” Gibson asked, but the counter agent wasn’t getting off that easy. It took Gibson three more attempts before Jenn deigned to acknowledge his existence. Her performance was so convincing that, for a moment, Gibson felt irritated by her grandstanding. He knew she was good, but he had no idea she was this good. He hadn’t known Jenn in her CIA days, but the Agency had been fools to let her get away.
“What?” she demanded, turning on Gibson as if taken aback that there was anyone else in the building. “What is it you want?”
“You’re supposed to meet a plane?”
“Yes, this is what I am saying. Are you also an idiot?”
Gibson glanced over at the counter agent. They were nearing the sales pitch, and Gibson wanted to take his temperature. The counter agent gave him a helpless, sympathetic nod, which Gibson took as a positive indicator. To help push the needle a little further in their favor, Jenn went back to assaulting him in Russian. Gibson let her go a few more rounds before stepping in again.
“Are you a guest of Rupert Delgado?” Gibson asked.
“Da. This is what I am trying to tell this fool.”
“All right, there’s been a bit of a mix-up,” Gibson said.
“She’s your missing plane?” the counter agent asked with relief in his voice.
“What mix-up?” Jenn asked suspiciously.
“You’re at the wrong FBO. When you landed, you should have been directed to Tyner Aviation. This is Russert.”
“Tyner! Russert! I do not care. Why did you do this?” Jenn demanded, summoning her inner Romanov.
“Ma’am, that was aircraft control, not us. The important thing now is that Mr. Delgado is ready to go,” Gibson said.
“And I am not?” Jenn pronounced, emphatically gesturing to her own figure. If she’d had a mic in her hand, she’d have dropped it.
“All right, then,” Gibson said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get you to that plane.”
“What about her aircraft?” The counter agent was pointing out to the ramp. “It can’t stay here.”
Gibson played crestfallen. For obvious reasons, protocol required an aircraft be in its designated location. Proper procedure called for Jenn’s plane to be relocated immediately.
Gibson nodded emphatically. “Yeah, of course. Where’s her pilot? Are they still air-side? Can they move it?”
“She’s the pilot,” the counter agent said.
“She’s a pilot?” Gibson feigned disbelief.