Point of Contact

Jack watched Paul limp up the aisle following the flight attendant through first class. A few envious passengers leaned out to watch the portly accountant pass beyond the first-class curtain, where travel nirvana — and a twenty-thousand-dollar private suite — awaited him.

Ten minutes later Jack was back into his Kindle when Sally reappeared with a small tray and a tall red cocktail adorned with a wedge of pineapple. She handed it to Jack with a smile. “Courtesy of Mr. Brown, with his compliments.”

Jack took it gladly. “What is it?”

Sally smiled. “A Singapore Sling, of course.”

Of course, Jack thought. He took a sip. He tasted gin, brandy, Cointreau, Bénédictine, and pineapple juice. Incredible.

“Do you like it?” Sally asked.

“My new favorite. Tell Paul thanks for me, will you?”

“Sure thing. Enjoy.” She turned and headed back to first class.

Jack lifted the glass in a mock toast. “You’re okay, Paul Brown.” He suddenly remembered how much he liked to travel and that he’d always wanted to go to Singapore. Hendley was right. Maybe this was going to be a great little vacation after all.

But he still wanted to know. Paul Brown, who the hell are you?

14

By the time they finally boarded their next flight, Jack was fried. Mechanical problems, a switched plane, and crew delays from a transit strike turned a scheduled three-hour layover into a nine-hour debacle. A frustrating business trip was suddenly worse.

What really bothered him, though, was the utter waste of time. If he’d only known about the delays he would’ve grabbed a taxi and headed into London to see Ysabel Kashani. It killed him to be this close to her and not say hello in person; to say he was sorry for the way it ended, on a hurried phone call between flights they both had to catch, without even a last kiss good-bye.

Paul was happy as a clam, though, and fresh as a daisy. Captain Miller had given him a pass to the Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse, where he enjoyed a hot shower and a shave, along with champagne and breakfast. He even got his suit cleaned and pressed. At least one of them was having a good time.

Jack, on the other hand, had cleaned up in the public restroom, his face nicked by the cheap razor he’d bought in the terminal. Still, he was happy for Paul. The only explanation Paul was willing to offer about the extraordinary attention Captain Miller had paid to him was that he and Miller had known each other years ago. Beyond that, Paul wouldn’t get more specific. Jack let it go. There were still another eleven-plus hours of flight time and a whole week on the ground to decipher the growing enigma that was Paul Brown.

Jack was also exhausted. He hadn’t been able to sleep on the overnight flight to London, partly because a man in the row behind him snored like a jigsaw ripping through a tin roof. He certainly couldn’t sleep in the stiff-backed Heathrow terminal chairs, anxiously waiting to board their flight while Paul worked his Sudoku puzzles.

Now that Jack was finally settled into his plush reclining leather chair, he could catch some shuteye. He stretched out his seat as Paul fired up his computer. “I need to keep working on my other project,” Paul said, but Jack was already sound asleep.

Paul worked diligently on the last spreadsheet he’d been combing through when he first got the call from Hendley and Rhodes. When the dinner service finally arrived he dove into it, and he ordered a cup of steaming-hot water for his private stash of chamomile tea just before he went to sleep.

When the breakfast service rolled around, Paul decided to wake Jack up with a gentle nudge.

Jack stirred out of his dead slumber. “Something wrong?”

“Heck no. Breakfast is coming and it smells great.”

Jack yawned and stretched. “Sounds good.” He raised his seat. “I miss anything?”

“Like what?”

Jack rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “A hijacking. A monster on the wing trying to tear it apart. The usual.”

“No, not really. You’ve got a couple of options for breakfast.”

“I’ll have what you’re having.”

“I’m going for the full English selection. And just to be a little crazy, I’m going for the Earl Grey tea. I could use the caffeine.”

“Order for me — but with black coffee. Back in a flash.”

Jack excused himself, crawled over Paul, and used the cramped facilities, splashing water on his face and running his fingers through his hair to try and bring some order to the chaos on top of his head. He checked the scabbing razor nicks on his face and hoped he could buy or beg a toothbrush and toothpaste from the flight attendant before they landed.

Jack made his way back up the aisle, passing three men scattered around the cabin, a German, a Bulgarian, and a Ukrainian. Jack didn’t notice them. He wasn’t supposed to.

But each of them was keenly aware of Paul Brown.

The “Singapore girl” flight attendant, wearing the airline’s distinctively colorful sarong kebaya, arrived with breakfast just as Jack retook his seat. His mouth watered as he started tucking in.