Two hours into the seven-hour flight, the Gulfstream roared-presumably-above a glossy navy-blue Atlantic. Exceptional insulation made it a toss-up as to which was louder, Charlie thought, the jet engines or Drummond’s light snoring from across the aisle. Their seats, like the three others, were not mere seats, but overstuffed leather recliners. Compared with this, commercial airline first class was the F train.
Charlie read a sports magazine. Or, more accurately, he held a sports magazine. He kept wondering what would become of Alice should he fail to deliver the ADM.
For the first time since takeoff, Bream glanced back from the cockpit, taking in the sleeping Drummond. “Sorry there’s no in-flight movie,” the pilot said to Charlie. “Heckuva bar, though.” He aimed a thumb at the rear of the cabin.
He seemed bored, or at least inclined to chat, which dovetailed nicely with Charlie’s hope of learning whatever he could about him.
“This is a sweet ride,” Charlie said.
“It’s just a rent-a-plane, of course.” Bream flashed a smile. “You know how it is, when you’re flying highly wanted fugitives across international borders to go fetch a nuclear bomb. It’s usually a good idea to rent, under an alias.”
“Oh.” In fact, Charlie would have bet the chalet that the Gulfstream was a rental. But he hoped that by playing the naif, he might lower Bream’s guard. “So how does one get into flying highly wanted fugitives across international borders to fetch nuclear bombs?”
Bream laughed. “Thinking of a career move?”
“Should I?”
Nudging a lever beneath the instrument panel, Bream pivoted to face Charlie. “I can only tell you one man’s experience.”
“Okay.” Charlie glanced at Drummond. Still in dreamland.
“When I was in my twenties, I signed on with the Skunk Works,” Bream said. “Know it?”
“Vaguely.” Once upon a time, like many American boys with an aptitude for numbers and a hankering for glory, Charlie had dreamed of working at the Skunk Works, Lockheed’s legendary advanced aircraft division in Palmdale, California. The closest he ever got was Arcadia, California, an hour away, to watch the Santa Anita Derby.
“I was a test pilot on an experimental stealth fighter,” Bream said.
“Wow.” Charlie’s wariness gave way to intrigue.
“I figured I’d put in five years or so there. Then, just north of thirty, I’d be able to transition to cushy corporate jets-play that right, you can make near as much as a ballplayer and get yourself a mansion and all that. The problem was, our client was an Air Force bureaucrat in real bad need of a punch in the face. And one day I gave it to him. He saw to it that I wasn’t just shit-canned but kept from flying so much as a paper plane again for a U.S.-based outfit. Then he had me thrown to the cops.”
Charlie almost sympathized. “Did you have to do time?”
Bream chuckled. “Only if you count my marriages.”
Lately when Charlie met men close to his age and learned that they had already been divorced several times-there was no shortage of them in horseplayer circles-he felt he’d frittered away his youth, never even marrying once. But he didn’t feel that way with Bream.
Charlie suspected he had been listening to a cover story. And why would Bream tell him the truth? Charlie cursed his naivete in thinking that, like some sort of seasoned covert operations officer, he might “elicit” here.
“I appreciate the in-flight entertainment,” he said, rising and wandering back to the bar, which held far greater appeal than it had a minute ago.
“My pleasure,” Bream said, turning back to the controls.
On a crystal decanter, Charlie caught a reflection of the pilot biting back a grin. It revealed an extra helping of ego, Charlie thought.
Now he had something to work with.