“Yep, the Big Apple,” Stanley said, finishing off his pint of Stella lager. “Helluva town.”
His game plan was to lull Bream, who’d joined them at the little airport bar, into believing that he and Hadley were urban philistines. Then blindside him with a mention of one of the fugitives. Bream’s reaction could provide more insight than three hours on a polygraph.
“You know, it’s funny,” said Hadley, who was lit by the blinking Christmas lights atop the wire fence separating the bar from the edge of the tarmac. “Eighteen years I’ve been living there, and I’ve never learned why it’s called the Big Apple. I mean, no clue whatsoever.”
“I’ve never seen any apple trees there,” Stanley added, the first thing he’d said so far that was true.
“Probably not a lot of golf courses either, I’m guessing,” said Bream.
Stanley sighed. “I belong to a really nice virtual reality golf course. One eleven-degree morning last month, when I was playing the digital version of the twelfth hole of Empress Josephine Golf Course, the par five that doglegs along the sea, I said to myself, ‘You know, that’s the place to be.’ ”
“We’re also looking on Nevis and Saint Lucia,” Hadley told Bream.
“There’s no comparison.” The pilot drank most of his beer in one gulp. “Folks think the Caribbean islands are all the same till they come here.” His laconic speech accelerated. His lips tightened. And he ground his heel against the tile floor. All of which were indicators of dishonesty. But that didn’t make him more than a jet jockey hoping to get business by pretending to agree with prospective clients.
“The issue is getting back up to Newark if I need to,” Stanley said.
“For some reason, they need him all the time.” Giggling, Hadley placed a warm hand on Stanley’s forearm.
Bream raised his nearly empty glass. “Well, here’s hoping you have lots of work crises that don’t hit till you’ve gotten in a full eighteen on Empress Josephine.”
“How much advance notice do you require?” Hadley asked him.
Perfect setup for a boast, Stanley thought.
“Ma’am, if I’m not already booked, I’m like pizza delivery: I meet you at the airport in forty-five minutes or your flight is free.”
Stanley laughed. “I believe it. A friend of a friend speaks very highly of you: Drummond Clark.”
Bream didn’t blink. “Oh, well, I owe Mr. Clark a beverage then,” he said after a pause. “How is he?”
The pause felt half a beat too long to Stanley. “Okay as far as I know.”
There was no reason to let the pilot suspect they were on to him. Not yet. Better just put a little scare into him and have Langley’s Caribbean Desk deploy a surveillance unit. Stanley had written a dozen cables before taking off to set this up. They now seemed worth the trouble.