Flicka bit her lip, fretting about him, but she knew better than to ask. If he wasn’t talking, he must have a good reason.
Her head lightened for a moment, and she grabbed the seat arm as the plane began its descent toward Geneva in earnest.
Dieter didn’t so much as blink.
Flicka said, “Come on, Alina. Let’s get you strapped in for the landing, all right?”
The toddler allowed herself to be belted into the wide seat with the seat belts that had fallen between the cushions and arms of the seat.
The plane bumped down the dark runway, following the lights that stretched into the distance, and coasted to a halt in front of a low, darkbuilding.
Valerian half-turned and called to the back of the plane, “Flicka, Raphael, it’s time.”
Why did everyone always say,It’s time,whenever there was some big, dramatic, ominous thing that was going to happen? It was ridiculous. Why didn’t people say something else, some other stupid thing, something like,Don’t screw this up,orThere won’t be wine where we’re going.
Flicka could reallyuse a glass of wine. She should have had a glass of cabernet instead of a chicken sandwich.
She sucked in a deep breath and told her mind to shut up. “Come on, Alina. Let’s get off the plane.”
The toddler reached up with her soft, baby hand and held Flicka’s fingers. “Okay?”
“Yes, it will be okay,” Flicka said.
Alina leaned and looked at Dieter, who was still staring at the book. “Daddy okay?”
“Yes. Daddy’s okay,” Flicka told her.
Alina’s dubious glance up at Flicka made her feel worse about lying to the child.
Everyone on the plane moved toward the exit near the nose. Dieter glanced backward at them, his eyes still blank and unreadable, and led the way toward the front.
Valerian and Bastien, along with two of the four mercenaries who had kept to themselves the whole flight, exitedthe door near the cockpit. They ducked through the low doorway of the private plane.
When they reached the door, Flicka held tightly to Alina’s hand as they prepared to descend the short stairway to the dark tarmac.
One of the burly mercenaries was waiting at the top of the stairs just outside the plane in the cool November night. “Your phone, please.”
He was already holding Dieter’s phone,the one that she had haggled and gotten for him from the Las Vegas pawn shop owner.
Flicka handed over her phone.
Great, now she really couldn’t contact anyone.
The airport’s private terminal was a tiny one and mostly dark. Long windows shone in the night.
Valerian and Bastien were walking away from the plane. She didn’t see where the mercenaries went, which was amazing considering all ofthem looked like they were addicted to anabolic steroids. They would be hard to hide.
Goosebumps prickled Flicka’s skin. The chilly Swiss air was much cooler than the Nevada desert. She glanced at Alina, but the child’s dress had a matching sweater. She should be all right.
Dieter walked down the stairs in front of them. His posture was straight and stiff, military, even more so than usual.When he reached the base of the staircase, he turned back and held his hand out, palm up, to steady Flicka as she reached the bottom, but he didn’t look at her. His gaze roamed the dark airfield, lingering on the darker shadows on the sides of the private terminal.
Flicka had flown into the Geneva airport dozens of times while organizing Wulfram’s wedding in Montreux. She’d never seen it so dark.Usually, when a private plane arrived at night, floodlights lit the runways and surrounding fields.
Tonight, only the runway’s pinprick white lights stretching into the distance broke the darkness. The night swallowed the light falling from the plane’s open door.
It was almost as if someone didn’t want their faces to be seen on the closed-circuit television cameras that must be bolted to thebuilding. No customs officials had come on board the plane and inspected their documents before they disembarked, which was weird.
A shadow detached itself from the darkness of the terminal and flew at them.
