“And you?” he said, after.
“Me?”
“No tattoos? History of organized crime? Lengthy prison sentences?”
“Not unless Beethoven, Bach, or Brahms were gangsters.”
“Music.”
“Piano.”
“No wonder your hands are so beautiful.”
“Look closely. Broken knuckles. A car door. End of career.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So was I. Not anymore.”
“Me neither, then. We wouldn’t have met.”
“Move to Singapore?”
“Probably not in the cards.” Simon raised his eyebrows. “London…London?”
“Ditto.” She continued to look at him, mischief and maybe something else in her eyes. “I have a secret.”
“Oh?”
“I’m a bad girl.” She kissed him, longer this time. She raised her seat back, unclasped her safety belt, and stood, brushing her body over his as she made her way to the aisle. “Coming?” she whispered in his ear, a nip on the lobe.
Simon watched her walk to the lavatory. It was the big one, the one for handicapped passengers. He waited a moment—no wheelchairs, walkers, or flight attendants in sight—then rose.
He knocked once, softly.
Like a gentleman.
Chapter 61
Jerusalem
Transcript of conversation / Names of participants redacted
Time: 16:15 GMT
“So?”
“The Doctor is hard at work caring for his patients.”
“Are they giving him any problems?”
“None. He’s looked after these kind of things—patients, that is—before.”
“Will they be well enough to leave the hospital tomorrow afternoon?”
“The Doctor asks if all five must leave at the same time. One is giving him a bit of trouble. Nothing serious, mind you, but given the type of medicine involved, he would like additional time.”
“Out of the question. We have only one ambulance free.”
