Starting tonight.
10
Fran’s nerves ratcheted higher with each block they sped by. Ari had insisted on taking a cab to the municipal airstrip where small engine planes were kept, including the planes of the royal family. He didn’t say that’s why he wanted to go, but it didn’t matter.
She should be happy, she knew. He was clearly remembering more. He knew he was a pilot, and he knew he had taken off from this airstrip. Whether that was simple deductive reasoning or legitimate memory she didn’t know, but Ari was getting closer to a breakthrough.
She could only hope it didn’t come with a breakdown.
Ari had agreed to a clothing change but his new attire was no less distinctive—loose cut work pants and a work shirt. He’d even acquired a belt of tools that now lay next to him in the back of a cab. He looked the part of a mechanic, and he sat forward, tense and alert, with each turn the cabbie made to getting them closer to the airstrip.
“What if they don’t let you in?” she asked.
“They will,” he said, patting the tools. “Workers come in and out all the time.”
“But workers for planes that people actually own. People you don’t know.” She shot him a glance. “Right?”
He shrugged. “Right.” Still, his expression was intent as the cabbie slowed, and their conversation was cut off. Ari paid for their fare with cash, and then he was out the door, holding it for Fran as she stepped into the warm evening sky.
The airstrip was a smaller affair than she expected, and to her shock—it wasn’t fenced off, not in any meaningful way. “Don’t you people believe in security?”
“It takes a special kind of criminal to steal a plane, and all flight manifests are logged,” Ari said automatically. “Cars require clearance, foot traffic goes through the main building usually, but not always.”
Fran frowned at him. “You’re remembering this”
“Not specifically, no. It’s simple knowledge.” Ari’s attention was fixed on the squat metal building at the head of the field. “In the evening though, there’s a simple watch. One man, generally the same man who’s been here all day.” Ari’s wince told her that remembering did cause at least some pain, but he pushed on. “He’ll be tired now, probably bored, but a distraction would alarm him. No one but an asshole sends his mechanic out to tune up an airplane in the evening unless they’re getting ready to leave at an odd hour.”
Fran scanned the building. A parking gate blocked its driveway, with low fencing stretching out in either direction. No one in a vehicle could enter the drive without keying themselves through the long bar. She glanced at Ari as he strapped on his tool belt, and she had to admit, he did appear to be a man who knew his way around airplanes. But they were on the outside of the airstrip, looking in. And there remained the man in the security building.
“Okay, how do you plan to get in?”
“There’s some men out there,” Ari said, gesturing to the field. She could see two or three small golf-cart-style vehicles—but not their men. “It’s not a matter so much of getting in among the planes as looking like you’ve been there for some time.”
“But…” Fran shook her head, still confused. “If you go trotting across the field—the security guard will see you.”
“He would, ordinarily,” he nodded. He pivoted to her then, and the expression on his face was one she recognized all too well—and not from the halls of the royal family.
“Oh no,” she said, lifting her hands. “You can’t expect me to serve as your cover. I don’t speak Garronois! I can’t even credibly ask for the bathroom.”
“I need no more than a few minutes,” Ari said. “You see that plane over there—the larger one?”
She squinted in the direction he was pointing. “Yes,” she said warily.
“The insignia on the back—it’s the same as was on the royal family’s yacht. I don’t know Stefan Mihal’s role with the family, but I suspect it’s prominent, if they gave him the run of their pet island.”
Fran stifled a groan. “And that’s good, why?”
“If I get stopped, I’ll tell them Stefan Mihal sent me, and they can call him themselves.” Ari grinned.
“Won’t they check your ID?”
He shrugged. “If they do, I’ll tell them to contact Stefan Mihal. They’ll have no choice but to do so, though it’s dinnertime and I’m sure like any good aristocrat, Stefan has obligations. He could still actually be on the royal island.”
Fran rather doubted that. Once they’d decamped to the city, she suspected the island had been deserted within a few short hours. By now everyone would be back in the capital city, searching for them.
She glanced around the remote airstrip. There hadn’t been a limo sitting idle in the parking lot, so maybe they hadn’t guessed Ari would be here. But they would, eventually. “What is it you think you’re going to find?” she asked. “The plane you flew—even if it took off from here, it’s gone. And if you’re out in the field, you won’t be able to check flight records, even if they do keep those onsite from so long ago.”
He shook his head. “It’s not the plane I’m looking for, it’s…” he sighed. “When I remember something, truly remember it, it’s not simply enough for me to conjure up an image in my mind, an image I think or hope might have happened. The pain doesn’t come unless I’m physically in touch with the place where the memory happened, or physically see something that sparks the memory. That’s what I’m hoping for here.”
