Heavy Metal

By Alan Joscelyn

In this second story in the Miles and Casie series, Helena lawyer Miles Patrick sets out with fiancée Casie Irish on a worldwide tour to visit Miles' fatefully-acquired collection of "Proper Mariner's Houses" and to find out if workaholic Miles can get away from his practice long enough to support a relationship. But their pre-honeymoon expedition gets derailed when Miles gets pulled into an intrigue involving the long-ago history of his Venetian Palazzo, putting his and Casie's lives and future in jeopardy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781365947452

Book preview

Heavy Metal

HEAVY METAL

By

Alan Joscelyn

Chapter One

Flying just sucks.

Especially on a Monday.

We had just arrived at the E terminal of the Salt Lake City airport after the early morning flight from Helena on a cramped commuter jet.

The one we'd had to get up at four a.m. to catch.

The one with no coffee service due to turbulence on take-off and the short flight.  

It's not supposed to be this cold. I said through clenched teeth as we scurried across the windswept tarmac to the door marked E-28.

You're the one who said we should leave our coats, Casie replied without looking back.

Yeah, yeah.

A south-drooping jet stream had let a mass of frigid Arctic air sag into the northern Rockies the previous week, and the temperature in Salt Lake City, while warmer than it had been in Helena, was still only in the single digits.  But we were headed for warmer places, starting in Venice, and I was still sure we wouldn't need our winter coats once we got on the next flight.

Doorway E-28 admitted us to the aluminum and glass, tunnel-like concourse which was heated only by radiant heaters in the ceiling above the center of the walkway.  Still, it felt worlds warmer than outside.  Casie, her long, coppery-red hair pulled back and clasped with a turquoise bar at the back of her neck, turned and waited for me to catch up, and we walked down the center of the concourse toward the terminal, me carrying my old battered leather briefcase, Casie with her daypack over one shoulder.

We had a quick turnaround, fifty minutes before departure of our flight to Boston, where we would switch to Air France for the trans-Atlantic hop.

Coffee, I growled, and maybe one of those cinnamon rolls.  We can take them with us to our next gate.

I’d kill for a cup of coffee, Casie said.

I felt a rush of warm air as we walked through the sliding doors into the terminal, brightly lit and bustling with people even at this early hour.

We hadn’t cleared the crowd clustered in the doorway seeking gate information from airline agents, when I heard someone call my name.  I looked to my left, in the direction of the voice, recognized the speaker, and walked the few steps to him, Casie still by my side.

Senator Parrish.  I'm sure the surprise was apparent in my voice as I offered my right hand. 

Miles, good to see you, boomed Colin Parrish, Montana’s junior U.S. Senator, a large, curly-haired, toothpick-chewing man of about sixty-five, sporting a western-cut suit, no tie, and a pair of Ostrich-skin Tony Lama boots, as he enthusiastically pumped my hand.  And who’s this lovely lady? he said, shifting his attention to Casie.

Senator, my, uh . . .  I was about to say fiancée, but I still wasn’t sure exactly how things were.

Fianceé, said Casie, stepping forward, offering her hand and fixing the Senator with her most direct and engaging smile. I’m Casie Irish, Senator.  We’ve met before, at a fundraiser in Billings, it’s been a few years ago.  It’s very nice to see you again.

And you, Ms. Irish, the politician boomed with a smile, enveloping Casie’s free hand in both of his.  Unaccountably, he seemed stumped for what to say next, but then men didn’t have a chance when Casie turned on the charm, and turned out even a Senator wasn’t immune. 

Didn’t expect to see you here, Senator.  Where are you going so early on a Monday?  Not overly gracious, but it was Monday, in an airport, and I could almost smell that coffee.

Up to Great Falls, Parrish said distractedly, breaking off his gaze from Casie and turning back to me almost reluctantly.  We got stuck here overnight.  Connecting flight from Cincinnati was late.  And what about the two of you?

Headed out of the country.

The Senator's raised eyebrows indicated my short answer hadn't revealed much.  But the long version was too involved and none of his business anyway.

I’d met Casie two years earlier, about a year after her first marriage had broken up, and at that point I’d been single about a dozen years after going through the painful dissolution of my own long-term marriage.  We’d been sharing my home in the mansion district on Helena’s historic west side for the past year, a comfortable fit for both of us, and things might have gone on like that for years.  Then, in July, an old letter from a long-deceased client named Jim Spencer had triggered a chain reaction of events, ending in a confrontation between myself and a violent crime syndicate.  People had died, and I had almost been one of them.

A brush with death has a way of making you see things clearly.  I’d told Casie immediately afterward that I wanted us to be married.  

Cas’s acceptance had been conditional, but not complicated:  With one divorce each we’d already used up the luxury of being able to make a mistake.  We weren’t twenty-five, and she wanted us to be able to make the most of the time we would have together.  If I could do that, she wanted to marry me.

It was what I wanted, the question was could I do it.  My reaction to my divorce had been to turn into a workaholic.  Easy to do for lawyers.  But even before the events of earlier that summer, before I’d even met Casie, things had started to change for me.  Maybe it had been turning fifty and waking up one morning realizing I could still be waking up alone when I turned sixty, and seventy.  Then I’d met Casie at a party, where she and I had been set up by mutual friends, and it was like a light had gone on for me.

About six weeks after my week-long, cross-country duel with the drug runners had ended with a cataclysmic explosion deep in an historic Montana gold mine, I’d received the startling news that I was now the owner of six mansions scattered around the world, courtesy of the stock certificates that had been included with Jim Spencer's long-delayed letter.

I’d told Casie then that I thought an inspection tour would make an unbeatable honeymoon, and she had counter-proposed that it would make a good chance to see if we were still compatible when I was away from the office for more than eight hours at a stretch.

I turned my attention back to the Senator.  I came into ownership of some property overseas earlier this year, and we decided we ought to go see what it amounts to.

I heard somethin’ about that, Parrish said.  Quite the deal.  Abruptly he shifted gears.  Say, Miles, we’ve got another version of that mining law reform bill comin’ up in committee next week.  Senator Parrish was the chairman of the Senate Natural Resources Committee.  Can you spare me a couple minutes -- there’s still a thing or two botherin’ me?  His eyes glanced at me quickly, then back away toward the crowded concourse.

Oh, great, I thought to myself.  The first time in his fourteen-year career the Senator wants to ask for my input and it happens in the Salt Lake City airport when I have forty minutes to catch the departure flight for the trip meant to test whether I can get away from business.

That was my first thought.  My next thought was, what is this.  Senators don't ask people for input.  A senator's entire life is spent deflecting people trying to give them input.  And Monday morning in the Salt Lake City airport?  What the hell.

But he was a senator.

Uhh, sure.  I glanced at Casie.  We’ve probably got a few minutes to spare.  We’re on an 8:45 to Boston, out of the C Concourse.

Well that’s just fine, he replied, with the hearty laugh that was his trademark.  Tell you what, Ms. Irish, he said, turning to face her.  I hate to impose, but this will just take a few minutes. I’ll squirrel Miles away to the Crown Room for a short talk, and promise to have him to your gate in time to go.  It’s been a great pleasure.

He turned before Casie could say anything, put his hand on my arm and steered me toward the stairs.  Bye now, he cast over his shoulder to Casie.  He’ll be there, don’t worry.

C-10, I called back to Casie.  Go on down.  I’ll meet you there.  I gave her a who knows look and half shrug, and turned to catch up with the Senator, who had reached the stairs up to the concourse and was taking them two at a time.

So, mining law reform again, I said as we stepped onto the moving walkway between the D and C terminals.  Might as well flush out what was really going on.

Yeah.  Same ol’, same ol, Parrish said, showing zero interest in the subject.  Maybe we oughta walk.  He did, leaving me, again, to catch up.

The Senator’s sudden profound disinterest in mining law reform cemented my suspicions.  I sighed to myself and walked.

The Senator said nothing else until we were inside the Crown Room, whose plush decor belied the plain-looking steel door through which we’d entered.  

No interruptions, sweetheart, he boomed as we swept by a polished walnut reception counter staffed by an elegantly-attired, thirty-something blond woman. 

Yes, Senator, she replied to our retreating backs.

He led me through a club room furnished with a scattering of comfortable chairs, divans and tables, occupied by a handful of up-scale travelers, to a short corridor, and a closed solid walnut door.  He stopped, knocked twice, said, it’s me, then turned the knob and opened the door.

We walked into a small conference room, nicely appointed with a white ash table and six plush leather chairs trimmed in polished aluminum.  Just one chair was occupied, by a slender woman of medium height, with short black hair, maybe a bit younger than the lady at the reception desk.  She wore a dark blue business suit -- matching skirt and jacket over an open-necked white blouse -- and was sitting at the end of the oval table, talking on a smartphone.  She ended the call as we entered, laid the phone on the table, and stood, awaiting an introduction. 

Miles, this is Marge Cutler.  Marjorie, Miles Patrick, one of our distinguished Helena lawyers.

She leaned forward and offered her hand, looking me straight in the eye.  It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Patrick.  Her smile was confident and professional.

I’d long ago become accustomed to young women calling me Mr. Patrick.  I hardly even noticed it anymore.

I shook her hand politely, and nodded, raising my eyebrows in greeting.  Miss Cutler.

No one said anything for a long second, then Parrish took two steps behind me, closed the door, and leaned against it, issuing a sigh.  When I looked at him he gave his head a slight shake, and the ghost of a smile crossed his lips, an acknowledgment this was in fact something way out of the ordinary.

Ms. Cutler is with the government, Miles.  You probably got that figured out already.  He pushed off of the door and pulled out a chair.  May as well sit, the both of you.  He sat, and the lady and I did the same.

Among my other assignments, Miles, I am on the Intelligence Oversight Committee, Parrish said.

I nodded, looking at him so he knew I was paying attention, but keeping my face neutral despite my raging curiosity.

In that capacity, he continued, I was asked to intercept you here, and make introductions.  It was felt that you might be skeptical if Marge Cutler or one of her people just dropped in on you out of the blue, but you might be willing to listen to what she had to say if I asked.

I had no idea what he was talking about, but he sure as hell had my attention.  I glanced at the woman at the other end of the table.  She gave me a small, conspiratorial smile and waited for the Senator to finish.

Well, I’m askin’.

I nodded again, first at the Senator, then at the woman, who, it now hit me, must be with one of the intelligence agencies, and gave an affirmative shrug.  I’ll listen.  I resisted the inclination to be more forthcoming.  My professional instincts were now on full alert, and they were telling me I had been dropped into a negotiation that could have consequences.  I wasn’t about to give anything away this early.

That’s all I ask, Parrish said, and looked at the woman. Okay, Marge. I got him here.  The rest is up to you, and he pushed his chair back on two legs and balanced there, arms crossed, still chewing on the toothpick.

As the Senator said, she began, giving me an engaging smile, I’m with the government.  Central Intelligence Agency, actually.

I acknowledged what had been obvious, and that it had been obvious, with a small nod.

To be direct, we’re here to ask if you would be willing to help us out with a matter.

I nodded again, but kept quiet.  I wasn’t about to commit to anything without knowing more.

She shifted in her seat and paused for a second.  She apparently had been hoping for a more encouraging first response.

Hmmm, where to start.  She frowned a prim little frown.

I was curious what was coming next but I was also worried about the time, and that Casie was going to be worrying about me getting to the gate in time.  I flashed a quick look at the face of the watch on my left wrist, and the Senator caught me looking.

Let me put your mind at ease, Miles, so you can listen to what the lady has to say.  That airplane isn’t going anywhere until you get there.  It’s conveniently developed a glitch which the Delta mechanics are trying to run down.  The glitch will be fixed when I pick up that phone -- he nodded at a phone sitting on a side table in the corner of the room -- when we’re done talking here.  They won’t start boarding until you show up at the gate, so your lady friend won’t have to worry.  

I turned and shot my elected representative a raised-eyebrow look.  He was still rocked back on the back legs of his chair, nodding at my silent question.

Yeah, we can do that.  The airlines don’t like it, and we try not to abuse the privilege, but I wouldn’t have trotted my butt all the way out here to catch you if this wasn’t important.

I raised my eyebrows, acknowledging that the little lesson in power wasn’t unappreciated, then turned back to Marge Cutler and made a rolling motion with my right hand.  She picked up the cue.

All right.  Night Train.  We’d been watching the houses, and trying to track down who was behind the corporation when you came along this summer and did the job for us.

Night Train was the name of the corporation that owned the mansions I had unexpectedly acquired as the result of the letter and the old stock certificates from Jim Spencer.  The short version of the story that unfolded after I got the letter was that the houses, all but one in a port city, had been bought as proper mariner’s houses by a man named Mike Peterson, himself a sea Captain who’d taken a not-so-small fortune from a drug-runner named Song as revenge for Song’s hijacking one of Peterson’s ships and killing the crew, all who were Peterson’s friends.

Captain Mike had intended to give one of the houses to my former client and keep the rest for himself and his young bride, but had been murdered, by Song, before he was able to transfer them out of a company called Night Train, Inc., which he had formed to hold title temporarily.  The stock certificates which had showed up in the long-delayed letter, signed over to me, represented one hundred percent of the shares in another corporation that owned the shares of Night Train.

It hadn’t hurt that Mike Peterson had put some money into trust with a Seattle trust company, also in the name of Night Train, to take care of the houses in the short term, and that the money had been invested in Microsoft, way back at the beginning.  The fund that had dropped into my lap with the houses was enough to make keeping all of the houses feasible, and more.  I hadn’t told anyone but Casie and the IRS how much it was.  I wondered if the CIA and the Senator knew.

Glad I could be of help, I replied.  Then, focusing on what she had said, asked, so why were you watching?  And any place in particular?

The building in Venice has been converted to apartments, she said, watching me for reaction.

I nodded, once.  So I’ve been told.

Who told you?

A trust company in Seattle was paying expenses for the place.  The account manager put me in touch with a man in Venice who manages the property, Gilvanni Benedetti.

Now it was her turn to nod.  Well one of the people Mr. Benedetti rented to is a Lebanese man named Issa Ibrahim.  He has told Mr. Benedetti he’s a student, studying art and architecture in Venice, but we don’t think so.  He seems to be involved in contraband materials, merchandise that can be turned over quick, and he has connections to some shady sorts of people, the sort that we worry about.  We got curious about who owned Night Train, and we got even more curious when we found out Night Train owned five other mansions around the world.  We took a hard look at you when you surfaced recently as the owner.

That gave me pause.  I was hoping my face didn’t show it.

Relax, she said.  If we thought you had anything to hide, we wouldn’t be talking.

Good thing we weren’t playing poker.  Glad to hear that.    Is that coffee?  I indicated a brushed stainless carafe sitting on the table by the phone, flanked by a grouping of white ceramic mugs.

Here, Parrish said, bringing his chair back to the upright position and struggling up and out of it.  Let me get it.  You take anything in it?

I glanced at Marge Cutler with a sarcastic half-smile.  Do I?

She gave me an indulgent very funny sort of a smile.

Just black, Senator, thanks.

The Senator, holding the carafe, rolled his eyes and poured two cups full of the fragrant and steaming black coffee.  Marge?

No thanks.  She waited until I had been handed one of the mugs and taken a sip, then said, we convinced ourselves you were just a guy who stumbled into ownership of Night Train about the same time we found out you were taking a trip to Venice to take a look at your new property, and it occurred to us you might be willing to help us out a little.

I wondered how this woman and her people found out we were going to Venice, let alone why.  I found myself scanning back through the past few weeks for anything Johnny Tripp, my travel agent, or Larry Weinberg, the Seattle trust account manager, had said about phone calls or visits from strangers, but, of course, there wasn’t anything.  It was, after all, the CIA, I thought.

We bounced the idea off of Senator Parrish, she continued.  He said you’re a guy who’s capable of keeping your eyes open and your mouth shut, and that you would probably be willing to do that in service of your country.

She finished this statement looking directly at me, unsmiling, cool and professional.  It had come down to a yes or no, no more negotiating.  I either was the sort of person who would serve his country when called upon or I wasn’t.

Sounds easy enough, I responded, returning her direct look.

Good, she said, nodding.  The Senator said you would come through.

Colin Parrish had returned to his chair and was sitting there nursing his cup of coffee looking at the two of us, satisfaction on his face.  He nodded at me with a smile, in confirmation of what Marge Cutler had said.

So what is it exactly you want me to do?  I always thought CIA agents got years, or at least months of training before they got sent out into the field.  Now I was needling her, just a little, and she acknowledged it with the hint of a smile.

First of all, you aren’t a CIA agent.  You’re just a citizen going abroad, being asked to notice and remember, not to spy.  There’s a difference.

Having clearly stated the distinction, she then proceeded to blur it.

Just keep your eyes open.  You’ll undoubtedly tour your building to see what you’ve got.  It would be natural to want to meet your tenants, since you don’t get to Venice all that often.  Have Benedetti introduce you to Ibrahim.  Ask if he minds if you take a look at the apartment, since you’ve never seen the building before.  If they let you in, take note of what you see.  How many people are there, what do they look like?  How old are they?  What are they wearing?  What’s in the apartment?  Books, maps?  Any computers?  What’s on the screen?  If you get the chance to engage Ibrahim or anyone else in the apartment in conversation, ask a few innocent questions.  ‘How long have you been here, do you like it?’  ‘What do you do?’  ‘How long will you be keeping the apartment?’ Anything and everything you see or hear could be useful.  She stopped for a moment, as if thinking.  Do you keep a journal?

No.

A lot of people do.  There are plenty of journal apps.  If you did that, and kept notes of everything you did, it wouldn’t be suspicious to keep notes of what you see and hear relevant to Ibrahim.   You know, ‘I met an interesting guy today who rents one of the apartments in the mansion.  He’s middle eastern, about five-ten, maybe late twenties, long wavy black hair,’ that sort of thing.

Sure, I said, distracted, not bothering to tell her I don't use apps because I don't carry a smartphone.  Uh, who are we saying it wouldn’t be suspicious to?

I’m sorry? she replied with an inquiring look.

You said it wouldn’t be suspicious to write down notes about my tenant, Mr. Ibrahim, if I take notes on everything.  Who is it that might be interested in what I write or don’t write?

I don’t know, she shrugged, as though she couldn’t imagine anybody being interested in what I was going to be doing.  Anyone that might know you're keeping notes.  Nobody in particular.  The whole reason we’re talking to you is you’re completely legit.  You being there shouldn’t cause anybody to be suspicious.

Just wondering.  I’m new to this except for all the spy novels I’ve read over the years.

Forget all that stuff.  You’re not spying.  You’re just a guy looking at your property and enjoying a little vacation with your, uh, your friend.

Yeah, I thought to myself.  Except for this little meeting, which seemed pretty spylike to me.  And she knew about Casie, too.  I hadn’t said anything about her.  Great.   

OK, I said.  I think I’ve got it, if that’s it.  Shouldn’t be too difficult.  I started to get up, and looked at Marge Cutler, then at the Senator, my actions saying, if there isn’t anything else, I’ll get going.

Ahh, a couple more things, the dark-haired woman said.  First, don’t tell anyone about this meeting, or what you’re doing for us.  No one.  Not your girlfriend, not anyone, not under any circumstances.  It could cause you, and us, significant inconvenience if you came to the attention of, say the Italian government, as someone who’s working for the CIA.  Even though you’re just a citizen keeping your eyes open, if it was learned we asked you to do that, the distinction could be hard to explain.

I was already having trouble with the distinction, but I let that pass.  Not even Casie?

We’d prefer you didn’t.  We can’t stop you, obviously, but our experience in these matters has been it’s better not to.  If you tell her, she’s more likely to get nervous, catch the attention of a customs officer and cause herself and you all kinds of trouble.  No, for her sake, and your own, it’s much, much better if this stays among the three of us.

I’d have to think about that one, but I didn’t say so.  OK, I just keep my eyes open, and tell no one I’m doing it for a reason.  Anything else?

You’re not planning to be back for, what, six weeks? she said, looking to me for confirmation.

Right.  Our plan was to get a look at each of the mansions outside the U.S., so from Venice to Ireland, to Perth, to Hawaii, then home.

We’ll want to know if you’ve seen or heard anything of interest before that.  Let’s see, if I remember correctly, you’ll be in Venice until the 16th, is that right?

I mentally went through our itinerary.  Right.  We leave for Ireland on the 17th.

We’ll find a way to contact you in Venice, then, at the end of your stay.  Benedetti will call and tell you there’s someone who wants to talk to you about buying the mansion.  Go to Benedetti’s by yourself, and the person who asked Benedetti to call you will suggest getting a coffee somewhere so you can talk.

So it won’t be you? I asked.

No, she said simply.  You’ll know it’s the right person, because they’ll mention Senator Parrish.

So much for it being just the three of us, I thought, but I let that pass as well.

All right.  This time I didn’t make any move to get up.  I just waited, pointedly.

And, she said, one final thing.  Not that it’s likely, but if you should find you need to contact us before we contact you, we have a plan for that, too.  She smiled a quick smile, as though to downplay the whole thing.  If you need to talk to us, and I mean, of course, for something that just can’t wait, take a water shuttle to the airport, one called the Alilaguna.  Go to the ticket counter to confirm your reservations for your departure to Ireland, then buy a return ticket on the Alilaguna.  On the way back, a man will contact you on the shuttle.  He’ll ask you where you’re from.  When you say Montana, he’ll mention Senator Parrish.  You can tell him whatever you need.  Just remember, Alilaguna.

I’ve got it.  Alilaguna.

Right.  It’s important you remember that because it’s the only way you’ll be able to contact us.  You can’t call me, and please do not call the Senator.  He can’t call me without causing problems.

I glanced at Parrish, who nodded in affirmation.  She’s right.  It gets way too complicated.  Do not call me.  Bad idea.  His nod had transformed into a negative side to side shake of his head.

Funny.  Nothing had changed physically, but whereas a second earlier it had been the three of us working together, with that last exchange, now it was different.  It wasn’t the three of us, it was me, on my own.  I felt chilled, and the conference room seemed stark rather than cozy.  It hit me then that there was more to this than I was being told.  I didn’t know what, but I was sure of it.  Over the years I’d learned to trust my hunches, or whatever you want to call the sudden flashes of insight that seem to come out of the blue.  This time it was me that remained in my chair, and the other two that started to get up, signaling that our business was done.

Tell me, I said, looking at the woman who had been introduced to me as Marge Cutler, a name I was now starting to doubt was real, what is it that you think this guy Ibrahim is up to?  I mean, Middle Eastern . . .  I let the thought trail off.

We don’t know, she answered patly.  That’s the point, isn’t it?  She smiled again, but this time it was just upturned lips in a face that had gone cold, cutting off further inquiry.  I think we’ve kept Delta waiting long enough, she said.  Don’t want to push our luck.  She walked around the table.  I stood, and she extended her hand, formally.  I took it, for a perfunctory, cool handshake.  Thank you, Mr. Patrick.  It’s people like you that make my job worthwhile.

I wonder what that means, I thought, but I took the hint.  I picked up my briefcase, and turned to Senator Parrish.  We shook hands, and he said simply, many thanks, Miles, then turned and opened the door for me.  I left the two of them standing in the meeting room.

Chapter Two

I heard a woman’s voice announcing the beginning of boarding for Delta flight 2869 for Boston as I hurried down the C concourse toward gate 10, at the end of the concourse.  Casie was standing at the back of a crowd of people who were gathering at the gate, looking back up the concourse with a concerned look on her face, which brightened as she saw me. 

I spoke first as I approached.

Sorry, he got a little long-winded.  I was still mulling over their advice that I not tell Casie, but for sure I wasn’t going to tell her here.

Well he almost made you miss our flight.  Why couldn’t he just call you if he really wanted to talk to you?

So she also had picked up on the fact the meeting was out of the ordinary.

I didn't want to lie so I just shrugged.

Casie turned toward the gate.  Well all I can say is, it’s a great start to your first vacation in ten years.

The gate attendant announced the boarding of the first zone of passengers, then I was surprised to hear her paging us.

Boston passengers Patrick and Irish, report to the podium at Gate 10 please.  Boston passengers Patrick and Irish.

I looked at Casie who was looking back at me.  Beats me, I said.

As we walked to the podium, one man was ahead of us, talking to the two female gate agents.  I overheard one of them, an assured looking woman of indeterminate middle age, with short white hair, telling the man no first class upgrades would be available for the flight.  The man slapped the counter with his folded newspaper in disappointment as he turned and walked to the side.

We stepped up.  Didn’t make him too happy, I said, looking at the back of the man who had just walked off.  We’re Patrick and Irish.

Oh, Mr. Patrick and Ms. Irish.  Good.  You’ve been bumped up to first class on this flight, and also on the Air France flight from Boston to Paris.  I have new boarding passes for you.

You did this? Casie asked, looking at me curiously.

It wasn’t me. I turned to the agent. How’d that happen?  Not that we’re complaining.

A friend with connections, I guess.  She smiled.

That’s it?  No name?

Not known to me.  Whoever it was must have assumed you would know.  She smiled and shrugged.

Ahh, I said, nodding in comprehension.  For anyone who could hold up the departure, getting us bumped up to first class was probably not a problem.  Well, great.

The white-haired lady pushed our new boarding passes across the counter, and I scooped them up.  You can go ahead and board, she said.

We turned and walked the few feet to the entrance to the jetway, where the other gate agent was taking boarding passes.  I noticed that the man who’d just been told there were no first class upgrades watching us with an exasperated expression.  I handed our new boarding passes to the gate agent, who pushed them in turn under a laser scanner, getting an electronic beep for each, confirming our status as boarded passengers, and handed them back with a smile.  As we walked down the jetway, Casie turned to me.

Who got us the first class tickets, Miles?  Was it Senator Parrish?

Could have been.

I take back whatever bad things I was thinking about him for taking you away like that.  And about you for going.  She flashed a devious smile, and preceded me into the airplane.  A female flight attendant, a blonde woman who looked to be in her mid-forties, greeted us with a welcoming smile and looked at our boarding passes.

Oh, good, I’ll be taking care of you up front today.  She indicated our seats, the window and aisle seats on the right side of the craft.

Window or aisle? I asked Casie.

Window, please, she said, sliding into the comfortable seat.

The flight attendant was at my elbow as I slid into my seat.  Can I get the two of you anything while we finish boarding? she asked.  Juice, coffee?

I looked at Casie, eyebrows raised expectantly.

Can I get coffee and orange juice? she asked.  Please.

Certainly.  The lady turned to me.

Same for me.  Thanks.

She smiled in acknowledgment and left to get the drinks.

I got a cup of coffee when I was meeting with the Senator, but didn't get to enjoy it.  We went to a little meeting room in the Crown Room.  I take it you didn’t get anything.

No, I was too worried about whether you were going to make the plane.

Yeah, sorry.   

The gate crew had started boarding the non-first class passengers, and a steady stream of people bumped by with carry-ons, some, it seemed to me, casting subtle envious glances at our luxurious seats.  The first class attendant worked her way back to us with our coffee and juice, the coffee in white porcelain mugs, and the juice in real glasses, just before the man whose upgrade we’d ruined passed through on his way to a coach seat.  He had to wait for a second while she served us the drinks, and gave an impatient sigh, then hurried past when the attendant moved back across the aisle to make room.

I think we got the seat he was expecting, Casie whispered.  Do you feel guilty?

Nope.  You?

Me neither.  I’m going to enjoy it.

That’s the whole idea, I said, reaching my juice glass across the seat toward her with my left hand.   

Casie clinked my glass with her coffee mug.  To adventures.

To adventures.

Chapter Three

The flight to Boston took something over three hours, and it was 3:30, eastern time, when we landed, giving us a couple hours before the trans-Atlantic flight.  I still hadn’t said anything to Casie about the strange meeting in the Salt Lake airport.  For one thing there hadn’t been any way to talk without the possibility of being overheard, and for another, I couldn’t think about it, let alone imagine telling her, without feeling slightly ridiculous about the whole thing.  I knew the Senator was genuine, but could he have been duped?  It just didn’t make sense to me that the CIA would operate like that, enlisting a citizen with no knowledge of the agency, no training, no tradecraft, as the spy novels put it.  But then, it was a secret agency, wasn’t it, which meant I wouldn’t know how it worked.  I’d gone over and over the early morning meeting, and ended up with mixed feelings about the whole thing.  My mood was part agitation, part frustration, and, against my better judgment, maybe just a little bit intrigued.

The departure gate for our Air France flight was just a couple gates away from where we disembarked.  Once we located it, we agreed Casie would stay with our carry-ons while I took a short walk out into the terminal to change some currency.  I double-checked to make sure I had my boarding pass, because leaving the concourse required that I go through security again on my way back in.  Once I got into the terminal, I walked for a few minutes, feeling my legs muscles unkink after being seat-bound for so long. 

At the exchange booth I converted enough dollars to get me 350 euros.  Enough, I figured, to get our little excursion well under way.

Walking to the line for the security checkpoint I got out my passport,