Point of Contact

by Mike Maden

  Paul followed behind, pushing a luggage cart that carried his overstuffed garment bag, a yellow hard-sided American Tourister that had seen better days, a bulky nylon duffel bag, and his laptop carrying case.

  Jack wasn’t surprised that Paul had a valid passport. It was a requirement for current employment at Hendley Associates—The Campus, too. “You never know where your work will take you on short notice” was the company policy. Fortunately, Singapore didn’t require a visa from an American traveler staying less than thirty days.

  They made their way to the Virgin Atlantic check-in counter, where their boarding passes awaited them, and checked their baggage.

  Paul’s carry-on was the nylon duffel bag that pushed the size and weight limit, along with the laptop slung over one of his shoulders. He was in the same gray suit he had been wearing earlier in the day.

  Jack’s carry-on was a hand-tooled leather messenger bag for his Kindle, iPhone, and iPad. At home he showered again and changed into business-casual attire. He preferred comfortable athletic wear on long flights like this, but he was representing Hendley Associates and decided to dress it up a little bit. It was going to be a long seven-hour flight that started in Washington and landed in London tomorrow morning, where they would switch airplanes and catch an even longer thirteen-hour flight to Singapore.

  In flight hours it was less than a day, but because of the time changes they landed two calendar days after they departed Dulles International. In Jack’s mind that meant fitful hours of uncomfortable boredom interrupted by bouts of intermittent sleep and the inevitable onset of jet lag, coming and/or going.

  Yeah. Fun.

  At least the security-check lines were short this time of night and they passed through quickly, making their way to Terminal A to catch their flight. The flight was full but mercifully not oversold, and they boarded shortly after the first-class passengers. Hendley said he couldn’t spare the company’s luxurious Gulfstream G550 for the flight over and certainly couldn’t leave it parked on a tarmac for ten days waiting for the return flight. That meant flying commercial, and Rhodes’s executive assistant wasn’t able to secure upper or first class on this last-minute booking.

  Jack couldn’t help noticing Paul’s pronounced limp as he made his way down the aisle through the first-class cabin, then the upper-class section, and finally toward their premium-economy-class seats. He offered to carry Paul’s heavy duffel, but Paul politely declined. “Window or aisle?” he asked when they arrived at their row.

  “Doesn’t matter. Whatever’s best for you,” Jack said.

  “Same for me.”

  “It might be better for your leg if you can stretch it out. The aisle might be the way to go,” Jack offered.

  “If you really don’t mind.”

  “Of course not.” Jack set his carry-on in the overhead compartment and slid into the window seat as Paul heaved his bag onto his empty seat and unzipped it, pulling out a small down pillow and an inflatable neck pillow before zipping the bag back up and tossing it into the same compartment. A few impatient passengers huffed in line behind him until Paul finally fell into his seat with a big sigh of relief.

  They both buckled up, Paul shoving the small pillow behind his lower back. He saw Jack watching him. “L4–L5 disk degeneration.”

  “Must not be comfortable.”

  “It’s hard to sit for long periods of time.”

  “I get antsy myself,” Jack offered. Just twenty hours and fifty-nine minutes to go, he thought.

  “I should probably tell you now that I’m not a very good flier,” Paul said.

  “Nervous?”

  “Airsick. Well, and nervous.”

  “My dad hates flying, too.”

  Jack tried to keep from rolling his eyes. It was going to be a very long flight.

  “I brought some Dramamine from home.” Paul shook the pill bottle. “It’s beyond the expiration date, but it should still work.” He craned his head around. “Maybe the stewardess can get me some water.”

  Stewardess? Geez, when was the last time this guy flew on a plane? Jack wondered. “I’m sure the flight attendant will be glad to get you some.” Jack pushed the call button and a handsome middle-aged woman appeared a few moments later with two small glasses of champagne on a tray and passed one to each of them.

  “Welcome aboard, gentlemen. My name is Sally. Is there anything else I can get you during boarding?”

  Jack lifted the glass. “How do we rate?”

  “It’s our way to say thank you for flying premium economy.”

  Jack admired the bubbly in his hand. Suddenly the wide leather seats seemed a little more comfortable. “When you get the time, would you mind getting my friend a bottle of water? He needs to take his medicine.”

  “Sure thing, soon as we get everyone settled in.”

  “Thanks.”

  Paul sighed with relief. “I should’ve taken it in the terminal, but I was afraid we were going to be late.”

  “It’s not a problem.”

  Jack raised his glass for a toast.

  “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.” Paul’s glass trembled slightly as he sipped from it.

  Five minutes later the flight attendant reappeared with a bottle of water and Paul downed two Dramamine—he took an extra one because they were old. Fifteen minutes later the plane screamed down the runway and clawed its way up into the night sky, Paul’s hands clutching the armrests in a white-knuckled grip. A few minutes later they leveled off and Paul relaxed.

  “You don’t mind flying?” Paul’s face was pale and clammy.

  Jack wanted to say he preferred jumping out of planes rather than sitting in them, preferably HALO or HAHO. “You know you’re more likely to die in a car wreck than a plane crash, right?”

  “Not a big fan of car wrecks, either.”

  “How’s your stomach? Feeling queasy?”

  Paul thought about it. “I don’t feel any turbulence. I think I’m good.”

  “Good. They’ll be serving dinner soon.”

  Paul checked his watch. “It’s nearly seven. I’d like some hot chamomile tea.”

  “Why? Is your stomach upset?”

  “I always have a cup of tea at seven. It’s just a habit I have.”

  The flight attendant appeared a few minutes later with her service cart and Paul requested his chamomile tea. She apologized and said she didn’t have that particular flavor, so Paul requested a cup of hot water and fetched a zippy bag crammed with Celestial Seasonings chamomile tea bags from his duffel. “I packed some for the hotel just in case they didn’t have any,” he explained. Jack was content with bottled water.

  When the beverage service cart cleared, Jack decided he needed to take a leak. He apologized to Paul as he crawled over him and headed for the restroom in the back of the plane because the first-class cabin was partitioned off with a curtain. He had to wait a couple turns until one vacated. He slipped into the cramped little facility and did his business hunched over, his large frame ill suited for the angular geometry of the phone booth–sized john. He flushed, then washed his hands, and practically fell out the folding door and back into the aisle.

  When he emerged, the overhead cabin lights were dimmed and the darkened interior was gently lit by purple accent lighting. When Jack reached his row he saw that Paul was sound asleep, mouth agape and lightly snoring, his neck wedged in his inflatable pillow. The Dramamine had hit him hard. Jack was a little disappointed. He took Hendley’s advice to heart and was determined to try and get to know Paul Brown better. He seemed nice enough, though painfully shy. There would be plenty of time on this trip to find out more about the man.

  Jack opened up the overhead compartment and fetched his Kindle, then climbed as carefully as he could over and around the beefy accountant so as not to wake him. He finally managed to fall into his own s
eat and buckle in. With any luck he’d be able to finish the Churchill biography he’d started the other day. But a few electronic pages into his read his eye caught the flight attendant walking toward them with a tablet in her hand, followed by a silver-haired captain. A moment later they stood over Paul.

  “That’s Mr. Brown, Captain,” she whispered.

  Some of the passengers around them cast furtive glances in their direction.

  Jack wondered what kind of trouble his partner was in. It was against FAA rules for the pilot to vacate his cockpit while in flight. Something was wrong. He nudged Paul. “Hey, buddy, better wake up.”

  “Wha . . . ?” Paul woke with a start.

  “Paul Brown,” the captain whispered. “I don’t believe it.”

  Paul blinked heavily. Squinted. His face broke into a smile. “David Miller. What are you doing here?”

  “Flying, supposedly. Babysitting the autopilot is more like it.” The tall aviator held out his hand. Paul shook it. “I saw your name on the manifest and just wanted to make sure. I’m so glad you’re on this flight. What brings you my way?”

  Paul was still groggy. He pulled his glasses off and wiped his eyes. “Business trip. Oh, I’m sorry. This is my associate, Jack Ryan. Jack, this is David Miller. An old friend.”

  Jack extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Captain.”

  “Same.” A firm, steady grip. But the captain clearly wasn’t interested in a conversation with Jack. He turned his attention back to Paul. “Is Sally taking good care of you?”

  Jack saw the respect in Miller’s eyes. Or was it something more?

  Paul smiled. “She’s been wonderful.”

  The flight attendant beamed. “Thank you, Mr. Brown. It’s been a pleasure. There will be a regular food service in half an hour, but if there’s anything special I can get you before then—”

  “Oh, no. I’m fine, thank you.”

  Jack tried to hide his utter confusion. She was acting like he was a celebrity or something.

  What the hell was going on?

  The captain leaned close and lowered his voice even further. Jack could barely hear him say, “Look, Paul, I just checked with Sally. There was a last-minute cancellation in first class. I want you to take it.”

  “Me? No, I couldn’t—”

  Captain Miller grinned. “I insist. For old times’ sake.”

  Paul turned toward Jack, his neck still wedged in the inflatable pillow. “How about you, Jack? Why don’t you take it?”

  Sounded like heaven to Jack. Hot facial cloths, mixed drinks, steaks. “You need to take it. Your back and your knee will do a lot better in first class if you can stretch out.”

  “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll just be reading anyway.”

  Paul rubbed his knee. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

  “Good,” Captain Miller said. “Sally will help you with your things. I need to get back to the salt mine. Good to meet you, Jack. Have a pleasant flight.”

  Captain Miller turned and headed back toward the cockpit while Sally helped Paul gather his things. He wouldn’t let her carry the heavy duffel, though.

  “See you in London, Jack. Hope you sleep well.”

  “Thanks. Have fun up there.”

  Jack watched Paul limp up the aisle following the flight attendant through first class. A few envious passengers leaned out to watch the portly accountant pass beyond the first-class curtain, where travel nirvana—and a twenty-thousand-dollar private suite—awaited him.

  Ten minutes later Jack was back into his Kindle when Sally reappeared with a small tray and a tall red cocktail adorned with a wedge of pineapple. She handed it to Jack with a smile. “Courtesy of Mr. Brown, with his compliments.”

  Jack took it gladly. “What is it?”

  Sally smiled. “A Singapore Sling, of course.”

  Of course, Jack thought. He took a sip. He tasted gin, brandy, Cointreau, Bénédictine, and pineapple juice. Incredible.

  “Do you like it?” Sally asked.

  “My new favorite. Tell Paul thanks for me, will you?”

  “Sure thing. Enjoy.” She turned and headed back to first class.

  Jack lifted the glass in a mock toast. “You’re okay, Paul Brown.” He suddenly remembered how much he liked to travel and that he’d always wanted to go to Singapore. Hendley was right. Maybe this was going to be a great little vacation after all.

  But he still wanted to know. Paul Brown, who the hell are you?

  14

  By the time they finally boarded their next flight, Jack was fried. Mechanical problems, a switched plane, and crew delays from a transit strike turned a scheduled three-hour layover into a nine-hour debacle. A frustrating business trip was suddenly worse.

  What really bothered him, though, was the utter waste of time. If he’d only known about the delays he would’ve grabbed a taxi and headed into London to see Ysabel Kashani. It killed him to be this close to her and not say hello in person; to say he was sorry for the way it ended, on a hurried phone call between flights they both had to catch, without even a last kiss good-bye.

  Paul was happy as a clam, though, and fresh as a daisy. Captain Miller had given him a pass to the Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse, where he enjoyed a hot shower and a shave, along with champagne and breakfast. He even got his suit cleaned and pressed. At least one of them was having a good time.

  Jack, on the other hand, had cleaned up in the public restroom, his face nicked by the cheap razor he’d bought in the terminal. Still, he was happy for Paul. The only explanation Paul was willing to offer about the extraordinary attention Captain Miller had paid to him was that he and Miller had known each other years ago. Beyond that, Paul wouldn’t get more specific. Jack let it go. There were still another eleven-plus hours of flight time and a whole week on the ground to decipher the growing enigma that was Paul Brown.

  Jack was also exhausted. He hadn’t been able to sleep on the overnight flight to London, partly because a man in the row behind him snored like a jigsaw ripping through a tin roof. He certainly couldn’t sleep in the stiff-backed Heathrow terminal chairs, anxiously waiting to board their flight while Paul worked his Sudoku puzzles.

  Now that Jack was finally settled into his plush reclining leather chair, he could catch some shuteye. He stretched out his seat as Paul fired up his computer. “I need to keep working on my other project,” Paul said, but Jack was already sound asleep.

  Paul worked diligently on the last spreadsheet he’d been combing through when he first got the call from Hendley and Rhodes. When the dinner service finally arrived he dove into it, and he ordered a cup of steaming-hot water for his private stash of chamomile tea just before he went to sleep.

  When the breakfast service rolled around, Paul decided to wake Jack up with a gentle nudge.

  Jack stirred out of his dead slumber. “Something wrong?”

  “Heck no. Breakfast is coming and it smells great.”

  Jack yawned and stretched. “Sounds good.” He raised his seat. “I miss anything?”

  “Like what?”

  Jack rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “A hijacking. A monster on the wing trying to tear it apart. The usual.”

  “No, not really. You’ve got a couple of options for breakfast.”

  “I’ll have what you’re having.”

  “I’m going for the full English selection. And just to be a little crazy, I’m going for the Earl Grey tea. I could use the caffeine.”

  “Order for me—but with black coffee. Back in a flash.”

  Jack excused himself, crawled over Paul, and used the cramped facilities, splashing water on his face and running his fingers through his hair to try and bring some order to the chaos on top of his head. He checked the scabbing razor nicks on his face and hoped he could buy or beg a toothbrush and to
othpaste from the flight attendant before they landed.

  Jack made his way back up the aisle, passing three men scattered around the cabin, a German, a Bulgarian, and a Ukrainian. Jack didn’t notice them. He wasn’t supposed to.

  But each of them was keenly aware of Paul Brown.

  The “Singapore girl” flight attendant, wearing the airline’s distinctively colorful sarong kebaya, arrived with breakfast just as Jack retook his seat. His mouth watered as he started tucking in.

  As they ate, Jack decided to pick up where they last left off on the flight to London, hoping Paul’s defenses were finally down.

  “I never did thank you properly for that Singapore Sling.”

  “I had two. Knocked me out cold.”

  “I take it you and Senator Rhodes have a history.”

  Paul chewed a crumbling biscuit. “We worked together a long time ago.”

  “Just like you and that Virgin Atlantic captain.”

  “Something like that.”

  Jack cut another piece of sausage. “What was Rhodes like to work with?”

  Paul set his fork and knife down and wiped his mouth with the heavy cloth napkin. “Everybody loved Weston Rhodes where we worked, especially the ladies. I think even Carmen had a little schoolgirl crush on him. He was just so darned handsome and charming. You know how he is.”

  Jack had to give him that. Even as a middle-aged man, Rhodes still turned younger women’s heads.

  Paul chuckled. “He never met a stranger.”

  “A natural political talent.”

  “We all knew he was destined for great things. I wasn’t surprised at all when he was elected to the Senate. I was shocked that he didn’t run for reelection. I just assumed he was setting himself for a run at the Oval Office.”

  “The Senate doesn’t pay as well as Wall Street.” Jack decided to press his luck. “Neither does the Company.”