cursory glance before slamming shut the door. One of his responsibilities was to examine potential hiding places for weapons and explosives; despite the fact that he’d never found anything, he took the job seriously. A friend of his had been killed in 1982 when Abu Ibrahim and the Organization of 15 May blew up a Pan Am jet as it landed at Honolulu.
He worked his way forward, out of economy and into club, until at last he reached the first class cabin. He crossed the forward galley and set off down the port side. In the very last locker, right at the back of the plane, was the familiar gray canvas bag marked child’s life raft . He reached up and pushed it to the end of the locker, where it would not slip during takeoff. It seemed heavy for a life raft. He was about to lift it down for inspection when a nearby phone buzzed. Cockpit. Alex picked up the receiver.
“Perkins.”
“Three coffees, if you’ve got a moment.”
Alex had nothing against Captain Thorneycroft, a morose little man who always looked as if he were on the point of losing his temper, though he’d never yet done so, at least not in Alex’s presence. But for all his punctiliousness, he commanded the kind of instant obedience every captain longs for, few merit, and a tiny minority obtain.
“Three coffees,” Alex murmured. “Coming up.”
Before returning to the forward galley he remembered to slam the overhead locker shut.
Colin and Robbie sat in one corner of the departure lounge. After his father had finished telling him the story of how he’d met Leila, Robbie spent a long time staring out of the window. To one side he could see their waiting aircraft; beyond that, an expanse of grass and concrete, distant houses, a pale, early morning sky. Somewhere beyond all those things, his mother roamed the surface of the earth. He did not know where she was or why she had gone, and he missed her hands around him when his face ached with the strain of keeping back tears, missed the stories she used to read before kissing him good night, missed her like a sick man craves the sense of well-being he took for granted before illness struck him down.
For the last two years he’d known it was his fault that his mother had taken off like that. Must have been. Something he’d said, something he’d done. But what? She’d not stayed around to tell him. No second chance …
“You
miss her,” he said suddenly. “Don’t you?”
He turned to his father, willing him to answer honestly. For a moment Colin’s face remained set in marble, with eyes to match. Then he opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so another voice interrupted.
“No one’s sitting here.”
Not a question but a statement; had there actually been someone occupying the seat next to Colin’s it would perhaps have amounted to an order to vacate. Colin looked up to see a middle-aged, middle-height, bespectacled man glowering over him in challenging contempt.
“Not as far as I know,” he replied shortly.
“Be so kind as to watch my bag.”
Colin was about to refuse to accept responsibility for someone else’s hand luggage when the man stalked away without a backward glance, leaving his briefcase on the next seat where Colin could not help but read its label, written in angry red capitals: jan van tonder.
“What a cunt.”
“Robbie!”
“Well… talking to you like that.”
“You just watch your language, son. They won’t appreciate words like that in K.L., and Celestine’d kill you.”
Robbie’s expression turned sulky for a moment. He muttered something, keeping his voice low enough to prevent his father from hearing, but Colin knew it would be along the lines of “All the other guys say it all the time.” Being a sensible father, he ignored that.
“Funny accent,” Robbie said, emerging from his mood as quickly, and as unpredictably, as he’d entered it.
“Seth Efrican.” Colin grinned. “Not that there aren’t a few English schoolboys who could
He worked his way forward, out of economy and into club, until at last he reached the first class cabin. He crossed the forward galley and set off down the port side. In the very last locker, right at the back of the plane, was the familiar gray canvas bag marked child’s life raft . He reached up and pushed it to the end of the locker, where it would not slip during takeoff. It seemed heavy for a life raft. He was about to lift it down for inspection when a nearby phone buzzed. Cockpit. Alex picked up the receiver.
“Perkins.”
“Three coffees, if you’ve got a moment.”
Alex had nothing against Captain Thorneycroft, a morose little man who always looked as if he were on the point of losing his temper, though he’d never yet done so, at least not in Alex’s presence. But for all his punctiliousness, he commanded the kind of instant obedience every captain longs for, few merit, and a tiny minority obtain.
“Three coffees,” Alex murmured. “Coming up.”
Before returning to the forward galley he remembered to slam the overhead locker shut.
Colin and Robbie sat in one corner of the departure lounge. After his father had finished telling him the story of how he’d met Leila, Robbie spent a long time staring out of the window. To one side he could see their waiting aircraft; beyond that, an expanse of grass and concrete, distant houses, a pale, early morning sky. Somewhere beyond all those things, his mother roamed the surface of the earth. He did not know where she was or why she had gone, and he missed her hands around him when his face ached with the strain of keeping back tears, missed the stories she used to read before kissing him good night, missed her like a sick man craves the sense of well-being he took for granted before illness struck him down.
For the last two years he’d known it was his fault that his mother had taken off like that. Must have been. Something he’d said, something he’d done. But what? She’d not stayed around to tell him. No second chance …
“You
miss her,” he said suddenly. “Don’t you?”
He turned to his father, willing him to answer honestly. For a moment Colin’s face remained set in marble, with eyes to match. Then he opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so another voice interrupted.
“No one’s sitting here.”
Not a question but a statement; had there actually been someone occupying the seat next to Colin’s it would perhaps have amounted to an order to vacate. Colin looked up to see a middle-aged, middle-height, bespectacled man glowering over him in challenging contempt.
“Not as far as I know,” he replied shortly.
“Be so kind as to watch my bag.”
Colin was about to refuse to accept responsibility for someone else’s hand luggage when the man stalked away without a backward glance, leaving his briefcase on the next seat where Colin could not help but read its label, written in angry red capitals: jan van tonder.
“What a cunt.”
“Robbie!”
“Well… talking to you like that.”
“You just watch your language, son. They won’t appreciate words like that in K.L., and Celestine’d kill you.”
Robbie’s expression turned sulky for a moment. He muttered something, keeping his voice low enough to prevent his father from hearing, but Colin knew it would be along the lines of “All the other guys say it all the time.” Being a sensible father, he ignored that.
“Funny accent,” Robbie said, emerging from his mood as quickly, and as unpredictably, as he’d entered it.
“Seth Efrican.” Colin grinned. “Not that there aren’t a few English schoolboys who could
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