heard the question. “I believe you have a Lear on standby for the secretary. He won’t be going anywhere today. The Saudis are going to press for an emergency meeting this morning. They want those F-22s bad.”
“How the hell did you know—?”
“Fueled and ready in an hour.”
“Frank, you’re not making this easy.”
Connor stopped what he was doing and stood up straight. “Don’t make me bring it up,” he said in the same easygoing voice. “Debts are so embarrassing.”
Silence filled the line for ten seconds. “I can’t give you the director’s bird, but there’s a Citation at Dulles that’s fueled up with a crew on standby. Only thing is, it’s on FlightAware, the FAA’s tracking list. You’ll be on the radar. That cause a problem?”
Connor considered this for a few moments. “No,” he said, dropping the Namibian passport and picking up an American passport, the only one bearing his real name. “No problem there.”
“Oh, and Frank…”
“Yeah?”
“I can throw in a flight attendant.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Connor, slipping on his jacket. “I’ll be traveling alone.”
The second call was placed on a secure line to a private number in England. Area code 207, for the center of London.
“It’s me,” he said when the party answered.
“Hello, Frank. Still handing out pink slips?”
“Finished for the moment. In fact, I’m calling to offer you a way back in… if you’re interested.”
“You know I am.”
“Have any plans for tonight?”
“Nothing I can’t break.”
“Good. There’s a cocktail reception I want you to go to. Dorchester Hotel. Six p.m. It’s for a bunch of doctors, so you’ll fit right in. Listen up.”
Chapter 7
It was late in the afternoon. In his suite at the Dorchester Hotel, Jonathan Ransom studied the schedule he’d received upon checking in. A cocktail reception was to begin at 6 p.m.
Business Attire Requested
. A handwritten note added: “Dr. Ransom, I’m looking forward to meeting you there to discuss your speech. Colin Blackburn.” Blackburn was the president of the International Association of Internists, and it was on his invitation that Jonathan had come.
Jonathan showered and shaved. The bathroom was a vault of Carrera marble with towering mirrors and glamorous toiletries arrayed on the counters. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
He dressed in a pair of gray flannels, a white button-down shirt, and a wrinkle-proof blue blazer. Reluctantly, he put on a tie as well, and even spent the extra few seconds getting the knot just so. The result wasn’t half bad, he thought amusedly, looking at the stranger in the mirror. Someone might even mistake him for a doctor.
A sign in the lobby indicated that the cocktail reception was being held in the Athenaeum Ballroom. An arrow pointed the way. Opposite the ballroom entry, a woman was seated at a table handing out name tags. They were arranged alphabetically, but Jonathan wasn’t able to locate his own. He mentioned his problem to the woman and gave his name.
“One of our speakers!” the woman boomed. “We have yours in a special place. I’ll be right back.”
A lanky man with wavy gray hair took up position at Jonathan’s side. “You’d think that with so many advanced degrees floating around this place they could get things a bit more organized.”
“Usually I find it’s the opposite,” said Jonathan. “Something about too many chefs.”
“You’re Ransom?” inquired the stranger.
“Do we know each other?” asked Jonathan guardedly.
“No, but I recognized you from the program.” The man produced a brochure from his jacket and opened it to the inside page. Jonathan studied his photo. It had been taken in a passport studio in Amsterdam four years earlier. He wondered how they had gotten their hands on it. He didn’t remember sending it in. “The name’s Blackburn,” said the older
“How the hell did you know—?”
“Fueled and ready in an hour.”
“Frank, you’re not making this easy.”
Connor stopped what he was doing and stood up straight. “Don’t make me bring it up,” he said in the same easygoing voice. “Debts are so embarrassing.”
Silence filled the line for ten seconds. “I can’t give you the director’s bird, but there’s a Citation at Dulles that’s fueled up with a crew on standby. Only thing is, it’s on FlightAware, the FAA’s tracking list. You’ll be on the radar. That cause a problem?”
Connor considered this for a few moments. “No,” he said, dropping the Namibian passport and picking up an American passport, the only one bearing his real name. “No problem there.”
“Oh, and Frank…”
“Yeah?”
“I can throw in a flight attendant.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Connor, slipping on his jacket. “I’ll be traveling alone.”
The second call was placed on a secure line to a private number in England. Area code 207, for the center of London.
“It’s me,” he said when the party answered.
“Hello, Frank. Still handing out pink slips?”
“Finished for the moment. In fact, I’m calling to offer you a way back in… if you’re interested.”
“You know I am.”
“Have any plans for tonight?”
“Nothing I can’t break.”
“Good. There’s a cocktail reception I want you to go to. Dorchester Hotel. Six p.m. It’s for a bunch of doctors, so you’ll fit right in. Listen up.”
Chapter 7
It was late in the afternoon. In his suite at the Dorchester Hotel, Jonathan Ransom studied the schedule he’d received upon checking in. A cocktail reception was to begin at 6 p.m.
Business Attire Requested
. A handwritten note added: “Dr. Ransom, I’m looking forward to meeting you there to discuss your speech. Colin Blackburn.” Blackburn was the president of the International Association of Internists, and it was on his invitation that Jonathan had come.
Jonathan showered and shaved. The bathroom was a vault of Carrera marble with towering mirrors and glamorous toiletries arrayed on the counters. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
He dressed in a pair of gray flannels, a white button-down shirt, and a wrinkle-proof blue blazer. Reluctantly, he put on a tie as well, and even spent the extra few seconds getting the knot just so. The result wasn’t half bad, he thought amusedly, looking at the stranger in the mirror. Someone might even mistake him for a doctor.
A sign in the lobby indicated that the cocktail reception was being held in the Athenaeum Ballroom. An arrow pointed the way. Opposite the ballroom entry, a woman was seated at a table handing out name tags. They were arranged alphabetically, but Jonathan wasn’t able to locate his own. He mentioned his problem to the woman and gave his name.
“One of our speakers!” the woman boomed. “We have yours in a special place. I’ll be right back.”
A lanky man with wavy gray hair took up position at Jonathan’s side. “You’d think that with so many advanced degrees floating around this place they could get things a bit more organized.”
“Usually I find it’s the opposite,” said Jonathan. “Something about too many chefs.”
“You’re Ransom?” inquired the stranger.
“Do we know each other?” asked Jonathan guardedly.
“No, but I recognized you from the program.” The man produced a brochure from his jacket and opened it to the inside page. Jonathan studied his photo. It had been taken in a passport studio in Amsterdam four years earlier. He wondered how they had gotten their hands on it. He didn’t remember sending it in. “The name’s Blackburn,” said the older
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