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“The aircraft is being readied,” Bashar said, walking them over to the second plane in the hangar. “Please wait here. The pilot will be with you in five or ten minutes.”
Then they were left alone.
Harry was stoic, with his back to the plane, taking in every detail of the hangar. “I don’t like this,” he whispered.
Other people walked about: the two mechanics, a radio somewhere, a man driving one of the taxiing trucks. No one pinged Asher’s radar, but he understood why Harry didn’t like being exposed in the open like this, waiting.
“Relax,” Asher said. “Being nervous makes you look suspicious.”
“Why is it taking so long?”
“It’s not.”
“What if someone asks too many questions?”
“Stick to the story. We are an Australian and French national, civil engineers for one of the gas companies out of Saudi.”
“That’s the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard.” He counted on his fingers. “One, I’m pretty sure anyone sent by a Saudi gas company would be wearing Armani suits and not look like they’ve been on the run for a week. Two, we look nothing like civil engineers. We look like fugitive hitmen. And three, I can speak French. Why can’t I be the French guy?”
“We don’t need to look like anything. It’s purely for the manifest, records on paper, nothing else.Ifthey ask, which they have not. It’s not likely they will. They are paid for their discretion. God only knows what they’ve seen in and out of this hangar. And yes, you canspeakFrench. It’s rather admirable and a bit cute, but you bludgeon the accent to death.”
Harry let out a long, slow breath. It wasn’t a sigh, Asher could tell. It was a measure to stay his temper. “If we make it out of this alive, I’m gonna kill you myself.”
Asher laughed. “I shall look forward to you trying.” He took out his tin of breath mints and popped one in his mouth. “Mint?”
Harry glared at him for a long second, then took one. “I thought you didn’t like the sugar-free ones?”
“You know,” Asher admitted. “They’re not bad.”
A door closed at the back of the hangar and two men walked out, talking, laughing.
Harry did a double take and turned his back to them. “Fuck.”
“Who is it?” Asher asked, his voice neutral.
“The guy on the left. He’s from the same team as the guy on the security gate. Ex-special forces.”
Which meant he’d recognise Harry...
“Keep calm,” Asher whispered. “I don’t see a weapon. But they are walking this way.”
Harry let his backpack slide off his shoulder a little, ready, if he needed it. Asher hoped it wouldn’t come to that... They needed to get on the plane.
The two men walked closer and their conversation stopped as they neared. Asher thought they might be going to the first plane, and they were... until the man on the left saw Harry. He looked twice and stopped.
“Harrigan?” he asked. He was early thirties, blond, smiling. “Is that you?”
Harry turned, and quickly reading the man’s surprise and smile, he reacted the same. “Fitz?”
The man grinned wider. “Holy shit. It is you!” He held out his hand, which Harry shook. “You’re working here now?”
“Private sector. I go where I’m needed,” Harry replied.
“Nice. Just got back fifteen minutes ago from vacation in Malta. Beaches, brewskies, and babes for two weeks.”
Harry cleared his throat and not so subtly nodded toward Asher, as if he shouldn’t say such things in front of him. Then he gestured to Fitz’s shirt with Solaris embroidered on the left breast. “So, you’re working here, right?”
“Yeah, there’s a few of us now,” he said. “From the old squad.”
