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"What have you got?" I ask, my voice a bitshaky.
"Very good cognac. Here," he says and goes to a small bar, pulling out a bottle of the liquor. I watch as he un-stoppers the bottle and pours the amber liquid in crystal snifters, turning the snifter on the side to gauge theamount.
"Perfect," he says, handing me one of the snifters. "Do you drinkcognac?"
I shake my head. "My father did. I rarely drink. When I fly, at socialgatherings."
He nods. "Hard to lose afather."
I frown. "He's notdead."
He glances up. "Might as well be, considering you haven't seen him for solong."
"Why are you bringing himup?"
"You're the one who brought him up." He holds up a hand. "Please, relax." He sits down in his seat, strapping himself in and then takes the snifter in his hand. He holds it up and nods to me. "Cheers." He takes a sip, smacking his lips and letting out a sigh of appreciation. Another sip and then he places his snifter down and opens his briefcase. "I've got a lot of work ahead of me," he says, and opens a file thick with paper. "I'm afraid I won't be very good company,Eve."
I nod, glad that he's going to be busy with work. I open a National Geographic and begin exploring the issue, but soon close it and my eyes, leaning my head back, planning to read once we level off. After a few moments, I feel the plane move and open myeyes.
"Well," Soren says, putting down his papers and leaning his own head back. "We'reoff."
The speed increases and I look at the window, glad in a way that the shutters are pulled. This way I can pretend I'm still in the limo and we're just driving really fast and up a steephill.
The plane rises and falls softly as we climb higher. I hate that feeling, preferring the bumps of a firm highway beneathtires.
After what seems like an eternity, we level off and one of the pilots comes back to us. He's dressed in fatigues, his dark hair cut very short, his brown eyes set in a face of such innocent youth I wondered how he can be old enough to fly thisplane.
"Miss," he says, nodding at me then smiling atSoren.
"James," Soren says, smiling and putting his papers down. The young man leans against the desk and looks atSoren.
"We've reached cruising speed and altitude. We'll be in Boston on schedule. Your flight leaves at 2030 hours. Is there anything you neednow?"
Soren shakes his head. The pilot returns to the cockpit and I to my magazine. It's as I'm contemplating Soren's identity that I feel the first bumps of turbulence. Small at first, like riding in a small craft on a choppy sea, they grow in intensity and soon, Soren downs his cognac. He picks up another document, though, and reads it over, flipping pages as he scans the material,unconcerned.
Of course, I'm fearful and likely white as a ghost. The pilot's voice comes over theintercom.
"Colonel, we've got a system in front of us. I'm going to ascend and try to clear it, get out of thisturbulence."
"Please do," Soren replies, flipping the page of his document. Then, I feel a huge drop followed by several moderate bumps as we hit a pocket of air. Soren's snifter falls to the ground, and rolls around on the softcarpet.
"Don't worry," Soren says, as if sensing my growing fear. "We'll be over this in a few moments, and it'll be a lotcalmer."
I close my eyes and can't help but mouth the Twenty-third Psalm in my mind. Despite my atheism, it's something even I resort to when under extreme stress – like whenflying.
"Are you Catholic, Eve?" he sayssoftly.
How did he do that? Is he reading my mind at a distance? I nod, repeating the psalm, gaining some comfort from it even though I don't believe any of it. I feel our ascent but the turbulence only seems to worsen and all at once I feel an incredible drop. My neck jars from it, my teeth grindingtogether.
"Shit!" I can't help but cryout.
"The pilot has to dive to get out of the worst of it - pretty bad - he was unable to clear through it. We'll have to drop down belowit."
He takes my hand in his and his touch is cool, his skin dry and smooth against my damppalm.
"Don't worry," he says. "We'll befine."
This act of kindness, this attempt to calm me, makes me thankful for contact of any kind, even with him, and yet I hate him. He has Michel under his control and can do what he wants with me. I wonder if I can beat him in a fight ifnecessary.
