Andrew Britton - The American

When Ryan called the number that Harper had given him, he was reminded for the first time in a long time just how much sway the man really had. It was easy to forget, because there was nothing flashy about the deputy director’s personal lifestyle; although he lived in a nice house and dressed well, he took his wife to the same resort in Colorado every year, and drove a six-year-old Explorer with 100,000 miles on the odometer.

When it came to his position at Langley, though, Harper had the power to move mountains. Five minutes after placing the call, Ryan was met at the main gate by a dark-suited man who, after introducing himself as George, showed him to a glistening black Mercedes with tinted windows. Judging from the way it hunkered down over its wheels, the aggressive-looking sedan was also fitted with armor plating in the door panels and engine compartment.

George opened the rear door, but Ryan shook his head and climbed into the front. He didn’t want to get too used to this kind of treatment, and wondered for a moment if Harper had gone through the trouble as a favor, or to intentionally remind him of some of the perks to be found at Langley. Ryan smiled when he decided that the occasional chauffeured ride in an armored Mercedes didn’t really compensate for the government salary because, after all, it was the salary that determined your actual living conditions. Maybe not for him, but certainly for most government employees.

He was forced to reevaluate that assessment, however, when they squealed onto the runway at Dulles International. He couldn’t believe they had been cleared onto the tarmac, and was even more surprised when he realized that he would be returning to Maine on one of the Company’s Gulfstream executive jets.

He turned to his driver and said, with a hint of a smile, “You must get a kick out of driving this car, George. You have a hell of a job.”

The other man, burly and stoic throughout the whole trip, couldn’t help but crack a smile of his own. “That I do, sir,” he said. “That I do.”

It wasn’t long before the G-V had reached its cruising altitude of 41,000 feet, and they were streaking north at a little over 561 miles per hour. Ryan knew he should kick back and enjoy the ride, and he did, at first, but being all alone almost 8 miles up soon became a little unnerving.

When he noticed that the cockpit was shielded by only a privacy curtain, he drifted up there to reassure himself that someone was actually flying the aircraft. Both men seemed to welcome the company, and it turned out that Steve Kearns, the pilot, had been flying jets for the Agency for almost seventeen years.

“Where was the last place you flew to?” Ryan asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

Kearns grinned imperceptibly. “Can’t tell you that.”

“Where are we going now?” He honestly didn’t know.

“Can’t tell you that either.”

The grin spread, but Reynolds, the navigator, laughed and said, “Portland International Jetport, sir.”

That was good news to Ryan. Portland was much closer to Cape Elizabeth than Bangor was, which was where he usually flew in and out of.

“I’m surprised they didn’t shut down the runway,” he observed. “That place isn’t really built to handle traffic in this kind of weather.”

Reynolds nodded in agreement. “That’s true. Of course, we’re more than 10,000 feet over the worst of it right now. Things are getting pretty messy on the ground, though. Half the state is out of power, and they had to kick in the generators at PWM. The storm is pushing out a little bit due to the Canadian jet stream, but it’s still pounding the east side of the state. We’ll be okay, though the landing might be a handful. Hey, Kearns, you do know how to land, right?”

The pilot shrugged. “I tried it on Microsoft Simulator ’98 once,” he said, smiling broadly. Ryan noticed that Kearns was one of those people incapable of keeping a straight face when telling a joke. “It didn’t work out too well.”

Reynolds, surveying something on his myriad screens, looked up and said, “Well, I hope you learn fast. We’re about ten minutes out.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ryan said, a little shocked. “We just took off.”

The pilot smiled. “Welcome to the wonderful world of corporate travel.”

The landing, as Reynolds had predicted, wasn’t fun at all, even though Ryan had tightly strapped himself into one of the soft leather seats just aft of the cockpit. He got up on shaky legs after they rolled to a stop, poking his head up front to thank his couriers. Kearns looked a little pale, but both men acknowledged his words, which were difficult to hear over the pounding rain on the fuselage.

“Did you guys hear anything about my transportation on the ground?” Ryan yelled over the roar.

Kearns said, “You’re going to Cape Elizabeth, right?”

“That’s right.”

“It’s only about twenty miles,” the pilot said. He was grinning again, and the color had returned to his face with the landing out of the way. “That isn’t much of a walk. I have an umbrella if you need it.”

Reynolds shook his head with a rueful smile and turned from his console to face Ryan. “You need to find Andreno in the security office, on the second level. He has a key for you. I guess you have the car for the weekend, but it’s due back at Langley on Monday.”

“Andreno?”

“That’s all I know.” The navigator shrugged. “How many can there be?”

Ryan realized he was right. “Yeah, it’s not that big of an airport. Or jetport. Whatever.” Reaching in to shake their hands: “Thanks, guys.”

“Not a problem. Drive safe.”

The jetway had already been extended to the outer door with a resounding metal-on-metal clank. Reynolds came back to open the door from the inside, and then Ryan was in the elevated tunnel, nodding his appreciation to the jetway operators before moving forward to the bustling terminal.

The open space was filled with stranded passengers, and Ryan reminded himself once again to thank Harper for cutting what would have been a severe headache out of his trip. Navigating his way through the occupied seats in the terminal, he quickly found the cramped office and asked for Andreno, who turned out to be the chief of airport security.

“Yeah, I got your key right here,” the heavy man said with a grunt. “Mercedes… nice.”

Accepting the key and some verbal directions, Ryan left the office and headed for the underground parking garage. The car that was waiting for him was very similar to the one in which he had ridden to Dulles. Sliding onto the cool black leather, he grinned like a little boy when he turned the key and the engine purred to life.

Soon he was leaving the parking garage, the sound of the powerful engine ripping off the concrete walls like thunder, mixing with the hollow boom of the rain outside. With the wipers going full blast, he accelerated down International Parkway, the bright lights of the Mercedes cutting a swath through the dark swirls of rain, then turned left on Johnson Avenue before reaching I-95 South a few minutes later.

As he drove, he couldn’t help but think about the upcoming argument with Katie. She would probably be furious that he was going back on his word, but he knew that he had to track down Vanderveen once and for all. It was an argument that she couldn’t win; he was going back to the Agency either way, but there were a couple of things that might make it easier for her. He had gotten her the ring, after all, and maybe he could dangle the use of his BMW in front of her to keep the argument as short as possible. He knew she loved that car almost as much as she hated her Corolla.

Ryan had been thinking about that, too. At the risk of spoiling her, he knew that she had her eyes on a new Volkswagen SUV… Shit, he couldn’t remember the name. Tureg, or Tourag, maybe… something like that. It was pretty big, though, and solidly built, which was all he cared about. Katie was not very skilled behind the wheel, and while he teased her constantly about it, he secretly agonized over her frequent trips to and from Orono. He remembered how excited she’d been after seeing the latest model in the parking lot at the grocery store…