“Are you prying? Who do you work for, Herr Holtzer? Are you actually trying to seduce me for information?” she barked at him, playfully shoving him backward. Her blonde locks danced on her bare back as she followed him every step he retreated.
“No, no, I am just showing interest in your work, darling,” he protested meekly and fell backward on their bed. The powerfully built Detlef had a personality quite the opposite of his physique. “I did not mean to interrogate you.”
Gabi stopped in her tracks and rolled her eyes. “Um Gottes willen!”
“What did I do?” he asked apologetically.
“Detlef, I know you are not a spy! You were supposed to play along. Say stuff like ‘I am here to get information from you, at all costs' or ‘if you don't tell me everything I will fuck it out of you!' or anything else you can think of. Why are you so goddamn sweet?” she lamented, thrashing down her sharp heel on the bed right between his legs.
He gasped at the close vicinity to his family jewels, freezing in position.
“Ugh!” Gabi grunted and pulled her foot away. “Light me a cigarette, will you?”
“Of course, darling,” he replied downheartedly.
Gabi opened the taps in the shower to let the water get hot in the meantime. She pulled off her panties and walked into the bedroom to get her cigarette. Detlef sat down again, looking at his stunning wife. She was not very tall, but on those heels, she towered over him, a kinky goddess with a Karelia blazing between her full red lips.
The casino was the epitome of lavish luxury and only allowed the most privileged, wealthy, and influential patrons into its sinfully exuberant embrace. The MGM Grand stood majestically in its azure façade that reminded Dave Purdue of the surface of the Caribbean Sea, but it was not the billionaire inventor's final destination. He looked back at the concierge and staff who waved goodbye clutching their $500 tips tightly. An unmarked black limousine picked him up and drove him to the closest airstrip where Purdue's aircrew awaited his arrival.
“Where to this time, Mr. Purdue?” the head stewardess asked as she accompanied him to his seat. “The Moon? Orion’s Belt, perhaps?”
Purdue laughed with her.
“Denmark Prime, please James,” Purdue commanded.
“Right away, Guv,” she saluted. She had something he valued very much in his staff members — a sense of humor. His genius and inexhaustible wealth had never changed the fact that Dave Purdue was a fun-loving and daring individual, first and foremost. Since most of the time he was working on something somewhere for some reason, he elected to use his time off to travel. In fact, he was heading for Copenhagen for some Danish extravagance.
Purdue was exhausted. He had not been up for over 36 hours straight since he had designed a laser generator with a group of friends from the British Institution of Engineering and Technology. When his private jet took off, he kicked back and opted for some well-deserved sleep after Las Vegas and its crazy nightlife.
As always when he traveled alone, Purdue left the flat screen on to soothe him to sleep with whatever boredom it broadcast. Sometimes it was golf, sometimes cricket; other times a nature documentary, but he always chose something unimportant to give his mind some reprieve. Above the screen, the clock showed half past five when the stewardess served him an early dinner so that he could go to sleep with a full stomach.
Through his slumber, Purdue heard the monotonous voice of a news reporter and the debate that followed to discuss the assassinations that had been haunting the political sphere. While they argued on the low volume television screen, Purdue fell blissfully asleep without a care for the dumbfounded Germans in the studio. Every now and then turbulences would shake his mind to consciousness, but soon he would doze off again.
Four stops for refueling on the way gave him some time to stretch his legs between naps. Between Dublin and Copenhagen, he caught the last two hours of deep, dreamless sleep.
After what felt like ages, Purdue woke to the gentle urging of the stewardess.
“Mr. Purdue? Sir, we have a slight problem,” she cooed. At the sound of the word, his eyes sprang open.
“What is it? What's the matter?” he asked, still slurring in his daze.
“We have been denied permission to enter Danish or German airspace, sir. Shall we redirect to Helsinki, perhaps?” she asked.
“Why were we den…” he muttered, rubbing his face. “Alright, I'll sort this out. Thank you, dear.” With that, Purdue rushed to the pilots to figure out what the problem was.
“They did not give us a detailed explanation, sir. All they told us was that our registration identifier was blacklisted in both Germany and Denmark!” the pilot explained, looking as puzzled as Purdue. “What I don't understand is that I requested preclearance, and it was granted, but now we are told we can't land.”
“Blacklisted for what?” Purdue frowned.
“It sounds like bullshit to me, sir,” the co-pilot chimed in.
“I wholeheartedly agree, Stan,” Purdue replied. “Alright, do we have enough fuel for go anywhere else? I'll make the arrangements.”
“We still have fuel, sir, but not enough to take too many chances,” the pilot reported.
“Try Billord. If they don't let us in, head north. We can land in Sweden until this is sorted out,” he ordered his pilots.
“Roger that, sir.”
“Air traffic control again, sir,” the co-pilot said suddenly. “Listen.”
“They are directing us to Berlin, Mr. Purdue. What do we do?” the pilot asked.
“What else can we do? I suppose we would have to adhere for now,” Purdue reckoned. He called the stewardess and asked for a double rum on the rocks, his choice of libation when things didn't go his way.
Touching down at Dietrich Private Airstrip on the outskirts of Berlin, Purdue prepared for a formal complaint he wanted to lodge against the authorities in Copenhagen. His legal team would not make it to the German city anytime soon, so he called the British Embassy to arrange an official meeting with a government liaison.
Not a man of hot temperament, Purdue felt rather livid about the sudden so-called blacklisting of his private aircraft. For the life of him, he could not figure out what on earth he could be blacklisted for. It was ridiculous.
The following day, he entered the Embassy of the United Kingdom.
“Good day, my name is David Purdue. I have an appointment with Mr. Ben Carrington,” Purdue told the receptionist in the fast-paced surroundings of the Embassy on Wilhelmstrasse.
“Good morning, Mr. Purdue,” she smiled cordially. “Let me take you to his office right away. He has been waiting to see you.”
“Thank you,” Purdue replied, too confused and irritated to even force a smile for the receptionist.
The doors to the British representative's office were open as the receptionist showed Purdue in. At the desk sat a woman with her back to the door, chatting to Carrington.
“Mr. Purdue, I presume,” Carrington smiled as he rose from his seat to welcome his Scottish visitor.
“That is correct,” Purdue affirmed. “Good to meet you, Mr. Carrington.”
Carrington gestured to the seated woman. “I contacted a spokesperson from the German international press office to assist us.”
“Mr. Purdue,” the stunning woman smiled, “I hope I can help you. Gabi Holtzer. Pleased to meet you.”
Chapter 3
Gabi Holtzer, Ben Carrington, and Dave Purdue discussed the unexpected landing ban over tea in the office.
“I have to assure you, Herr Purdue, that this is unprecedented. Our legal department, as well as Mr. Carrington’s people, has checked your background intensively for anything that could merit such a claim, but we found nothing on your records that could possibly explain the refusal of entry for Denmark and Germany,” Gabi reported.