Have a good trip, keep sharp, and let us know how things are going. We will keep you posted if there is any news from home.
from your old man."
Nick frowned. Why should Rita's story clash with the records on Valdez?
On the northern runway, a gleaming 710 Jetstar sat poised. Nick watched the airstair being wheeled into place. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes to go. For a moment, he thought about Valdez and Rita Jameson — about the two of them as human beings. Yesterday, they were alive. One evidently resourceful and energetic. The other beautiful, very beautiful, now very very ugly.
He shook the thoughts away. That kind of thinking was no good. He dug out his airline ticket and picked up his bag.
"C'mon, Julie. Here, I'll take that."
They walked to the wire gate squaring the runway, she tall, graceful, with cat-shaped eyes and a sassy, holiday hat; he, taller, serious-looking, youngish, companionably carrying her simple fall coat over his arm. A line of passengers had already begun to form, eager to get on with the flight.
A jet engine thundered somewhere off to the right. Uniformed personnel began to climb up the airstair with unhurried steps. Nick poked the horn-rimmed bridge higher up on his nose, a characteristic gesture for a man with spectacles.
Voices broke over the gate. Nick and Julia fell into line behind a woman in a blue print dress and jacket, carrying a clutch bag, and a tall, elderly gentleman with a sandy brown moustache and the penetrating voice of the Middle West. Two men in dark suits walked rapidly toward the airstair. The younger of the two handed an attaché case to the other man, gave a sort of salute, and walked away. The older man ascended the stair. That would be Harcourt.
Julia moved ahead. The flash of her shapely legs evoked memories. Nick reached for his seat card.
A pert stewardess, almost as beautiful as Rita Jameson, welcomed him on board. Behind him, a rotund executive was trying not to swear as he fumbled for his boarding ticket.
The eastern seaboard vanished on the horizon and Flight 601 headed out to sea, nose toward London. Skies were clear and there was no headwind. Julia yawned seductively and let her lovely head, now hatless, loll against the plexiglass porthole. Peter Cane's book on the Israeli discoveries lay unopened on Nick Carter's rangy knees. His hand held Julie's lightly. Every now and then they would smile and whisper affectionately to each other. In fact, Julia was filling him in on her cover background and the so-called circumstances of their first meeting. Some of the details and dialogue they worked out together, laughing quietly at their joint imagination and the memories they were supposed to have.
Lyle Harcourt was sitting amidships on the aisle. The window seat next to him was unoccupied but for his attaché case and papers. At the moment he was skimming the morning newspapers. Nick sat at a diagonal line from his courtly head and shoulders.
Harcourt was an imposing man of middle years, very tall, and ruddy of complexion. Nick had seen penetrating blue eyes beneath the shaggy eyebrows. He remembered that Harcourt had been Ail-American decades before, then had given up a lucrative law practice to enter service with his country. His rise from farm boy to state governor and to one of the nation's most influential and best-loved statesmen was one of the legendary tales of American politics. It would be disastrous if anything were to happen to this man.
It was too early to thoroughly case the rest of the passengers. Nick tallied nearly seventy head of assorted ages, sizes and shapes. Those in the vicinity of Harcourt were the ones that concerned him most, at the moment.
He squeezed Julia's hand gently. Her eyes opened.
"I have a tendency to get airsick, did you know that?"
"Oh, no!" she said, alarmed. "Do you feel bad?"
Nick grinned. "No. But Mr. Cane has a funny tummy and he may need to go running up and down the aisle to one of those doors up there."
"Oh." She sounded relieved. "Well, the paper bag's in front of you, if you don't make it. But please try. Sometimes I don't feel so good myself."
"Push the button, will you? Let's see, the stewardess' name is Janet Reed..."
Julia gave him a suspicious look and pressed the button.
"How did you know that?"
"She told us, didn't you notice?"
"No, I didn't."
"Well, I did. She's rather a honey, isn't she?"
"Two-timer!"
One or two miniscule clouds were building in the morning sky. He hoped that they, or inexperience, would be sufficient excuse for his plaint.
"Yes, Mr. Cane?"
"Oh... er... Miss. Urn, Janet. I feel a little uneasy, I'm afraid. That is, queasy. Could you... suggest something?"
He swallowed uncomfortably.
"Oh, yes, Mr. Cane! I'll bring you a pill. They're very good. And some tea. That usually helps."
Nick shuddered. Coffee and a shot of brandy was what he felt like.
"Thank you, that'll be fine. You're very kind."
Janet went off, hips swaying attractively.
"My hero," said Julie lovingly, offering him a well-faked look of concern. "Fink, with feet of clay."
"Stomach of clay. Come on, fuss over me. But not too much; it might upset me more."
"Here, lover, let me loosen your tie."
"It is loose."
"So it is. Then fuss over yourself, damn you."
Janet came back with tea, sympathy and pill.
"Now drink that, Mr. Cane, and I'm sure you'll feel much better."
"My poor baby," Julia cooed.
Peter Cane managed a brave smile. "Thank you, Janet. Ill be all right."
Nick managed to choke down the tea. "By the way, did you want something?"
"Thank you so much for thinking of me in your delicate condition, but the answer's no. At least, not in front of all these people."
Their eyes met in a secret, knowing glance.
Down the aisle, Lyle Harcourt had put aside the newspapers and was now immersed in a stack of documents that were piled on the attaché case in his lap. He rarely looked up and he spoke to no one. The flight was as serene as the quiet weather above the ocean. The tiny clouds were thickening but the great plane sliced through their wispy fingers with ease. Not a bump, not a shiver. Well, I can't wait, thought Nick. One cigarette, and I'll make a move.
He lit one for each of them, and pondered.
The only action had been the inevitable brief trips to either end of the aisle. The passengers had settled in quickly and sleepily. He couldn't, of course, tell about the personnel of Flight 601. Janet Reed was the only one who had so far shown herself. There was no need for any of the others to emerge.
It was hard to sit around waiting. Nick's springy muscles ached for some activity.
The plane itself represented a problem. A bomb could be concealed anywhere. There were a hundred and one hiding places for small, lethal devices.
"I think I have to throw up," he said inelegantly, and stubbed out his cigarette.
"Congratulations. But don't do it here."
He rose abruptly, untangling his long legs from beneath the seat ahead.
"Keep an eye open while I'm gone," he murmured, clutching his stomach. Julie nodded.
Nick made his way down the aisle, his eyes skimming along the overhead racks as he passed. No funny looking bundles. But then, he could hardly expect to find anything labeled BOMB.
He made a precipitous entry into the lavatory.
His exit, a few minutes later, was more dignified, but his progress down the smoothly carpeted aisle was erratic. He was two paces from Lyle Harcourt's aisle seat when he stumbled, seeming to catch his toe on some invisible lump in the carpeting. He gave a cry of embarrassed surprise as he caught himself on the arm rest of Harcourt's chair and used his other hand to grasp the support of the baggage rack above.
"Dreadfully sorry! Please excuse me!" he gasped into Harcourt's ear, smiling awkwardly. "Damn clumsy of me..."