The Cessna 310 is a twin-engined aircraft, most of the time. When one of those engines decides to splutter and cough ten minutes after take-off, however, it essentially becomes an expensive lawn ornament.
This particular model was one of the newest ones, meaning it was as old as its mechanic, who thought privately that it could have done with being retired before he’d received his mechanic’s license. Several years before would have been favourite for this particular plane – it might have kept the owner on the ground.
Still, it wasn’t that hard to keep aloft. A little TLC, a lot of oil to help smooth the moving parts’ journey and the all-important check of the fuel tanks – the plane’s owner seemed to think that fuel could be wished into existence at 10,000 feet – meant that the craft wouldn’t be too long on the ground.
The mechanic ran through the checks, topped off the tanks, spun up the engines and nodded with some satisfactions as both propellers hummed smoothly into life. He left the engines idling as he completed the paperwork to make sure there was nothing obvious lingering in the works.
Job done and paperwork completed, he shut down the engines and closed up the plane. A distinctive flash of red hair caught his eye as a trim figure found its way through the ranks of aircraft that were lined up alongside the side of the field.
“Mike? Someone asking for you in the office.”
The mechanic ran a hand across his close-cropped hair, turning a quizzical expression on the young woman.
“For me?”
“She’s looking for flying lessons.”
Green eyes twinkled as the woman delivered the news. Mike frowned.
“Ben’s the senior instructor. I don’t teach rookies. Did you explain that?”
“She said she was told to ask for you specifically.”
She reached down and plucked a rag from his toolbox, handing it to him to clean the oil from his hands.
“What does she look like?”
“Olive skin, black hair, brown eyes, athletic build...” The sparkle in her eyes faded a little. “Not armed with anything obvious.”
He nodded. There were all sorts of weapons that weren’t obvious to a casual inspection.
“Did you pat her down?”
“Not without asking her name and her favourite drink.”
The sparkle was back, and earned the woman a shake of the head.
“Jean, you need to find someone to make an honest woman of you.”
“It’s a lot more fun being dishonest.”
He sighed.
“You know how I feel about meeting new clients, and this one’s asking for me directly? Think she’s for real?”
“You’ve brought this place up to speed, Mike. We’re not the Airport of Lost Souls anymore. Sometimes people do come here to learn how to fly.”
“I preferred it when all we had to deal with was crooks. At least most of them knew how to maintain their planes.”
“You say that all the time. I notice you don’t complain when you pocket your share of the take each week.”
He smiled and tossed the rag at her.
“Is Ben keeping our guest entertained?”
“Oh yes, ‘Great air crashes I have known’. Serves you right for hiring ex-military.”
“You’re ex-police, Jean. No-one’s perfect.”
“A cop, a fighter pilot... and you.”
“The grease monkey.”
“Hmmph. One day, you’re going to slip up,” she said. “I know there’s more to you than meets the eyes.”
“You’re right,” he said, picking up the toolbox. “Let’s go see our mystery woman.”
Mike followed Jean back to the terminal building. He frowned as she walked past the main reception.
“She’s in my office?”
Jean’s face was apologetic as she looked back.
“She found us there. Ben’s watching her.”
“Still...”
He fell silent as they completed the trip, following Jean into the office where Ben was sat with their new client.
Resting comfortably somewhere in late middle age, the only clue to Ben’s precise age was the shock of white hair that he generally kept pulled back in a loose ponytail. The violent Hawaiian shirt and slight paunch made it easy to take him lightly, but Mike knew Ben’s combat record – not all of it in the cockpit of a plane or helicopter.
“Ben, thanks. I think Mrs Green will be here in a minute for her lesson.”
Ben stood up smartly, nodding to the woman in the other chair as he left.
Mike walked around behind his desk, setting the toolbox down.
“Good afternoon. I understand you’re looking for flying lessons? Please don’t listen to Ben – flying’s not that hard, or they wouldn’t let him do it.”
“I heard that!”
Mike smiled at the woman, who returned his gaze coolly.
“My name is Mike. I understand you’ve been sent my way. Can I ask who sent you?”
“Grace.”
Mike cocked his head.
“I don’t recognise the name... and forgive me, but you’re not a local, are you? That accent... South African?”
He glanced at Jean, who lingered in the doorway, silent and still. He turned and began rooting through a filing cabinet, pulling out a cluster of forms.
“Anyway, let me take down your details. Do you have any flying experience?”
“A little. My father had a cropduster on our farm.”
“Okay, that’s a good place to start. Have you ever soloed?”
“No, father didn’t want me to crash, but I took the controls often.”
“Okay... Now, could I have your name, please?”
“My name is Maddy... Are these real?”
She pointed to the wall beside the door, where a shelving unit held a number of slim, metal cylinders.
“Real? Oh, yes, as real as anything. Take your hand off if you’re not careful – and if they had a power cell in.” He smiled crookedly, and went back to the forms. “Uh, can I have your address, please?”
She stood up and walked over to the shelves, inspecting the various items carefully.
“Some of these are beautiful pieces of craftsmanship.”
“Thank you. It’s a hobby of mine. I make one every year or so. A friend of mine adds the finishing touches, but most of the work is mine. Now, could I take your full name, please?”
There was a slight gasp. Mike looked up. Maddy had grabbed Jean, wrapping one arm around her throat while the other hand held a stiletto to the side of her face.
Mike didn’t move, but he did let out a faintly exasperated sigh. “Really?” he asked. “I could tell when I walked into the room that you were excited from your shallow, fast breathing. Your story about cropdusting is probably true, but you’re no more South African than I am – and you should have corrected me. You tipped me off within five seconds, and blew your cover in a minute.
“You’re young – not more than twenty-two or so. You’ve worked hard to erase your accent and make yourself sound as neutral as possible. That could come from expensive tuition in English, but your clothing isn’t expensive, so I suspect it comes from indoctrination into a multi-national militant group at an early age. Your accent stuck out, and you’ve worked hard to eradicate it. That takes effort, and a willingness to work hard, but pulling a knife on my colleague? Flashy – and stupid. You let adrenaline get the better of you. Far better to get me up in the air and try and disable me there – I’m sure you need flying lessons about as much as I do. You could have flown me to a pre-arranged landing strip and no-one would have been any the wiser until you were long gone.
“So, that tells me you’re young, you’re inexperienced, you’re acting alone, or at least without direct supervision. This is probably your first solo mission, and I bet you were told not to make yourself conspicuous. Just another young girl who wants to fly since she outgrew her pony. We get a lot of them, but that – clearly – is not you.
“Which does raise rather a lot of questions: Who are you? What are you doing here? Who sent you? Are you even here under orders, or did you take the initiative and suddenly panic? What will you do when my friend escapes-“
Jean twisted sharply, losing a few strands of hair as she wrenched herself away from her captor, pivoting and swinging Maddy into the doorframe.
“-and are you familiar with the FN Five-seveN?”
He stood, drawing the pistol from the toolbox and taking aim at a point between Maddy’s eyes as she grabbed at the doorframe to steady herself.
“If you’re not, you’ll forgive me for not giving you a guided tour, but suffice to say it has a smooth action, minimal recoil, reliable feed system and a twenty round clip.
“I won’t need more than one round, not at this range.
“Now, drop the knife.”
A busy few moments later, Mike, Ben and Jean looked down at Maddy, who was tied to a chair.
“So, what do we do with her?” Ben asked.
“I know what I’d like to do with her,” Jean replied.
“Which is why you’re not with the Met anymore,” Mike replied. “No, we’ll ask her a few questions and then lock her in the basement for a few days.”
“Why?”
“Because,” he held up his phone as it started to ring, “I need to go away for a few days.”
He hit the green button on the phone, and held it to his ear. “Hello Major...”