AS the old man pulled into the parking lot of the Kalamata Airport, he noticed the gas gauge had slipped below zero.
He smiled. What timing. It had been a quiet ride, no mountains necessary, no youthful chattering. And look—it just happened to be the perfect amount of fuel! A lucky end to a lucky few days.
Stepping out of the car, he rubbed his eye. With his limited vision, too much driving was always a strain. He silently cursed the young pilot of the private plane—Brendan, Brant, whatever his name was—for having flown them all into Athens in the first place. The drive over the Peloponnesian mountains had been exhausting. The airport in Kalamata was rather small, but it was a lot closer.
He quickly dug his phone out of his pocket, where a series of texts glared up at him:
Do you have it yet?
Where are you?
Please respond.
DO YOU HAVE IT??
Dear Nigel, are you dead?
Some people could be so impatient.
With a sigh, he quickly typed a response:
Yes. Airport. Responding. Again, yes.
No, but thank you ever so much for asking.
Will deliver ingredient to courier,
then proceed to K. River.
He sent the message, then opened the rear door. On the seat was a new backpack he had purchased at a roadside shop. Shoddy construction, really. But when you weren’t in England, you had to make do. Time was of the essence, after all.
By now the police would be interrogating the children. Nothing would come of it, of course. The poor things would be set free with a scolding. They were bright. They were well funded. They’d be back on his trail in no time, seeking the ingredients. But he had one of those ingredients now. Meanwhile, he would take advantage of the distraction and the extra time. And continue the search on his own.
He recalled his instructions.
Follow them, he had been told. Make no waves. Let them find the ingredients in their own time. We will help you take possession upon your return.
But really. What was the excitement in making no waves? He had the list now. He had been waiting for this all his life. As had his father, and his grandmother before that, and so on. No more waiting. And no more relying on other people.
From the moment the accident cut short his dancing career, life had been a slow sink to the bottom.
Until now.
He picked up the new pack and checked inside—one, two, three vials. Such an eerie, bloodlike red they were. He wrapped them carefully in a fistful of napkins he’d pinched from the diner. Then he zipped up the pack and slung it over his shoulder. But as he began to shut the door, he spotted a small, shining rectangle on the floor. With a sky-blue case.
“Well, well . . .” he murmured, feeling his soul instantly lighten.
It was Bitsy’s phone. The girl had dropped it, poor thing. Whatever would she do for fun while in a holding cell at the police station?
He looked around for a trash can, then stopped. No, he wouldn’t throw it out. The children were young. And crafty. They would play on the sympathies of the police. Claim they were double-crossed. Throw shade to the droopy-eyed old man who had chaperoned them. If their gambit worked, they’d be after him.
But he could use the girl’s phone to play with them a bit.
Oh, this would be jolly fun.
He closed his eyes, recalling the movement of her fingers on the screen as she opened her phone. He had watched them all do this. It was the easiest way to pick up passwords. No one ever suspected. With proper practice, it wasn’t that difficult.
Four-five-four-five. That was it. Yes.
He punched in the numbers and the phone came to life. He scrolled through her Contacts list, stopping at M. For MAX TILT.
With a giggle, he poised his thumbs over the screen. A little misdirection would be fun. Slow them down a bit. A wild goose chase to lighten the day.
He thought for a moment, until the perfect plan came to him. And he began to type:
Helo, I am tring to find oner of ths fon . . .
“Ha!” he hooted, as he crafted a long note with many mistakes. Oh, this was going to be perfect. No one would suspect it to be him.
It took only a moment to finish, but he didn’t want to send it now. The timing was off. He would do it later, when it made more sense.
He pocketed the phone and headed for the entrance. Departures and arrivals all on one level. This was the sort of airport he liked.
The next location was a bit remote. It would take time to get there. An old man needed a head start.
As he headed to the departing terminal, he leaped over the fire hydrant. A graceful little jeté, like the old days. At the sidewalk just beyond the parking lot, a smiling young flight attendant applauded.
Nigel bowed.
At his age, he had to take what he could get.