Pitt walked into the building and approached the terminal manager, whose mouth gaped when he turned his way. Pitt looked like he had just been run over by a Greyhound bus. His hair and clothes were caked in dust, while a bloodied bandage crossed his scalp. When Pitt relayed how the rental car was sitting on the highway upside down and filled with rocks, the manager nearly went into convulsions.

While filling out an endless stack of insurance papers, Pitt glanced out the window and noticed that the Gulfstream jet was no longer parked on the tarmac.

“How long ago did our fellow jet depart?” he asked the manager.

“Oh, about an hour or two ago. His stay wasn’t much longer than yours.”

“I think I saw him in town. Kind of a burly guy in a brown suit?”

“Yes, that was the customer.”

“Mind if I ask where he was headed?”

“You two are both nosy. He asked who you were,” he said, picking up a clipboard and running his finger down a short list of aircraft arrivals and departures. Pitt casually leaned over the manager’s shoulder, catching the plane’s tail number, C-FTGI, which he committed to memory.

“While I can’t tell you who is aboard, I can tell you that the plane is bound for Vancouver, with a scheduled fuel stop in Regina, Saskatchewan.”

“They visit Elliot Lake often?”

“No, I can’t say I’ve seen that plane here before.” The manager tilted his head toward a small room in the corner of the terminal. “Why don’t you grab a cup of coffee in the lounge, and I’ll notify your flight crew that you are here.”

Pitt agreed and made his way to the lounge, where he poured a cup of coffee from a stained glass pot. A corner-mounted television was tuned to a Calgary rodeo, but Pitt stared past the bronco riders, toying with the scattered puzzle pieces of the last few days. His trip to the Miners Co-op had been made on a lark, yet his hunch had been right. Sourcing a supply of ruthenium was of global importance, and somebody else was in on the hunt. He thought back to the well-dressed man in the white sedan, John Booth. There was something familiar about the man, but Pitt knew no one in Vancouver who had the means to fly in a corporate jet.

The terminal manager popped into the lounge, refilling a large coffee cup as he spoke to Pitt.

“Your flight crew is on their way to your aircraft. I told them you would be right out.”

As he spoke, he ripped open a packet of sugar to pour into his coffee. The bag ripped completely in half, though, showering the carpeted floor in white granules.

“Jeez,” he groaned, tossing the empty packet aside. “Well, that will give the night janitor something to do,” he muttered, staring at the mess.