They’d struck a course of south by southwest, and the little Cessna plowed obediently at a steady one hundred knots. Janna Magnussen was equally steady. Two hours removed from Stockholm, the tension had dissipated. Their conversation had turned almost casual, as if the dynamics of their relationship had never been skewed by a hijacking. The gun was back in Slaton’s right pocket, but both knew it was readily presentable. They began by discussing Magnussen: her upbringing near Oxelösund, her sister, even her failed marriage. Then, in a clear breach of professional standards, Slaton found himself contributing to the conversation. He gave a candid account of his own childhood in Sweden. Keeping light on detail, he reflected on schoolyard memories—pranks conspired with long-forgotten friends, sporting matches gloriously won or comically lost.

To be drawn into such an exchange, even intrigued by it, was a long-lost response for Slaton, yet a proficiency that had been restored during his months in Virginia. There he had begun to strike up conversations with waitresses, pizza delivery kids, and concrete truck drivers, regaining the everyday skill of talking to a stranger without sizing them up for fighting ability, without filtering every word for deceit or logging character flaws fit for blackmail. To simply sit and talk was a long-forgotten pleasure, and something Christine had given him back.

Magnussen said, “I took up flying ten years ago when I retired from my civil service job. After twenty-one years in the same building I had an irresistible urge to be outside. There’s nothing as liberating as flying.”

“I can understand that.”

“It’s not much of a business, mind you. Most years I break even, maybe clear enough for a few weeks in Spain during the holidays.”

“And that’s all you need?”

She thought about it. “Yes, I suppose it is. Last year I had a chance to buy out a competitor in Malmö at an excellent price. I would have gotten four airplanes, six pilots, and a backlog of contracts.”

“And all the headaches that go with it?”

“Exactly. It was the second easiest decision I ever made.”

Slaton took the bait. “And the first?”

“Leaving my bastard husband, of course.”

He smiled.

“And you?” she asked.

“What about me?”

“Do you really have a wife?”

Slaton looked ahead. The brooding contour of Germany was rising out of the sea, low hills strung along the coastline, unseen rivers knuckling through valleys. This was their destination, and the sight had a sobering effect on his disposition.

When he didn’t answer, she said, “You wear a ring. If you’re having troubles perhaps we could talk about it. It can be very helpful to—”

“Janna,” he interrupted. “You said you were civil service, right?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of work did you do?”

She looked out the front window. “I was a crisis counselor for the National Board of Health and Welfare.”

He couldn’t help himself. Slaton began to laugh.