Chapter 25

TWENTY-FIVE

The aura of goodwill that had developed in the cockpit was gone as the seaplane made its final approach to landing. Slaton instructed Magnussen to skim the coastline at low altitude, and after ten minutes he saw an acceptable entry point, a remote cove with no apparent civilization for miles in any direction.

She brought the Cessna to another soft landing, and as soon as the craft settled she began steering toward the darkening German shore. Janna Magnussen, crisis counselor and pilot, looked predictably tense as the shoreline came near.

When she killed the engine Slaton reached into a pocket. His hand came out with the remainder of their agreed upon fee.

Once she’d taken it, he said, “Turn away.”

“What?”

“Your face—turn away.”

Magnussen gave him a cautious look, but complied, turning toward the opposite window.

Slaton pulled the .22 from his pocket, angled it carefully, and fired his last remaining round. The radio panel exploded.

Magnussen jumped involuntarily. She turned back and saw what he’d done.

“You bastard! You shot my airplane!”

“Only the radios—the rest still works. How much does a new communications panel cost?”

Still shaken, she took a moment to answer. “In dollars? Maybe two thousand.”

“Okay. I’ll add that in. Twenty-two thousand. Give me a few hour’s head start, and you’ll have the check by the end of next week.”

She gave him a sharp stare. “How will you know if I’ve earned it? If I waited?”

He only smiled, and said, “Thanks for your help.” Slaton opened the door and stepped onto the float. After a hesitation, however, he turned back. “Janna—you saw the sailboat, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And you saw that it was heading north.”

No answer.

“There was a woman on that boat. She’s being sought by the police. There are other people looking for her as well, people who might do her harm. I can tell you that she’s done nothing wrong—other than getting involved with me. But there is one thing I told you that wasn’t truthful.” Slaton met her blue aviatrix’s eyes. “The woman on that boat is not my mistress. She’s my wife. And I love her more than you could ever know.”

Magnussen stared at him, and then shifted to her shattered instrument panel. A curiously amused expression came to her face. “Where were you when I was twenty?”

Slaton grinned, then eased the door closed.

Five minutes later he was standing on Continental Europe and watching the little seaplane skim into the sky one last time. He did not wait until it disappeared. Slaton placed his backpack on a large rock and took inventory. A GPS navigation device, a .22 Beretta with no rounds remaining, field glasses, and one energy bar—he had insisted Christine take the others. Thirty-nine U.S. dollars remained in his wallet.