Janna Magnussen nodded as she considered it. Slaton was sure his request was not unusual. Bush pilots made their living flying people and supplies into places that couldn’t be reached any other way. Parts of Sweden were remote, islands and mountain lakes that might take a week to reach by more conventional means, some cut off completely in the winter. She walked toward the carcass of the dilapidated parts aircraft, bent down, and started working her wrench on the remaining float.

A woman with no time to waste, Slaton thought. That was good.

She said over her shoulder, “I charge fourteen hundred kronor per flight hour whether you’re on the aircraft or not. Bulleron is one hour north, so for two round trips…” she paused to calculate, “let’s say five thousand.”

Slaton converted to dollars and came up with approximately seven hundred. “Actually,” he said, “I may need more time. I want to do a visual survey when we get to the area, perhaps take a few pictures. Let’s plan for another hour tomorrow, two on Tuesday. The airplane seats four, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“I may need to bring a team member out on the return trip. Shall we call it seven hours?”

Now banging distractedly with a hammer, she said, “Eight thousand, then. Half up front.”

“Is cash all right?”

Janna Magnussen stopped what she was doing. She stood and stared at Slaton, her once-lively eyes stilled by suspicion. “Cash you say?”

Slaton stiffened noticeably. He’d carefully arranged his recent purchases in the outfitter’s shopping bag, now resting obviously on the ground by his knee. Magnussen came closer and her eyes slipped to the bag, or more succinctly, to what was in plain view on top—the red negligee held in a delicate shell of crimson tissue.

He sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m not really a geologist. I’m a—”

“A married man?” she suggested.

“Barely. I’ve arranged to meet someone I haven’t seen in a long time. Someone I care about very much.”

She eyed the bag. “Yes, I can see exactly how much you care. Tell me—how long have you been married?”

“Nine years. The first two were happy.”

She studied him for a long moment, and Slaton tried to look the part—no longer a man with a business proposition, but a caught-out philanderer. Janna Magnussen had the upper hand. Just as he’d planned.

“Join the club,” she finally said. “My bastard husband left me five years ago for a twenty-nine-year-old harpsichordist. But I got the last laugh.”

“How is that?”

She pointed to the rusted hulk behind her, an untidy skeleton of scrap metal that had once been a sleek seaplane. “I got her in the divorce settlement,” she said, a wisp of victory creasing her lips. “That was his airplane.”

*   *   *