Addis drove by the reinforced barricade at the rear of the parking area. Armed units were still patrolling the perimeter of the White House grounds. As Addis sat at a traffic light on Connecticut Avenue and gazed at a mobile soup kitchen, he noted to himself that in an hour he was going to see Holly Rudd for the first time in four years. Since she had moved to Washington, the two had not spoken. In this small, claustrophobic city, their paths had not intersected. But, then, he had not enjoyed much of a regular life. The White House had been all consuming. There had been the occasional dinner party in Georgetown, and a short affair with a famous fashion model. But he spent little time outside the White House bubble. And it had taken the assassination to prompt her to contact him.

The light changed, and a horn blared behind him. He shifted into first gear. Through the side window, he saw a homeless man take a sandwich and hurl it into the rush of cars heading out of the city.

22 - Flight 847 June 27

22

Flight 847 June 27

She smells too damn good.

As the 767 fought against the jet stream, Holly Rudd slept, her head resting on Addis’s shoulder. Whenever she was a passenger in a moving vehicle she lost consciousness. Train, bus, car, airplane—give her a humming, mechanical drone and swaying motion, and she could not resist. Yet in bed at night, she had tossed, she had pushed, she had kicked. In the old days, after they made love, Addis would roll to the far side of the bed to avoid the writhing to come.

On the crowded airplane, as she dozed peacefully, he went over their dinner the night before. She had arrived at Havana Village, had kissed him quickly on the cheek—a glancing kiss—and had sat down at the table. She looked good. Her brown, almost black wavy hair, shoulder-length, was longer than he had ever seen it. Her eyelashes so fine, her dark eyes like dots on a round, smooth face. From what he could tell, she was still muscular and trim.

“How are—”

“Fine,” he said.

“It’s so—”

“I know.”

He asked about her job and her family. She supplied the basics about the firm and her parents and sister.

Four years, how do you cover four years?

The waiter, one of the owner’s sons, brought them beer and took their orders.

“What can I do for you, Nick?” she asked. “You said you needed something.”

The prelims are over, he thought. He sipped his beer and hesitated in replying.

“You said you need a favor.”

Was that reluctance in her voice, or was the whole damn thing too strange? Shit, here goes.

Addis told her that he had to travel to New Orleans on confidential business. He did not want to have to explain his travel to any curious parties—in the press or elsewhere.