“May I pour you a glass of champagne, Mr. Tirov?” the attendant asked.

“Yes, please.”

She poured champagne. “Your phone and Internet service are up and running, sir,” she said. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“What time is my scheduled massage?”

“About two hours after takeoff, sir. I will remind you fifteen minutes early, so that you will have time to get into your robe.”

“Very good. And may I have something to read?”

“Of course, we have a variety of magazines on board. What would you prefer?”

“Playboy?”

“Of course, sir.” She went to a compartment and retrieved the magazine. “It’s on your reading list. We’ll be taking off as soon as the other passengers are seated, about twenty-five minutes. Our arrival time in Los Angeles is seven PM Pacific time, and the time difference is eight hours. Would you like dinner?”

“Yes, thank you,” Tirov said.

She hung up his jacket. “Dinner will be served shortly after takeoff. Just buzz, if you think of anything else,” she said. She departed the suite, closing the door behind her.

Tirov got into his comfortable armchair, fastened his seat belt, and opened his magazine. Half an hour later, the gigantic airplane began to move, and shortly it rumbled down the runway and into the air. Ten minutes later, his dinner was served and a coffee poured for him. His tray was then collected, and he settled in for the flight. They were already at cruising altitude.

—

Tirov had expected to spend most of the trip taking phone calls and responding to e-mails, but none of either was received. He inquired of the flight attendant if his services were in working order and was told they were. He was unaccustomed to that silence. Soon, he undressed and lay down for a nap.

He was awakened for his hour’s massage, then fell asleep again. He didn’t wake until the flight attendant rang and informed him that landing was an hour away. He showered and changed his clothes and relaxed until the aircraft was docked at the gate. Another cart awaited him and drove him to immigration. He had a Global Entry card and a Known Traveler Number, so he checked in at a kiosk. Unusually, he was directed to entry lane number 10. Ordinarily, he did not have to speak to an immigration officer or clear customs.

He presented his passport to the officer in the booth, who consulted his computer. “Ah, yes, Mr. Tirov,” the man said. “Welcome back to the United States. We’ve been expecting you.”

Expecting him? No one had ever said that to him before. “Thank you,” he said, pleased.

The officer tucked a blank red card into his passport and returned it to him. “Please give this to the uniformed officer just there.” He nodded toward a large man in a uniform.

Tirov approached the man and handed him the passport and card.