Traffic thinned a bit after they passed Atlantic Avenue. The ride through Jamaica was quick. The driver pulled up in front of the concrete-and-glass front of Terminal Four. Stern grabbed his carry-on bag, threw a couple of twenties over the seat, and hopped out. The driver didn’t bother to thank him for the two-dollar tip.

An hour later, Stern was sitting in Varig’s First Class Lounge, enjoying a reasonably good Scotch before boarding the flight. He relaxed. Brazil would be nice this time of year. It was late summer and the girls on the beach would be wearing very little. With the money he had stashed away in offshore accounts around the world, life on the beach could be very comfortable. The take had been nothing like what he could have made if the OptiMarx scheme had not blown up in his face, but he would still be comfortable. There was also the matter of the considerable debt he had amassed with some very bad people. He was skipping out on that. Too bad. If he covered his tracks properly, that little entanglement would eventually be forgotten as well.

The pretty young waitress brought Stern another Scotch. She smiled as she told him it was time for him to board his flight. He made his way down the ramp to the first-class boarding gate, through the passport security check. He tried to look nonchalant while his papers were checked, but he held his breath anyway. The officer smiled, wished him a nice trip, and waved him on. He eased down into the luxurious, heavily padded seat that would be his for the next eleven hours.

The stewardess offered him another glass of Scotch. He leaned back and allowed himself to breathe normally. It was over. He was on board. He had passed through screening with no trouble.

Maybe Stan Miller had exaggerated the danger. Maybe they weren’t onto him yet. Still, it was prudent to leave, to go south, where he could start a new life with the fortune he had tucked away.

He sipped his drink as he watched the beautiful stewardess work her way down the aisle. One of the perks of flying the Brazilian national airlines was that they had not succumbed to the political correctness of American carriers. The stewardesses in first class were all quite lovely, very accommodating. It promised to be a comfortable flight. If he played his cards right, he might even have a beautiful dinner companion on his first evening in Rio.

The big triple-seven aircraft lumbered away from the gate and out toward the tarmac as Stern finished his latest drink. The stewardess replaced it at once without even asking. Her smile was dazzling.

He searched the flight entertainment system, looking for some restful music. As he adjusted the headphones and the pillow behind his head, he heard the pilot make some sort of announcement, something about having to return to the gate.