An orderly put Mollie in a wheelchair, wiped her face, and wheeled her out of the way while others started the tricky task of disinfecting the whole damn waiting room. The cop knelt beside her chair. He ran a hand through his hair. “Did I just hear something about bite marks?”

Three gold bracelets and a Krugerrand had gotten them past the guard at a back gate. They were in an area with hangars and warehouses and relatively far from the activity going on closer to the terminal and the main runways. Franny hoped they would be overlooked.

He also had a feeling chartering a plane to get them back to the States was going to cost a hell of a lot more than the baubles he’d traded. That’s why he’d parked next to a hangar and was making a careful inspection of the contents of the satchel. In addition to the stack of passports and the bundle of cassette tapes there was a heavy emerald and gold necklace, a diamond and pearl choker—he found himself wondering how Abby would look in the choker and nothing else—a tangle of diamond tennis bracelets. There were rings with multi-carat gemstones. A velvet pouch held an array of loose gems. They threw prismatic fire in the sunlight.

“I wore that … at an embassy ball.” Her voice was harsh. Franny realized he was still clutching the pearl and diamond choker. “I was beautiful. He thought so. Thirsty,” Baba Yaga finished and she sounded old and scared.

“I’ll try to find you some water. I’ve gotta leave you for a while. Look for a pilot and plane. Will you be okay?”

Her response was mumbled and the words seemed garbled. Franny had to take it for assent. He put the pouch of gems in one pocket and the emerald necklace in the other, secured the pistol in the small of his back, and headed out.

Many of the hangar doors were closed. He spotted one with the doors open. A woman sat on a bench out front smoking a cigarette. As he drew closer he saw she was younger than he’d first thought, and attractive in a leggy, outdoorsy sort of way. Long brown hair was secured in a ponytail and she had a tattoo of teardrops that began at the side of her left eye and down onto her cheek. He smiled and walked forward.

“Hi, you speak English?”

“A little.” She held up her thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart. She had an accent he couldn’t identify.

“Is that your plane?” He nodded toward the plane in the hangar. It was a dull white and stained in places. It also didn’t look like it could cross the Atlantic, but maybe it could get them to a city with an airport that was open.

“Yes.”

“Could I charter it?” The woman frowned. “Hire it. Have you fly me somewhere.” He made a swooping gesture toward the sky.

“Sure. Yeah.”