I wonder if you could help us,” Klay said to the woman at Delta’s business-class ticket counter. She was glancing from her screen to Klay’s passport, clicking computer keys. Klay had used his miles to upgrade to business. Tenchant was in economy.

“My friend has never flown overseas before,” Klay said and began making a case for upgrading Tenchant. Midway through he realized how weak his arguments sounded. “He is an organ donor.” Klay smiled weakly.

She glanced at Tenchant in his new Patagonia jacket and returned Klay’s passport. “I’m sorry,” she said, in that way.

“It’s okay,” Tenchant said, handing her his passport. He pushed up his sleeves, flashing his Japanese tattoos, and placed his hand on Klay’s shoulder. “We’re taking my father to the impotency clinic in Johannesburg,” he said. “He doesn’t really like to talk about it.” He turned to Klay, “It’s okay, Dad.”

She glanced at her screen and then back at Tenchant. The corners of her mouth quivered. Smiling, she clicked more keys and handed over their boarding passes.

“Thank you,” Klay said.

“Don’t thank me. He has almost as many miles as you.” She winked at Tenchant. “You should get to know your son better.”

Klay turned to him, surprised. Tenchant shrugged. “Visiting Maggie’s mom.”

•   •   •

Would you care for champagne, sparkling water, juice?” their flight attendant asked.

“I’ll have a bourbon manhattan on the rocks,” Tenchant said.

Klay had orange juice. Ever since Jakarta he took care where and when he drank. At home. Eady’s office. The Gray Pigeon. Places where accidents didn’t happen.

With regard to their assignment, Klay had shared only what Tenchant needed to know: They were embedding with a criminal investigation underway in South Africa. The goal was to tell the story from the inside. The prosecutor’s name was Hungry Khoza. “An old friend,” Klay said. “Her target is Ras Botha.”

“An old enemy,” Tenchant said.

“Yes.”

“Can she get him on the Kenya murders?”

“Maybe,” Klay said, and closed his eyes.

Tenchant was on his third manhattan when Klay felt a tug on his sleeve.

“I never said it, but sorry for that grapefruit thing.”

“What grapefruit thing?” Klay said.

“Tanzania.”

“The albino story?” Klay shook his head. “Wasn’t your fault. That’s just the editing process, Porfle-style,” he added.

“As it turns out, I do bear some responsibility.”

“It happens,” Klay said, trying to brush Tenchant off.

“How’d it start, anyway?” Tenchant asked.

“What?”

“The grapefruit thing.”