Jack opened the seal, pulled the pages out far enough to leaf through them, and nudged them back. He glanced at the rearview for a glimpse of the driver, who appeared about as interested in him as a contractor would be in watching paint dry. Jack plied a French accent to match the name and passport. He said, “You have done this chauffeur for much time?”

The driver’s focus stayed on the road.

“’Bout six years now.”

“Is good work?”

“Pays the bills. Helps put my sons through college.”

“Toledo College?”

The driver looked up briefly. Spontaneous parental pride oozed from every part of him in a way even Clare, the mynah bird of human emotions, couldn’t mimic.

“Stanford,” he said. “Cornell.”

Jack said, “The father is very proud, yes?”

“Proud as hell. Boys worked hard. Earned it.”

The guy was authentic.

That didn’t rule him out as an operative, but most of the cards stacked the other way. Odds of a Russian cleanup crew coming in from behind weren’t zero, but United States intelligence building a trail forward from here was likelier. Jack didn’t trust either, but any warning realistic enough to be taken seriously carried an equal risk of causing erratic behavior, which would draw enough attention to become a self-fulfilling prophecy. It was a shit position to be in, made worse because those who pursued him likely knew and would use the weakness against him.

Jack said, “This small airport, you do much work here?”

The driver said, “Mostly Toledo Express. Sometimes Detroit.”

Jack nudged the envelope into the driver’s field of vision. “And this courier for documents, this is regular thing?”

The driver dipped the blinker, changed lanes. “See ’em a couple times a month, though I can’t say I’ve ever had a plain envelope handed through a window like that.”

“But is the same company to bring this, yes?”

The driver checked the mirror, met Jack’s gaze.

He was slow to answer. “Just an old, beat-down guy in an old gray Buick,” he said. “Asked if I was waiting on you, said he’d been paid to courier a package, handed me that, and said to give it when you got in.”

Jack held eye contact, said nothing.

These questions weren’t for him—he already knew the answers.

He let time do the explaining, and said, “I am sorry, my friend. We must change destination to Cleveland.”

The driver’s fingers tapped along the steering wheel.

He checked the mirrors, and adjusted the temperature. They were the motions of a man who, realizing he was heading into uncharted territory, was buying time.

This was good.

The driver said, “Cleveland is an extra hour in the opposite direction. I’ll need to call in to dispatch, make sure the vehicle has that kind of availability.”