Sakura Nishimoto stood by the window of the small first-class lounge. She had a view of the 787 that would take her and her fellow passengers to Bali; the airbridge was being hustled into place so that boarding could begin. She thought of the man who had helped with her suitcase and realised, with a wry smile of self-awareness, that he had made an impression on her. They had barely shared a word, yet there was something about him that she’d found calming. He had a presence—a competence—that had been reassuring. And she needed reassurance. She was anxious, just as she had been the last time she had been here to meet the Gülenist mercenaries, and the time before that. She wondered whether she would see him again.

She was tired, and, as she looked at her reflection in the glass, she saw the fatigue on her face. It had been a long night with not nearly enough sleep. She had arrived in Istanbul yesterday evening and had been driven out to Silivri, a town to the west of the city. She had met her usual contact and had spent an hour preparing herself for today’s journey. It was the usual unpleasant and demeaning experience, but she had no choice but to do what she had been told, just as she had done all the times before.

“Sakura?”

She turned.

“Oh my God—Sakura, it is you!”

A flight attendant dressed in the distinctive brightly coloured pastel uniform of Garuda Indonesia was walking toward her with a broad smile.

Sakura found a smile. “Amber?”

The woman’s smile grew even broader as she reached Sakura. The two hugged, air-kissed, and then hugged again.

Amber took a step back, leaving her hands on Sakura’s shoulders. “You look fantastic.”

“You too. You’re flying for Garuda now?”

“They offered me a better job.”

Sakura glanced at the badge that Amber wore on her lapel. “Head Purser. My goodness.”

“I know. Going up in the world.”

“I’ll say. When did that happen?”

“Months ago. How long has it been since I saw you?”

Sakura frowned, trying to remember. “Six months. Might be a bit more.”

“Nearer a year,” Amber corrected. “We were crewing the flight down to Brisbane—do you remember?”

“I do,” Sakura said, although she wasn’t sure that she did.

“We had the worst turbulence ever. We’d just served dinner. The cabin was like landfill by the time we got out of it.” Amber grinned at the memory. “Time flies. What are you doing now?”

“I’m still in Tokyo,” Sakura said.

“Really? With your husband?”

“That’s right,” she said.

“And how’s your son? He must be, what, five?”

Sakura’s smile faltered. “Yes.”

“What’s his name? I know I should remember, but—”

“Yamato,” Sakura cut over her. “He’s in England. With his aunt.”

“And he’s doing okay?”