Lance stood at the end of the selected runway, holding his arms straight above his head, the airport lineman’s signal for “park here.” The Cessna circled once, then set down on the correct runway, slowing, then taxiing toward him. It stopped, but the engine kept running.

Lance unstrapped a salesman’s catalogue case from the rear rack of the BMW, opened a door, and placed the case on the rear seat, securing it with the passenger seat belt. He looked over the rear seat at the luggage compartment; his bags were already aboard. He got into the airplane, closed the door behind him, and fastened his seat belt.

“Beautiful bike,” the pilot said. He rubbed the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand together, the ancient code. Lance took a stack of fifty-pound notes from an inside pocket and handed it to him. The pilot did a quick count, tucked the notes into a pocket, and grinned. “Where to, old sport?”

“That way,” Lance said, pointing south. “I’ll direct you.”

“Any particular altitude?”

“Ten.”

“Ten thousand?”

“Ten feet; fifteen, if ten makes you nervous.”

“We’ll attract attention that low, and besides, there are a lot of trees between here and the Channel. I’d suggest a thousand feet.”

Lance reached forward and switched off the transponder. “Good; when you get to the Channel, descend to minimum altitude, and fly a heading of one eight zero.”

“Below the radar? I could get into trouble.”

Lance held up the keys of the motorcycle. “You like the BMW?”

The pilot pocketed the keys, lined up on the runway, and pushed the throttle to the firewall. Two minutes later, they were at a thousand feet. “How far we going?” he asked. “Will I need to refuel?”

“Less than two hundred miles,” Lance replied. “If you topped off as requested, you’ll have fuel for there and back.”

The pilot nodded. After a few minutes he pointed to a blinking light. “Lighthouse,” he said, and started a descent.

“Careful you don’t bump into any shipping,” Lance said.

“A hundred feet will keep us below the radar and above anything but the QE2,” the pilot said. “What line of work are you in?”

“I’m a salesman,” Lance replied.

“What do you sell?”

“Whatever’s in demand.”

They flew on in silence, at one point steering around a big tanker plowing up the Channel, then the shore lights of Normandy came into view.

“Come right to one niner five degrees,” Lance said. He reached forward and turned a knob on the Global Positioning Unit in the panel, selected “create user waypoint,” and entered some coordinates. “Climb back to a thousand feet,” he said.