Blindside - By Gj Moffat Page 0,47

series of white peaks looking like snow-covered mountains. It was a unique design for an airport. Logan remembered Cahill telling him a while back that the roof had partially collapsed under the weight of snow one year.

The big plane touched down and the pilot engaged reverse thrust. Logan felt himself slide forward on the leather of his seat. Cahill stirred and opened his eyes, blinking away the residual sleep.

‘We there yet?’ he asked, smiling.

Logan tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. He rubbed at his own eyes and felt the early morning start beginning to wear him down. His watch was still on UK time and it showed just after ten at night, totally at odds with the bright sunshine outside.

‘What’s the time difference?’ Logan asked Cahill.

‘Seven hours.’

Logan fiddled with his watch until he got it to three. He stretched and yawned as the plane slowed and turned towards the terminal.

‘Best way to beat the jet lag is to try to get acclimatised now. Stay awake as long as you can.’

Logan nodded, knew he was right. He also knew that he was going to struggle to make it much past dinner.

‘Trouble with this place,’ Cahill went on, ‘is you’ve got the altitude to adjust to as well. You’ll probably feel nauseous for a day or two till your body gets used to the thin air.’

‘Great.’

Cahill clapped a hand on his shoulder and unbuckled his seatbelt. The plane was still moving. Logan had a thing about keeping his belt fastened till the light went off. Cahill was not so much one for the rules. He stood and opened the overhead luggage space, drawing a look from one of the female stewards at the front of the cabin. He smiled at her sheepishly, a look Logan guessed he’d perfected over many years. The woman shook her head and smiled. The benefits of looking a bit like Bob Redford.

All his friends call him Bob.

They trooped off the plane and walked with the other passengers through a series of long corridors. Logan noticed a lot of Native American images on the walls and heard chanted music. He asked Cahill what it was about.

‘American guilt. Like all this makes up for everything that was done to the native population. You’ll see when we get into town that a lot of the streets are named after tribes as well. Champa, Arapahoe and the like.’

The arrivals hall was like any other place: everyone was tired and desperate to get to their end destination. Logan was glad that they had packed carry-on luggage only as they walked towards the immigration lines.

‘This is where we find out’, Cahill said, ‘if we are persons of interest.’ He made quotation marks in the air with his fingers.

‘Nice euphemism,’ Logan said.

‘You ready to be locked away in a room for several hours?’

‘Not really. Unless there’s a couch I can crash on.’

‘There will be a floor. Beyond that, who can say.’

‘Look forward to it.’

There were separate queues for US citizens and foreign nationals so Logan and Cahill split up and waited in line. Logan looked across at Cahill and saw that he would be at the desk before Cahill.

He stood nervously behind the white line, watching as a German family in front of him went through the process: the parents having their fingerprints scanned and recorded digitally. The young man behind the desk wore a navy blue uniform with Department of Homeland Security insignia and a sidearm in a belt holster. His shirt was tight on his muscular frame.

When the family was done, the officer waved Logan forward. Logan glanced quickly over at the US queue and saw that Cahill was third in line.

‘Afternoon, sir,’ the officer said as Logan handed over his passport.

The name badge pinned to his shirt read ‘Whitaker’.

He looked at the passport and up at Logan. ‘What brings you to Denver, sir?’

Unfailingly polite.

‘I’m here with a friend. He’s over here to see some family.’

Whitaker looked at the line of people behind Logan.

‘He’s an American citizen,’ Logan said. ‘He’s in that line.’

Whitaker nodded and tapped something on the keyboard in front of him. He looked at a monitor screen hidden from Logan’s view under the desk. After a moment he asked Logan to register his fingerprints on the digital scanner. Logan did what he was asked, noticing that the officer had kept hold of his passport. He tapped some more on the keyboard while Logan went through the fingerprint process.

When he was done, Logan looked over again