the old freighter had spent twenty years flying the world, carting everything from stolen Mercedes coupés, to Class A drugs.
Anyone could hire her if the money was right, and besides the naughty stuff the Ilyushin had dropped bags of food in earthquake zones, and made deliveries for the US military in Iraq. Over the years, the plane had worn the insignia of twenty different airlines, two national governments and the UN, but anyone smart enough to follow a paper trail of forged maintenance logs and dodgy holding companies would always have found that the real owners were the Aramov Clan.
Ryan had to block out the cheesy airport music as a low voice sounded through the invisible communication unit buried inside his left ear. ‘Has she moved?’
The voice belonged to CHERUB instructor Yosyp Kazakov, currently playing the role of Ryan’s dad.
Ryan looked up slightly, catching a woman in the corner of his eye. She was touching thirty, sat in a battered armchair, wearing a pilot’s uniform. A cap with the Globespan Delivery logo on a yellow band rested on the next seat.
‘Not yet,’ Ryan said, putting a hand across his mouth so that he didn’t look like some loony talking to himself. ‘Size of that latte she bought, she’s gotta need a piss soon.’
‘What’s she doing?’ Kazakov asked.
The pilot was reading a copy of USA Today. She’d made it through the paper itself and now studied a wodge of advertising pull-outs. Home Depot, Wal Mart, Target, Staples. Black Friday Special – 40-Inch Sony $399, Two-Part Air Con $800, Complete Harry Potter Blu-Ray $29.99.
‘She looks depressed,’ Ryan said.
Kazakov snorted with contempt. ‘It’s Thanksgiving. She wants to be home in Atlanta, watching NFL with hubby and the rug rats.’
Ryan felt a stab of guilt. What he was about to do was hopefully for the greater good. It might save thousands of lives, but this pilot was about to go through the most horrifying experience of hers.
‘You really have it in for the Americans,’ Ryan noted.
The voice that came back in Ryan’s ear was grudging. ‘You’ve got three brothers, Ryan. How would you feel if the Americans had sold a missile to a bunch of terrorists that killed one of them?’
Before Ryan could answer, he saw the pilot fold the crumpled newspaper and post it beneath her seat. As the woman stood, she tucked her cap under her armpit and grabbed the briefcase standing between her legs.
‘Showtime,’ Ryan mumbled.
He let the woman take a couple of steps before standing up himself. As he swung his pack over one shoulder, Ryan realised the woman was hurrying. Either late for something, or desperate to use the bathroom.
‘Shit,’ Ryan mumbled, knowing it’s much harder to follow someone in a rush.
‘Problem?’ Kazakov asked.
‘I can handle it,’ Ryan said quietly, as he tried to catch up without making it too obvious.
‘Try getting her in the corridor.’
‘I know,’ Ryan whispered irritably. ‘I can’t think with you babbling in my earhole.’
Although Manta wouldn’t handle a passenger flight for another six hours, there was still a newsagent and café open and a few other people in the lounge. There was a chance the pilot might freak out, so Ryan didn’t make his move until she’d walked into a deserted corridor, passed a speak-your-weight machine and was turning into the ladies’ toilet.
‘Excuse me,’ Ryan said loudly.
The pilot assumed Ryan was speaking to someone else, until he repeated the call and tapped the back of her blazer. She looked startled as she turned, then a little irritated.
‘Can I help you, son?’ she asked, sounding cocky.
‘I need you to listen carefully,’ Ryan said, keeping his voice flat as he pulled a large touchscreen phone out of his pocket. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’
The woman raised both hands and took a step back. Ryan’s olive complexion meant he could just about pass for a local.
‘No money,’ she said frostily as she swiped a finger across her throat. ‘It’s bad enough kids begging on the street. Clear off before I report you to security.’
Ryan switched on the phone and turned the screen to face the pilot.
‘Stay calm, don’t make a sound,’ Ryan said.
The pilot dropped the cap under her arm as she saw the picture on screen. It was her living-room. Her husband knelt in front of the couch, dressed only in pyjama bottoms. A hooded man stood behind, holding a large knife at his throat. On his left stood two small boys, dressed for bed. They looked scared and the older one had wet pyjama