Archive of Our Own

“Morning, Douglas!”

Arthur’s manic grin made Douglas wince. No one should have to face that without a strong cup of tea. “I believe technically it is, although someone should mention that to the sun.”

“I know, isn’t it brilliant? We’ll get to see the sunrise and everything.”

“Be sure not to wake me.”

“Oh, don’t worry, we’ll be at the airfield by then.”

The dark mass of Carolyn’s Lexus idled outside his front door.

“Come on, come on,” she said, every pore of her body radiating impatience. “We’re going to be late.”

“Morning, Carolyn. Martin. Remind me again why I’m up at this ungodly hour?”

“Two lovely men are paying us double our usual rate to fly them to the Cayman Islands.”

“At four in the morning?”

“We have to pick them up in Paris by six.”

“Gosh,” Douglas drawled. “In a hurry to leave, are they?”

“They’re paying us in cash. I didn’t think to ask.”

“No,” he remarked, “I don’t suppose you would.”

“But Carolyn,” Martin piped up, “don’t you think it’s a bit suspicious, with the cash and all?”

“Of course it’s suspicious! Why do you think they’re hiring us? No one else will fly them down there at a moment’s notice.”

“Ooh!” said Arthur, “Maybe they’re spies or something, running for their lives.”

“— on the mean streets of Paris?” Douglas said.

Arthur pouted.

“Well I don’t want any part of it,” Martin said. “I’m not going to prison just so you can provide convicts with a getaway plane.”

Carolyn held up a hand to silence him. “Not convicts, Martin — paying customers. Who we have no reason to believe are in the least bit criminally inclined.” Under her breath she added, “Except that they want to leave at six in the morning, are paying us twice our normal rate, in cash, and are clearly using fake names.”

“Ooh! Fake names! Like spies?” said Arthur.

“Well, just the one who made the booking. He only gave me one name.”

“Like Madonna?”

“No, not Madonna.”

“No, I meant one name like a rock star. Perhaps he’s a rock star! We’ve never had one of those. That’d be brilliant!”

“No dear, I don’t think he’s a rock star. He said his name was Eames.”

“Ah,” Douglas said, “so we’re taking one spy and a chair to the Cayman Islands, with not a moment to lose.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Ignore him, Arthur,” Martin said.

“Perhaps if we’re lucky, the chair will tip.”

“Now I really don’t get it.”

“Bonjour Paris, this is Gulf Tango India, requesting clearance to land.”

“Roger Gulf Tango India, cleared to land on runway two and then proceed to hangar seven.”

“Roger Paris. Gulf Tango India to land on runway two and proceed to hangar seven. Merci.”

“You don’t have to show off your French, Douglas.”

“Oh, I’d have thought you’d have felt right at home, what with your time in the French foreign legion.”

“Shut up. That wasn’t funny.”

“Perhaps I should let you be the one to talk to tower?”

Martin didn’t reply, just sat there fuming.

“Hm. I thought not,” Douglas said. “Carolyn?”

“Yes?” she said, poking her head through the door.

“Why do we have a hangar? Seems like it’d be early enough to get a slot for a gate.”

“Request from the clients. Our not-in-the-least-bit-suspicious customers didn’t want to use the main departure area.”

“Ooh, outgoing types. Can’t wait to meet them. I wonder if they know Hester Macaulay?”

“I don’t like this, Carolyn,” Martin snapped.

“Frankly, I don’t care what you like,” she said. “When it’s your plane, you can decide who rides on it.”

“And … post-landing checks complete,” Douglas said, and unbuckled his seatbelt.

“Thank you, Douglas.”

“Hello, Skip. Mum wants to know if we’re all ready to go to the Caribbean.”

“Arthur, we only just got here. But yes, I filed the flight plan with Paris before we left Fitton. We can leave as soon as they get here.”

“Good, because she doesn’t want to keep them waiting or anything, on account of how generous they are.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s the only reason,” Martin muttered. “Nothing at all to do with the likelihood that they’ll gun us down if we’re running behind schedule.”

“Knowing Carolyn, I’m sure the money is her only reason. Besides, I think you’re being a bit harsh. They could be perfectly nice people.”

“You’re just hoping for a big tip.”

“Nothing wrong with generous clients. Maybe you’ll have better luck with them than you do with Mr. Birling. Oh, wait. You and luck have such a tempestuous relationship. Ah, well.”

“I’ll show you, Douglas. I’ll get along with them, even if they’re criminals.”

Carolyn opened the door to the flight deck just as the word left his mouth. “If anyone uses the word ‘criminal’ in the next twenty-four hours, I shall cut out their tongue and hack it into tiny pieces. These are paying customers. Well-paying customers.”

“And are they here yet?” Douglas asked.

Carolyn frowned out into the early-morning half-light. “No, and if they don’t get here soon, we’re going to be late.”

“How do they know where ‘here’ is? Normally you’d pick them up,” said Martin.

“They said they’d drive themselves. I just sent them a message telling them which hangar.”

Martin checked his watch. “Well, they’re cutting it close, but it’s their schedule, not ours. Arthur?”

He hurried up the aisle and poked his head inside. “Yes, Skip?”

“Could I get some coffee, please?”

“Sure, no problem. Tea, Douglas?”

As he said it, a set of headlights headed towards the hangar down the service road, driving far too fast for airport regulations. It was still dim enough outside that they were unable to see the car until it was almost on them: a shiny, jet-black Jaguar.

It headed straight for the plane, too fast to stop, and the four of them stared in terror through the small windows of the cockpit. Arthur pointed at it and started repeating “um” over and over, as if no one else had noticed that a car was headed straight towards them.

At the last moment, it dodged left, executed a perfect skidded turn, and pulled up parallel with the plane.

“Wow,” Arthur said, stretching the word out over several seconds. “Did you see that?”

The rest of the crew were too busy remembering to breathe to answer him.

“That was brilliant!”

“Oh, do shut up,” Carolyn said, her capacity for speech having returned. “I suppose those are our clients.”

“They’ve got to be spies. They have the car and everything.”

“No, Arthur, I believe you’re thinking of an Aston —”

“Don’t encourage him, Martin,” Douglas interrupted.

“All right, Arthur, enough about spies,” Carolyn said. “Go and put the kettle on while I meet these two.” She opened the hatch and overheard a tense conversation as the two men took their luggage out of the car.

“Where’s Saito’s jet?” said the man wearing an immaculately tailored suit.

“In Fiji, with Saito.”

“So you mean this —”

Carolyn could see where the conversation was heading and chimed in with, “Good morning, gentlemen. I’m Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, owner of MJN Air. I trust you had no problems finding us?” before anyone could gravely insult GERTI.

He gave the plane an appraising glance and glared at his companion, but said nothing.

“Hello,” the other one said. “No problems at all. I’m Eames. I spoke with you on the phone.”

“Ah, yes. Lovely to meet you.”

“And this is Arthur.”

“Arthur …?” she said, expecting a last name.

“Just Arthur is fine.” His American accent sounded out of place.

“He’s not a morning person,” Eames said, as if this was a valid explanation.

“Right. So, this is all your luggage?” Two small suitcases and a garment bag sat next to the Jag, and ‘Arthur Just Arthur’ had a death grip on a metal briefcase.

Eames nodded.

“Arthur!” she bellowed.

Arthur, who’d been peering out from just inside the plane door, burst forth with a “Yes, Mum?”

“Arthur, get their bags. Gentlemen, this is Arthur, your steward.”

“Hello,” he said with a little wave.

Carolyn cringed, knowing even before she said it that this was a bad idea, but there was no way around it. “Arthur, this is Arthur and Eames.”

“Wow! You’re an Arthur too? That’s brilliant!”

Arthur Just Arthur didn’t seem to think it was brilliant. He gave him a tight smile.

“Nice to meet you,” Eames said and shook his hand, looking vaguely amused.

“Hello,” said Arthur Just Arthur.

“Oh! You’re American! Well, that makes it much easier.”

“Makes what easier?” he said, and looked uneasily at Eames. Eames shrugged.

“Well, you’re an American Arthur. Which is good, because we won’t get mixed up about which one of us is which. I’m an English Arthur. And Australian. I’m half Australian.” He said this last part in his best Australian accent, which was horrible.

“Eames,” American Arthur said, warningly. The look of death he gave him would have killed a lesser man.

Carolyn recognized that look; it was a look Arthur often inspired. “Arthur. Code Red.”

“Yes, Mum.” He looked at the metal case, wondering if he should take that as well, but American Arthur’s fingers tightened around it. He grabbed the other luggage and beat a hasty retreat up the stairs.

“I’m so sorry. He can be a little much. Why don’t you come inside?”

Eames locked the car with a ‘beep’ that echoed throughout the hangar, and they headed up the stairs.

As she passed the flight deck, Carolyn heard Arthur whispering excitedly to Martin and Douglas, something about spies, bombs, and different types of Arthurs. She hissed at him to be quiet, hoping he’d shut up before their clients could hear him.

They didn’t look impressed with GERTI’s interior, but she remembered how much they were paying her and smiled anyway. At least neither of them had called her ‘babushka.’ “Have a seat anywhere you’d like.”

Arthur took a spot near the rear of the plane next to the window and set the metal briefcase down in seat next to him. Eames looked mildly affronted and took the window seat on the opposite side.

“I have work to do,” Arthur said, shrugging, “and there’s no point in us being smashed together like sardines.”

Carolyn sniffed at the remark but didn’t say anything. “If I can just put this in the overhead bin for you ….” She reached for the case and he immediately clamped his hand down on top of it.

“It needs to stay here.”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to stow all your luggage for takeoff,” she said, her voice hard steel wrapped in a paper-thin veneer of politeness.

“It’s not luggage, it’s delicate medical equipment, and I don’t want it rattling around up there,” Arthur answered, slowly and deliberately.

“Ah.”

“Why don’t we call it a passenger?” Eames said amiably. “Make it wear a seatbelt. We did hire the whole plane.”

Eames went up a few notches in her estimation; the man knew how to negotiate. “Do I have to serve it lunch?” she said.

“No, it doesn’t eat much. I think it can go without.”

“Then by all means. Just make sure it listens to the safety briefing.” Smiling, she released her grip on it. Now if you’ll just relax, we’ll be underway as soon as we get clearance from the tower.”

Carolyn pushed her way into the cockpit and closed the door behind her, earning a “Mum!” from Arthur, who got shoved unceremoniously against Martin’s seat in her effort to fit four people into the flight deck at once.

“Well,” she said, “I don’t know what we’ve got ourselves into, but it’d better be worth the money. That Eames one isn’t bad, but the other Arthur looks like he wants everyone dead.”

“And he has a bomb,” said Arthur, helpfully.

“No dear, I really don’t think he —”

“Yes, he does. It’s in the metal case.”

“Arthur has been filling us in on the details of our passengers from the intelligence community,” Douglas said. “Including their mysterious briefcase. I suppose that’s one of the perks of being a charter firm — the opportunity to transport spies and bombs halfway across the globe.”

“We need to inspect it, Carolyn. If it’s a bomb, we have to abort the flight.”

“Settle down, Martin. They don’t look suicidal. Homicidal, perhaps. If it is a bomb, I think they have other targets in mind. Besides, he said it was delicate medical equipment. That’s why he doesn’t want it stowed.”

“But I’ve seen the Bond films, Mum. They’re always in cases like that.”

“I am not traveling with a bomb on board, Carolyn. I’m putting my foot down.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Since when is Arthur an authority on explosives? Martin, you should know better.”

“I won’t take that risk. We have to make sure.”

“I’ll do it, Mum,” Arthur said, and pushed past her out of the flight deck.

“Oh, for the love of —” Carolyn started, about to chase him down, but Martin interrupted her.

“It’s okay, Carolyn. This way we’ll find out what it really is.”

“And risk losing our clients because my idiot son implies they’re carrying explosives on our plane?” She took off after Arthur, but she heard the damage being done before she could get to him.

“Um, hello chaps. Skip was wondering if he could see your bomb?”

“Our … what?” Eames said.

“Your bomb. The thing in the briefcase. Because you’re spies, and things in silver briefcases are always bombs, and you won’t let Mum put it away, and Skip won’t let us fly with a bomb on board, even if Mum says you probably won’t use it on us.”

Eames’ eyebrows rose high and his mouth opened like he was about to say something, or laugh, but couldn’t decide which one.

Arthur, the suit-wearing Arthur with the bomb next to him, scowled.

Carolyn ran up the aisle behind him. “Arthur! Do shut up. Go and see if Douglas needs anything.” She turned to them and said, “I really must apologize for him.” As soon as he was out of earshot she whispered, “Is there any chance of it going off accidentally? Because I don’t mind if you have one, only if it’ll blow us up.”

“It’s not a bomb!” Arthur said, looking like he wanted to strangle her. “Look.” He clicked open the case to reveal spools of plastic tubing, complicated metal parts, LED timers, and a big button in the middle.

It wasn’t exactly reassuring.

“Ah. Well. Just do me a favor and make sure Martin doesn’t see it, or I’ll never get him to shut up.”

“Martin?” said Eames.

“The captain. He’s the one with the silly hat who doesn’t look old enough to drive.”

“That’s reassuring,” Arthur muttered.

“He showed it to me and it’s not a bomb. Now, can we please get going?” Carolyn said, with more than a little exasperation in her voice.

“What was it, Mum? Are you sure it wasn’t a bomb? Perhaps I should have a look. I’ve seen lots more films than you have.”

“No,” Martin said, “I’m the commander of this vessel, and I should be the one to determine whether or not there is a bomb aboard this aircraft.”

“Will everyone please stop saying bomb? It’s not a bomb. It’s a bit of machinery with a lot of plastic tubes. It’s not like any bomb I’ve ever seen.” She wasn’t about to mention the LED timers or the big button in the middle. “Now if we’re not on the runway in the next five minutes, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

“We had a bomb scare once, on Air England, right after the whole ‘shoe bomber’ thing, but it turned out this man’s shoes were different heights because one of his legs was shorter than the other. An overzealous passenger tackled him on the way to the loo. Tore his shoe apart, sure it was going to explode.”

“Yes, thank you Douglas,” Martin snapped. “Very informative as always.” He paused for a second and looked over at Arthur. “Did you check their shoes?”

“No, Skip, but I could!”

Carolyn grabbed his arm before he could dart off again. “No one is checking anything. We’re leaving this airport and we’re leaving it now. Martin, not another word about bombs. Douglas, do —” she waved her hand, “— whatever it is I pay you to do and get us out of here.”

“Did you already do the safety briefing?” Martin asked.

Carolyn groaned.

“I’ll do it, Mum!”

“Arthur, sit down. Martin, get us in the air. I’ll handle the safety briefing.”

Martin started to say something but stopped after a warning glance from Douglas. Instead he picked up the radio and said, “Paris, this is Gulf Tango India, requesting clearance for takeoff.”

“Gulf Tango India, roger. Cleared for runway two.”

“Better make it quick, Carolyn,” Martin said, but she was already out of the cockpit, the door clicking shut behind her.

“Right, gentlemen.”

Arthur looked up from his laptop. His laptop bag lay precariously on top of the silver briefcase. Eames stopped reading something on his tablet long enough to look at her.

“I presume you’ve both been on a plane before?” she said.

Arthur gave a small huff of amusement.

“As I thought. Which is why I’ll keep this short. Seat belts, life vests, etcetera, etcetera, and try not to get hypothermia if we crash into the ocean. And I’d hang onto those, if I were you,” she added, pointing at Arthur’s bags and his laptop. “You don’t want them skidding down the aisle when we take off. Any questions?”

“No,” Eames said. “Best safety lecture I’ve ever had. Well done.”

“Yes, well. I’m good at my job.” The plane lurched forward and she grabbed onto the seat for balance. “Unlike a certain pilot,” she muttered under her breath, cursing Martin for not making a smoother taxi start. Then, with a forced smile, she said, “We’ll be leaving shortly. Obviously.”

She beat a hasty retreat to the front of the plane and buckled herself into the jump seat next to Arthur.

“They seem nice, don’t they, Mum? Well, for spies. Not that spies aren’t nice. I’ve never really known any spies. Not personally.”

“Arthur,” she said, in a warning tone, “it is entirely too early in the morning to deal with this, and I suggest you not push your luck.”

“Do you think if I ask nicely, they’ll let me see the bomb later?”

“If you mention anything about that to me again, you’ll be demonstrating the aircraft exit procedures at 20,000 feet —”

“Oh, didn’t you get a chance to tell them about those?”

“No, you’ll be demonstrating them personally, with the door open.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that was very safe.”

“Give me strength,” Carolyn muttered. “Arthur, please, just shut up until it’s time to make the tea.”

“Yes, Mum.”

They took off, and the plane was still climbing when the cabin address system came on.

Bing-bong.

“Good morning, gentlemen. First officer Douglas Richardson here. It’s my pleasure today to welcome you aboard this MJN Air flight.

“Captain Martin Crieff will be flying you to the Cayman Islands this morning. Although we’ll be flying at 30,000 feet, a Skyfall is highly unlikely. He’ll do his best not to scare The Living Daylights out of you with his piloting skills, making sure you Die Another Day and not during this flight. The weather report looks good — no looming Spectre of turbulence at any point.”

“Douglas!” Carolyn bellowed from her seat, but due to the steep ascent, there was no chance of her getting to the flight deck to interrupt him.

Douglas continued undeterred, sounding — if possible — even more gleeful. “Your steward will be Arthur Shappey, who has a Licence to Kill you with kindness, or possibly just your meal service. He’ll also have a fine selection of vodkas today, From Russia, With Love. Do not, however, let him sit and watch the inflight entertainment with you; those films are strictly For Your Eyes Only. Carolyn will be there to provide a Quantum of Solace whenever Arthur becomes too helpful. Try not to let her ‘Live and Let Die’ approach to customer service dampen your enthusiasm for our company.

“We are proud to welcome a diverse selection of clients on board our airline, providing discreet service whenever and where ever you need it most. And if you are, in fact, On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, we at MJN Air would like to say that The World Is Not Enough to express our gratitude for all you’ve done for your country.

“If you feel the need to tip your pilots and are low on cash, please do remember that Diamonds are Forever. We also accept chips from the Casino Royale.

“Once again, thank you for flying MJN Air, and we hope you enjoy your flight with us today.”

“I’m going to throttle him,” she said, to no one in particular, because Arthur certainly didn’t care. He was too busy being overjoyed.

“Did you get that, Mum? He used the names of the Bond films! He got lots of them, too.”

“So I noticed.” Over the noise of the jet engines, she heard an odd sound. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“Can’t you hear it?”

“No.”

She craned her neck, trying to see down the aisle to their passengers, but to no effect since they were in window seats. It wasn’t any sound she was used to hearing. As soon as they’d leveled out, a few minutes later, she rushed back to check on them. Berating Douglas could wait.

As she approached their seats, she was startled to find both men grinning. Well, Eames was beaming at her; Arthur’s lips were barely turned up in a smile, but he was definitely in a better mood than he’d been all morning. She realized, belatedly, that the noise she’d heard might have been laughter.

“I’m so sorry, gentlemen. I don’t know what my first officer was thinking —”

“Thirteen, right?” said Eames.

“I’m sorry?”

“Films. He got thirteen of them in there. Impressive.”

“I thought math wasn’t your strong subject, Eames?” Arthur said, his grin a little wider now.

Eames flashed him a smile.

“I do apologize —”

“Not at all. Tell him I’m just disappointed he didn’t figure out how to work in Octopussy.”

Both Carolyn and Arthur exploded with laughter at the same time.

“We never got a cabin address like that on Saito’s jet,” Arthur said.

“I don’t expect you did,” she said, managing to get her laughter under control, “and Douglas is very lucky I’m feeling charitable. Now, may I offer you some tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please,” Eames said.

“Coffee. Thanks.”

“Wonderful. I’ll send Arthur back shortly.”

As she walked down the aisle, she heard Eames say to Arthur, “I was hoping for Moonraker as well.”

“Mum —”

“Put the hot water on, Arthur. One tea, one coffee.”

“But Mum, Skip wants to know if you’re going to kill Douglas, on account of the cabin address, or if the spies will kill all of us because they have no sense of humor?”

“Let me deal with Douglas. You get the drinks. And don’t say the word ‘bomb.’”

“Right. Are you going to kill Douglas?”

“Not if he’s lucky, no.”

“Oh good, because then we’d just have Martin, and Douglas is much better at word games.”

“Hot water. Now.”

“Right.”

“Douglas,” she bellowed, opening the door to the flight deck, “what on earth did you think you were doing?”

“Merely providing a little light entertainment for our guests. Tell me, are they fans of the spy genre?”

“I told him he shouldn’t do it, Carolyn,” Martin said in a panic. “I told him, but he wouldn’t listen. He never listens.”

“I’m not going to tell you how irretrievably stupid it was —”

“— you just did,” Douglas cut in.

“— because you already know,” Carolyn continued, undaunted. “Luckily for you, they share your sense of humor.”

He looked at Martin, grinned, and said, “You owe me a pound.”

“You bet against him on this?” she asked.

“No! I said they wouldn’t think it was funny, and he said, ‘I bet they will.’”

“Well then, of course they did — you always lose. I’m not sure if I should thank you or cut your pay for provoking him.”

“You can’t cut my pay when you don’t pay me,” Martin snipped.

“No, but I could cut your future pay if we ever make a profit,” she said, giving him a shark-like smile. “Now. Douglas. Our spy friends seem to find you amusing, but let’s not try to provoke them any more than is necessary, all right?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Carolyn.”

“Hello, chaps. I’ve got your drinks. You wanted tea, right?”

“Yes, thanks,” Eames said.

“Milk? Sugar?”

“Just milk.”

“And you wanted coffee, right?”

“Please. Just sugar, no milk.”

“Righty-ho. Yellow, pink, blue, brown, or white? I usually choose the white, but one day I mixed all of them together to see what would happen, and it was like that time I tried eating baking soda, because I thought it was what made fizzy drinks taste good, but it really wasn’t. It was just disgusting. Oh, and the colors on the packets are misleading. They’re all white. Except the brown one. That’s brown.”

Arthur stared at him, and at the array of artificial sweeteners in the little container he was holding out. He tentatively plucked out one packet. White. Sugar. Non-artificial.

“Just one? I usually have at least five.”

“That explains a lot,” Arthur said, and Eames stifled a laugh.

“Do you want me to put a film on or anything? We might have one of the Bond ones somewhere.”

“Arthur,” Eames said, “I hate to disappoint you, but we’re not actually spies.”

“Well, you say that.”

“Sorry?”

“You say you’re not spies, but if you were, you’d have to lie about it, wouldn’t you? I mean, you couldn’t go around telling people you were spies, or you wouldn’t be very good spies.”

“You can’t fault his logic, Eames,” Arthur said, hiding his grin behind his cup of coffee.

“A-ha! So you are! I knew it!”

Arthur shrugged. “If we told you, we’d have to kill you. Sorry.” Eames nearly choked on his tea.

“Wow,” Arthur said in an awestruck voice, “that’s brilliant!”

“I think we’re fine without the film for now, thanks,” Eames said. “We’ve got to get some work done anyway.”

“Oh, of course.” He gave Eames a conspiratorial look. “Secret spy stuff. Brilliant!”

He vaulted back up the aisle with the tea trolley in tow, dying to tell the others, leaving Arthur and Eames smirking in his wake.

“What would you like for lunch? We have chicken or beef.”

Arthur looked up from his laptop and frowned. “Neither. I’d like a salad, please.”

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have salad.”

“What do you mean, you don’t have salad? Don’t you have a vegetarian option?”

“We do. Are you a vegetarian?”

“Do I have to prove I’m vegetarian?”

“He left his membership card at home,” Eames cut in from the sidelines. Arthur shot him a glare.

“I’m not a vegetarian,” he said. “I just want a salad. It’s not that odd of a request.”

“It is, actually. No one ever asks for a salad. It’s not a real food.”

“Well, is the vegetarian option a salad?”

“Um, no,” Arthur said, sheepishly. “It’s pasta. Oh! But it comes with a salad!”

“Great, just bring me the salad from that, then.”

“Well, when I say ‘salad,’ I actually mean three pieces of lettuce, a cherry tomato, and two shreds of carrot. The catering people are very specific about what goes into their salads.”

“Does the beef come with a salad?” Eames asked. “Because we could double his quotient if I don’t have mine. That would make two tomatoes and four bits of carrot. Although six bits of lettuce might be excessive. I’m not sure.”

“Oh!” Arthur’s eyes went wide, as if he’d accidentally figured out the formula for cold fusion while trying to work out how much to tip at a restaurant. “We have the lime that we use for the drinks! And Douglas has a lemon!”

There was a moment of deafening silence.

“That’s a lot of citrus for a salad,” said Eames.

“Well, and I don’t suppose Douglas would want to share his lemon.”

Arthur and Eames looked at each other in confusion. Then Arthur propped his head in his hands and groaned. “Just bring me the chicken.”

“Brilliant!” he said, back on solid footing with his food choices again. “Would you like the side salad with that?”

Martin squinted into the driving rain hitting the cockpit windshield and nervously checked the instruments every few seconds. The wind buffeted the plane again, and he downed the contents of his mug, lest his coffee slosh over any important equipment.

Douglas spoke into the radio. “Atlanta, this is Gulf Tango India transitioning into your sector. Requesting weather update for Grand Cayman.”

“Copy Gulf Tango India. Be advised that tropical storm Caroline has been upgraded to hurricane status. All air traffic in this sector has been diverted to Atlanta and grounded until tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

Douglas groaned. “Copy Gulf Tango India. Acknowledged.” He turned to Martin and said, “Well, that’s that then. It doesn’t matter how much they paid us — they won’t be getting there today.”

“Should we tell her now, or wait for her to notice we’re descending?”

“I think she’ll be equally incensed, but there’s not much we can do about the weather.”

The flight deck door burst open at that moment, followed by a livid Carolyn. “Good Lord! What can you do about this weather?”

Douglas huffed in amusement.

“I’m sorry, Carolyn,” Martin said, looking grim, “but we’ve been grounded in Atlanta until tomorrow.”

“Atlanta? We can’t go to Atlanta! Do you know how much they’re paying us to get them to Grand Cayman today? That was the entire reason they booked us for the trip.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about a hurricane.”

“— your hurricane, to be precise,” Douglas chimed in.

“What?”

“Hurricane Caroline. With an ‘i’.”

“Oh, good Lord. Well, what can you do about it? Can’t you fly around it? I’m sure no one will notice.”

“This isn’t like a backup on the M62, Carolyn! You can’t just take a detour!” Martin said, sounding panicked.

At that moment, a particularly strong gust of wind hit the plane, sending her toppling into the wall. From inside the plane, there was a loud thud, a crash, and a “Sorry, Mum!”

Douglas said calmly, “Atlanta have grounded everyone in this sector. If we ignore them, we’ll be breaching regulations.”

“Oh, Douglas. Since when are you a stickler for regulations?”

Martin pointed at the thick fog and the rain streaking across the windshield. “We’re risking passenger safety, Carolyn. Have you looked out the window?”

“Well, can’t we fly out of their sector and into someone else’s? Someone who could be bribed?”

“Would that I could,” Douglas said, “but Jacksonville ATC isn’t famed for its shady controllers. Besides, the storm’s even worse there. I’m afraid there’s nothing else for it, not until our little black cloud moves on from its Caribbean residence.”

She stormed out of the flight deck, leaving only the white noise of the engines.

“Expect violent gusts up to Force 12,” Douglas said.

“From what, the storm?”

“From both of them.”

“Gentlemen,” she said with forced brightness, gripping the seat so she wouldn’t be thrown around by unexpected turbulence. She wasn’t about to tell them they’d wasted their money from an undignified position in the aisle. “You may have noticed we have a little bad weather.”

“May?” said Arthur, his eyebrows raised incredulously. He did not look happy.

Arthur — her Arthur — was safely buckled in after he’d cleaned up the broken glass from the previous bout of turbulence. The last thing she needed was an Arthur at large in the cabin.

“Yes, well. As much as it pains me to do so — and you have no idea just how much — I’m sorry to tell you that we’ve run into an unexpected hurricane and they’ve grounded all the air traffic in the region.”

“Grounded it where?” asked Eames, looking grim. Then he quickly added, “And if the answer to that is Cuba, we might need to brainstorm a new answer.”

“Atlanta.”

They both visibly relaxed.

“For how long?” Arthur asked. “Will we still get to the Caymans by tonight?”

“I’m afraid not, but it’s not exactly holiday weather there at the moment, so you’re better off in a hotel in Atlanta for now.”

With barely repressed rage, Arthur said, “Do I look like I’m going there on holiday?”

“You said everyone in the region is grounded?” Eames cut in.

She much preferred dealing with Eames. Even if they were both deadly spies, he was much more polite. And English. “Yes. No one gets in or out until at least tomorrow.”

“There you go, then,” he said to Arthur, “Browning won’t be there either. Not the end of the world. It gives us a night to do … whatever it is people do in Atlanta.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Arthur said, sulking. “But I doubt gambling is legal.”

“Well,” Carolyn said, “as long as it involves a vodka tonic, my expectations are low. Now, on the subject of lodgings —”

“We’ll take care of our own arrangements once we get there,” Arthur said.

“Oh. Right. Well, that makes it easy. We’ll be at something cheap and nasty near the airport, and we’ll meet you back there in the morning.”

“What’s your point?” he replied, a little defensively.

“I wasn’t being snide. It’s just that we didn’t budget for the layover, so we won’t be splurging on the hotel.”

“Oh.”

“Or we could all stay somewhere nice,” Eames chimed in. “What d’you think, Arthur? Cobb’s footing the bill, after all. It’s not their fault we flew into a hurricane.”

Arthur shrugged and smiled a little. “Yeah, Cobb owes me one anyway.”

“More than one, I’d have thought.”

Arthur gave him a warning look, and Carolyn wisely kept her mouth shut. Whatever was going on behind that conversation, she didn’t want any part of it. The less she knew about their spy business, the better.

They stood at the reception desk of the Four Seasons hotel. Well, American Arthur and Carolyn stood there; Eames, Martin, and Douglas waited by one of the large sofas while English Arthur unwittingly did his best impression of a Golden Retriever.

“Look, Skip. It has a glass ceiling! I think this lobby is bigger than the last hotel we stayed in. The whole hotel. It’s brilliant! I can’t believe Mum is letting us stay here.”

“I don’t think your Mum is the reason we’re staying here,” Martin said. “You’d better enjoy this now because you’re never going to get another chance to stay somewhere like this.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Skip. I could always win the lotto, since my numbers seem to come up all the time.”

Eames, who until then had been staring idly at American Arthur, suddenly perked up. “Sorry, what?”

“Well, it happens quite a bit. I don’t play the lotto, but the numbers I would play come up all the time.”

“And why don’t you play the lotto, Arthur?” Eames said, sounding both curious and tentative, as if trying to lure a small animal into the jaws of some large prey.

“Oh, that’s easy: because Mum won’t let me. She hates gambling. Ever since Douglas won my car.”

Douglas shrugged and didn’t look in the least bit contrite. “What can I say? He’s horrible at poker. Can’t lie to save his life. I was hoping we could go out for a few games tonight, but sadly, gambling’s illegal here.”

“You’re sure?”

Douglas smirked, a little ruefully. “I checked on the ride over. Sorry. It does limit our options for evening entertainment somewhat.”

“Mm,” Eames agreed. “If films are anything to go by, American nightlife is limited to ‘hookers and blow,’ and neither ‘hookers’ nor ‘blow’ are really my thing. Well, not in the traditional sense.”

Martin choked on air.

“You okay, Skip? What’s blow? Hookers — that one’s crochet, right?”

“Yes, Arthur,” Douglas said. “While Atlanta has a flourishing fiber arts scene, I’m afraid Mr. Eames here prefers different artistic pursuits. Such as men’s fashion.”

Eames narrowed his eyes and fixed Douglas with a level stare. “I hear the airport hotel is quite nice. Perhaps you’d prefer to stay there?”

“Oh, no!” Arthur said, completely missing the unspoken conversation taking place between the two men. “I’d much rather stay here. Airport hotels are usually awful. Mum always makes us stay in those.”

“I have nothing against men’s fashion, personally,” Douglas said amiably. “I was interested in it on and off throughout the seventies. Far more satisfying than my crochet hobby.”

“I don’t know anything about fashion,” Martin said miserably, and there was an awkward silence, which Arthur promptly filled.

“I think uniforms are brilliant!”

“Of course you do, Arthur,” said Douglas.

Meanwhile, at the reception desk, American Arthur was having only a slightly less surreal time of it.

“We’ll need multiple rooms,” he said. “One for us —”

Carolyn, turned to look at him, surprised. Arthur shot her a glance that dared her to utter a single word. She knew better, especially since he was footing the bill.

“— and … how many for you Carolyn?”

“Two,” she said, all too aware that she was on thin ground with her earlier gaffe.

“Two? For four of you? What, do you plan on sharing with Arthur?”

“Certainly not. He’ll take the floor in the room with the pilots. He’ll enjoy it.”

Arthur looked at her like she was nuts and frowned. He turned back to the receptionist and said, “Okay, make that four rooms.”

“No, really. He’ll like the floor. I wasn’t joking. He’ll want to be with Martin and Douglas.”

Arthur sighed.

The receptionist interrupted. “We have a junior suite that contains a pull-out couch as well as two beds, sir.”

“Perfect. We’ll take that, and the two other rooms.” Looking at Carolyn he said, “If he wants to pretend he’s camping at the Four Seasons, I don’t want to know about it.”

She smiled. “Thank you. That’s very generous.”

“Sure,” he said, then muttered something about “goddamn hurricanes” and handed over a credit card.

Back when they were together, he distributed the room keys. “This one is for you guys,” he said, handing the tiny paper folder stuffed with three plastic cards to Douglas — who happened to be closest, but it still earned him a glare from Martin.

“Oh!” Arthur said gleefully. “I get to stay in the same room as you two? That’s brilliant! Can I sleep on the floor?”

“There’s a couch,” Arthur said, trying not to sound too put out. “It turns into a bed.”

“Wow …” he said, awestruck. “A magic couch. Mum, did you hear that?”

“Yes, dear. Now please shut up.” As they headed towards the elevators, she eyed the lobby bar with interest.

Arthur and Eames split off to go to their own room, and Carolyn hurried off just as quickly.

“Well lads, it looks like it’s just us,” Douglas said.

“Lads?” Martin said. “I’m not a lad.”

“If you say so. Now, let’s see what we’ve got here.” Since they hadn’t expected this to be more than a day trip, no one had any luggage. It made the prospect of miniature toiletries even more appealing than usual. Douglas glanced at the display in the bathroom. “Oh, miniature soaps and a body wash, very nice. This is better than the Excelsior.”

Arthur opened the closet door and let out a shriek of delight. “Douglas! They have slippers! Do you think we’re allowed to use them?”

He poked his head back into the room to find a gleeful Arthur holding up a pair of terry-cloth slippers in a shrink-wrapped plastic bag. “No, Arthur, I think they’re purely decorative.”

“Oh,” he said, crestfallen, and put them back.

“Of course you can use them, you dolt! Do they have dressing gowns too?”

“Ooh, yes! Nice ones! They only have two of everything though. We’ll have to share, Skip. Perhaps we could each have a slipper and take turns with the dressing gown?”

“Wait a minute, why do I have to share? Why not Douglas?”

“Well, he’s … Douglas.”

Douglas held up a finger to silence them while he phoned the front desk. When he was done, he said, “An extra set will be along shortly, along with three toothbrushes. Now you can now have your very own set of hotel slippers, Martin. Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

“Thanks,” he said, looking genuinely excited by the prospect.

“Even the Excelsior didn’t have slippers, Douglas. Hester Macaulay had to go barefoot!”

“That could be a tad speculative about her lack of footwear, but you’re right Arthur, it didn’t. Our very generous clients have excellent taste in hotels.”

Carolyn eyed the minibar with unrestrained delight. Even if they made her pay for the drinks afterwards — highly unlikely, given the way her clients were throwing their money around — a vodka tonic would hit the spot perfectly right now.

All things being equal, if you were going to get stuck in Atlanta in a hurricane, this was the way to do it. Huge bed, comfy chair, and a huge marble bathroom, to say nothing of a television twice the size of the one she had at home. She could get used to this.

As she started flipping through the room service menu, the phone rang.

“Mum?”

Of course it was Arthur, although she’d secretly been hoping it would be their mystery clients offering to hire them full-time, or something equally unlikely. Perhaps her nomination for the Nobel Peace Prize.

“Yes, what is it?” she said, hoping she conveyed the tone of ‘I’d rather be pouring myself a drink,’ and not the tone of someone who was actually interested in the answer.

“Can we go to dinner?”

“You can do whatever you want, as long as I don’t have to watch you do it.”

“But, do we have the money? Only, we didn’t plan to stay overnight, so there’s no budget.”

“Ah.” She thought about how much their clients had paid them for the trip, looked around the room, and said, “Use the company card.”

“Really, Mum?”

“Don’t get used to it. Now, if you don’t mind, I have an appointment with a room-service menu.”

“Brilliant! Thanks!”

“She said we could use the company card,” Arthur said, gleefully.

Douglas peered at him like he’d grown another head. “Are you sure you phoned the right room, Arthur? Or perhaps she’s had a stroke.”

“Oh no, do you think so? Maybe we should check on her.”

“Good Lord, no. Let’s leave before she changes her mind.”

“I agree,” Martin said. “I don’t remember the last time I had a proper meal.”

They stopped at the concierge and enquired about the best place to eat. They were told, “If you like steak, you can’t go wrong with Bone’s.”

“Do they …” Douglas hazarded, “… have a dress code?” Just in case the concierge was under the impression they had proper clothes, like ordinary people — something other than their uniforms. “You see, we got grounded because of the hurricane, and we don’t have our luggage.”

“Ah. Well.” The concierge paused, choosing his words carefully, “It’s a fancy place, but not fancy enough to require a hat.”

Martin snatched off his captain’s hat and held it behind him. “Right. Right. Of course not.” The tips of his ears turned pink.

“I told you you should have left it upstairs, Skip.”

“Shut up, Arthur,” he hissed.

“They won’t mind the uniforms, then?”

“No. I’m sure they serve flight crews all the time.”

“Not like ours,” muttered Martin, under his breath.

“Fabulous. Thanks for your help,” Douglas said. “Well then, boys, I think we’ve earned ourselves a nice steak dinner.”

“Earned how, Douglas?”

“Remember when we landed in St. Petersburg on one engine and had to eat in the crew canteen?”

“Yes?”

“That’s how. Now let’s go, before your mother comes to her senses.”

Bone’s was full of fat-cat Atlanta businessmen, the type who’d have been smoking cigars at the dinner table had it been ten years earlier, before the anti-smoking regulations cracked down on that sort of thing. A few of them sported trophy-wife accessories.

Unfortunately, it was literally full of them. There were no available tables, and they were sent to the bar area until one was available.

“This’ll be brilliant! A bar!”

“You’re not allowed to have alcohol, Arthur,” Martin warned. “Remember what happened last time.”

“I know, but I can have pineapple juice, and I love pineapple juice!”

“Douglas,” Martin whispered in a panic, “what do I order?”

“Whatever you want.”

“But it’s not a pub. They won’t have real beer.”

“I wouldn’t let them hear you say that.”

As they walked in, it was hard not to notice Arthur and Eames sitting halfway down the bar. Arthur’s suit looked like it was straight off the runway — a fashion runway, not an airplane one — and Eames … well, what he was wearing stood out in a crowd, but for entirely different reasons.

“I do believe that’s the only time I’ve seen someone pull off ‘salmon pink’ successfully,” Douglas said, quietly.

Arthur, oblivious, spoke up loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Look who it is! Arthur, Eames! Hello!”

They both looked up, startled and tense for a second, and then their faces shifted — Eames’ to a welcoming smile and Arthur’s to something slightly more pained.

“Hello,” said Eames, “fancy meeting you here. Have a seat.”

The bar was empty enough that they were able to snag two more seats, with Arthur happy to energetically hover between the rest of them, ready to take in every possible snippet of conversation.

The bartender stepped up to take their orders.

“Yes,” said Douglas, “we’ll have a sparkling water, one pineapple juice, and —” he looked expectantly at Martin.

“ — um, er, a ginger ale,” he said.

Arthur’s eyebrow raised a fraction of an inch, and Douglas leaned over to him, conspiratorially. “We’re a hard-drinking bunch at MJN Air.”

“Yes. Pineapple juice,” Arthur replied, deadpan. “I fear for my safety in the skies.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Arthur said earnestly, “I know my limits. I’ve had seventeen in a row before it upset my stomach, and anyway, I’m not the one flying the plane. I just serve the drinks. And Mum can serve them if I get sick. Not that I’d get sick. It only happened once and the man was really very nice about it.” As an afterthought, he added, “But I’m not allowed to have strawberries. Or passionfruit. Because then my tongue gets thick and I go all choky.”

Eames broke into laughter and even Arthur chuckled.

“Between anaphylactic shock and a low tolerance for alcohol, a strawberry daiquiri represents something of a perfect storm for young Arthur here,” Douglas said.

“Oh, I’m definitely not allowed to have those.”

Their drinks arrived and Douglas handed the bartender the company card.

“At least you don’t get stuck paying your own way tonight, huh?” Arthur said.

Before Douglas could respond with something diplomatic, Martin replied, “I don’t know what you’re paying her, but you’ve managed to pry open the tightest purse this side of … um, either side of ….” He flailed around for the end of his sentence, only to be saved by Douglas.

“What Martin is so eloquently trying to say is that Carolyn does not often give us access to the company card, and that the last time it was put to use was in the staff canteen in Saint Petersburg, after we’d landed the plane on one engine. So naturally, when she said we could go out to dinner at MJN’s expense, we jumped at the chance.”

“Huh,” Arthur said, giving Eames a thoughtful look. “I wonder what she’d make of Saito?”

They both broke into wicked grins as he replied, “I don’t know, but if we could get them in a room together, I’ll bet we could charge admission.”

“How so?” said Douglas.

“Friend of ours,” Eames said. “Equally strong-willed, but throws money at everything. It’s only because his jet is on the other side of the world that we’re here with you.”

“Ooh,” Arthur piped up, “is he an evil villain?”

“Sorry?” Eames said.

“Well, if you’re spies, is he one of the villains, bent on world domination?”

Arthur and Eames exchanged nervous glances. “Ah. Yes, well, that’s another one of those things we can’t tell you,” Eames said, and he threw back the last few sips of his drink. “Excuse me?” he said to the bartender. “I’d like another Talisker please.”

“Oh, just like Mr Birling! Brilliant! You’re a lot more fun, though. And less shouty.”

“Why don’t we get a table together?” Eames said. “Get to know each other a bit.”

Douglas caught a flurry of motion — Arthur kicking Eames in the shin as he suggested it. He was about to politely turn them down, but he wasn’t quick enough.

“Wow, really? That’d be brilliant!”

“May I take your jackets?”

Douglas looked down and realized that the stripes around his cuffs looked a lot less silly than the epaulets on the shirt he wore underneath it. “No, I think I’ll leave it on, thank you.” Surprisingly, Martin caught on and left his on as well. Of course, with his steward’s uniform of a bright red shirt and black waistcoat, Arthur vied with Eames for ‘exciting fashion choices’ so it didn’t really matter what he did.

Once they’d been seated in the plush chairs around their dinner table, their waiter came by to ‘explain’ their menu. It offered a few token dishes of chicken and seafood, but it was, primarily, a steak restaurant. And the steaks were huge.

Another waiter passed by with a cut of meat large enough for two people. “Douglas,” Martin said in awe, “look at that.”

“They’re going to have to roll us out of here,” Douglas said, sounding excited by the prospect.

The waiter started to take their orders. American Arthur got the filet mignon, and Eames and Douglas got the porterhouse, all medium-rare.

When the waiter got to him, Arthur said, “What’s the most expensive thing?”

He gave him an odd look. “Well, technically it’s the ‘double porterhouse for two’, but it is for two people, sir.”

“Sounds brilliant. I want that.”

“It’s a very large steak, sir.”

“Great. I love steak.”

“Of course, sir. And how would you like it cooked?”

“Yes, please.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’d like it cooked.”

Martin tried to explain. “What he means, Arthur, is how long would you like it cooked? Do you want it still red in the middle?”

“Ew, no. Why would I want that?”

The waiter flinched, but forced a smile. “Well done, then?”

Arthur looked confused, as if the waiter had just congratulated him for no reason.

“Yes,” Martin said, “‘well done.’ Sorry. He’s never been to a steakhouse before.”

“I doubt you’ve ever been to a steakhouse before,” Douglas muttered, and Martin shot him a glare.

“Well then, if you’d allow me to explain the side dishes,” the waiter said, politely ignoring Douglas’ remark. “They’re served family-style, with the exception of the baked potatoes.”

“I’d like, um, two baked potatoes?” Martin said, sounding sheepish.

“They’re … quite large, sir.”

“Martin,” Douglas warned, “I know where this is going, and it had better not be going back to Fitton.”

“But Douglas —”

“— he’d like one,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument.

The waiter glanced helplessly between them.

“I’m sure you’ll want to leave room for dessert,” American Arthur said, diplomatically.

“Fine,” Martin said sulkily, “just the one.”

“I’ll have two though,” Arthur piped up. “They’ll go with my ‘steak for two.’”

“No one is getting two baked potatoes,” Douglas said, and the conversation started to take on the tone of a kindergarten playground.

Eames watched as if it were a particularly fascinating social experiment.

When the waiter asked American Arthur for his side dish, he said, “I’ll have the Cobb salad.”

Eames nearly choked on his drink.

“What?” he said, all innocence. “I couldn’t get one on the plane.”

“You could have just ordered mixed greens,” Eames said.

“I felt like having a Cobb. Jealous much?” Arthur teased, with a smirk on his face.

None of them had a clue what was going on. The waiter looked distinctly relieved as he left the table with their orders complete.

“So are you a particular fan of baked potatoes, Martin?” Eames asked.

Martin avoided looking at him and instead focused all his attention on the basket of bread. “I do like them, yes.”

“He has them on special occasions,” Arthur said. “Right, Skip? I mean, normally, you just have pasta.”

“While some people choose low-carb diets,” Douglas said, “Martin has gone in the opposite direction.”

“Shut up, Douglas,” he hissed, clearly embarrassed.

“I’ve never met anyone who likes pasta as much as you,” Arthur said, “and I once knew this boy in school who ate nothing but macaroni for a month.”

Martin kicked him.

“Ow, why’d you kick me?”

“The point you might be missing, Arthur, is that your mother doesn’t pay Martin enough to eat anything else.”

“Oh,” he said, confused. “Why not?”

“Can we please not talk about this right now?” Martin said desperately. “I’d just like to enjoy my dinner without any further humiliation.”

Douglas ignored him. “You know how she’s always going on about money?”

“Yes,” Arthur said.

“Well, there’s not enough of it to pay him. We don’t have as many clients that are as generous as Mr. Eames here.”

“Oh. Well how are we making money then?”

“We aren’t,” said Douglas.

Martin groaned. He looked up at Eames and said, “I’m sorry, this whole discussion is completely inappropriate.”

“Huh. That explains a lot about the state of the plane,” Arthur said, not unkindly. More of an observation.

“Well, Skip, if it makes you feel better, she doesn’t pay me either,” Arthur said, far too brightly.

Eames frowned a little and started drumming his fingers against the white linen tablecloth. He paused, mid-drum, and looked at Arthur. “You said you’re half-Australian?”

“Aye ‘am,” he replied, in a godawful accent.

“Please stop doing that,” Douglas said.

Eames turned to American Arthur and said, “Do you remember that personal project you were helping me with?”

His colleague gave him a smile that could only be described as unprofessional.

Eames grinned. “Not that personal project. The one that needed Australian citizenship.”

“Ah, that project.”

“Oooh,” said Arthur, wide-eyed. “Spy stuff?” Eames gave him a warning glance and he said again, this time sotto voce, “Spy stuff?”

“No,” Eames said, smugly, “completely legal — if you’re Australian — which you are.”

“Oh,” said American Arthur, with a look of dawning recognition.

Eames said, “So, Martin, if she doesn’t pay you, why do you come to work?”

“Well, it’s what I’ve always wanted to do, and I’m good at it.”

“It’s that compelling, is it?”

Martin gave him a helpless shrug. “Yes?”

“And she pays you?” Eames said to Douglas.

Douglas shrugged as well. “I’d stop coming if she didn’t.”

Eames drummed his fingers on the tablecloth some more and looked meaningfully at Arthur. “It wouldn’t be much effort,” he said to him. “The software’s all ready. Arthur here would provide us with the necessary bank account, and we could give them a small percentage off the top. Enough for them to pay Martin.”

Arthur nodded. “It’d be easier than the alternative.”

“If I could interrupt with a few quick questions —” Douglas started, but Eames cut him off.

“— you’re a gambler, aren’t you, Douglas?”

“A very good one.”

“What do you know about online betting?”

“Well, I know it’s possible, but I prefer to stick to the more traditional games, myself.”

“Did you know it can be automated?” Eames asked.

Douglas frowned. “Is that legal?”

“Funnily enough, only in Australia.” He turned to Arthur and smiled. “Which is where you’d come in.”

“Brilliant!”

“Why is it illegal everywhere else?” Douglas asked.

“It’s too prone to arbitrage.”

“I didn’t know Richard Armitage was Australian,” Arthur said.

“No, Arthur,” Douglas said. “‘Arbitrage.’ It’s sort of like day trading. Buy low, sell high.” He got a blank look for his efforts. “Never mind.” He turned back to Eames. “So why hasn’t it been outlawed there?”

“They really enjoy their gambling, so there’s huge sentiment against any sort of gambling reform.”

“So, how does it work?” said Martin.

“We calculate the changing odds right before the races close and place multiple bets with different firms. Makes a tidy profit.”

“He’s better at math than he lets on,” Arthur muttered.

“That’s very impressive,” Douglas said. He sat back in his chair and wiped his lips with the linen napkin. “But why on earth would you want to help us?”

“We were going to do it anyway but didn’t have the Australian citizenship sorted out yet. This’d be more like a partnership,” Eames said, “for a good cause.”

“I’m not a cause!” Martin protested.

“MJN is a cause,” Douglas said, “and anything that keeps me employed is certainly a good one.”

“We’d be able to make use of our software, and you’d be able to — I don’t know — increase the catering budget to include vegetarian options.” Then he smiled at Martin and added, “Or pay all the pilots a salary so they don’t have to hoard baked potatoes.”

“But it’s gambling,” Arthur piped up plaintively, as if that was something more than an obvious statement of fact.

“Well, in a manner of speaking, yes. It involves betting, but there’s very little risk involved,” Eames said, reassuringly.

“Yes, but —”

“But?”

“— but Mum hates gambling. She’d never let us do it.”

“No, Arthur,” Douglas said, “Carolyn hates losing. There’s a big difference. She’s quite happy when things come out in her favor.”

“— but she won’t even let me buy a lotto ticket. She’ll never let me bet on horses.”

Eames frowned. “Hm. That’s a problem.”

“It’s a shame it’s not Douglas who’d be losing the money,” Martin said. “She’d be all for it then.”

“You know, we could —” Eames started, looking at Arthur.

“No.”

“It wouldn’t be nearly as complicated as Fischer. One level, no chance of … well, you know.”

“No.”

Eames said nothing, just looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to change his mind. Douglas, Martin, and Arthur glanced at each other in confusion.

Arthur caved. “Okay, just for sake of argument, how?” He looked over at the crew. “No way you have enough information to pull any of them off.”

Douglas’ eyebrows raised at the phrase, which sounded rather lewd.

Eames ignored him. “Labrador retriever with no internal filter? Wouldn’t take much.”

He cocked his head. “Hm. Granted. But I don’t think she’ll be easily swayed, especially by him.”

“It can’t hurt to try,” Eames said. “I suppose if it doesn’t work, we’ll just throw money at it topside.”

“While I’d love to pretend we can’t hear you,” Douglas said, “we can. Would you do us the pleasure of letting us know what you’re talking about?”

Eames exchanged some furrowed-brow glances with Arthur before he replied, “Sorry. I can’t do that.”

“Ooh!” Arthur asked excitedly. “Is it spy stuff?”

“It’s … work-related.”

“Brilliant! Of course he can’t tell us, Douglas!”

“No, of course he can’t,” he said dryly, “but I suppose if the end result is that I end up with more money, I really don’t care.”

“Um, there is one thing I’d like to know,” Martin said tentatively.

“What?” said Eames.

“Are you going to torture her?” he whispered.

“— what, torture Mum?” Arthur burst out, his voice almost a shout in the formal restaurant. “They’re going to torture Mum?” He whirled around to look at Eames. “You can’t do that. You’re supposed to be the good guys! The good guys don’t torture people.” He was halfway out of his seat, gesticulating wildly. Douglas tugged on his arm to get him to sit down. The rest of the restaurant patrons stared at them.

“No one is going to torture anyone, Arthur,” Eames said. “I promise.”

“— but, but ….” He was still wild-eyed.

“I think we should tell them,” Eames said.

“You do?” Arthur said incredulously.

“Yes.” He turned to the group. “But you have to promise not to tell a soul.”

Martin and Arthur nodded eagerly. Douglas tried to look disinterested but even he was curious. “All right. Tell us,” he said.

“Arthur —” there was a pause “— is a hypnotist for the CIA.”

“Wow …” Arthur said, awestruck. “Can he turn me into a chicken?”

“We’d all be better off if he did,” Douglas muttered.

“He could,” Eames said, ignoring the comment, “but that wouldn’t help the mission.”

“Ooh, the mission. Of course. So Mum’s part of the mission?”

“Yes, and it’s vitally important you don’t mention anything to her.”

“Are you going to turn Mum into a chicken?”

Arthur started to look irritated. “There aren’t going to be any chickens.”

“No chickens,” Eames agreed.

“Hang on,” Douglas said. “What’s the CIA doing betting on Australian horse races?”

“Trust me, the less you know, the better off you’ll be.”

The weather hold wasn’t due to be lifted until ten at the earliest, so they all arranged to meet for breakfast in the hotel at eight.

When their clients joined them in the restaurant, Douglas was surprised to note how much better Eames was dressed — this time in a linen suit. Much easier on the eyes than the salmon thing had been.

“Good morning, gentlemen!” Carolyn said, disgustingly perky. “I hope you had a pleasant night’s sleep?”

“Lovely, thanks,” Eames said. “How’s the breakfast look here? Any good?”

“Well, the menu looks promising,” Douglas said. “We haven’t eaten yet.”

American Arthur glanced over the menu and scowled. When the waitress showed up, he asked, “The bagel with lox and cream cheese — are they real bagels? They’re not just round bread, are they? I mean, this is Atlanta.”

“They’re New York bagels, sir. We have them flown in every morning.”

Tension eased out of his shoulders. “Good. That —” he put his menu down with a smile “— is why I continue to stay at the Four Seasons. One bagel and a black coffee with sugar, please.”

“Mum?”

“Yes?”

“Are you having eggs?”

“I might, why?” she said, distractedly reading the menu.

“No reason. I was just wondering if you were craving eggs. Lots of eggs.”

She gave the comment as much attention as she gave most of Arthur’s nonsensical ramblings, which was to say, very little.

The rest of them had the hot breakfast, except for Arthur, who ordered the hot breakfast, the continental breakfast, and a custom omelette on the side. They had to wheel his order over on a cart. Somehow, he still managed to finish before Carolyn was done with hers, because she talked through most of breakfast.

The conversation was mostly one-sided, everyone else content to listen while she went on and on about the quality of the little hair products and the diverse selection of vodka in the mini-bar. She seemed especially taken by the bed.

“I’ve never slept so well. Such nice sheets, and ever so comfy.” She got an odd look on her face. “Such odd dreams though.”

“Oh?” Eames said.

“Yes. I dreamt I was in Monte Carlo, wearing this ridiculous ballgown, playing poker against James Bond. Then you showed up,” she said, pointing at her son, who was in the process of stuffing one of her sausages into his mouth while simultaneously reaching across the table to steal another from her plate. She swatted his hand away and continued. “Arthur started telling me what bets to place, which was ludicrous, because of course I wasn’t going to win against James Bond with him giving me poker advice.”

“Fascinating,” said Douglas.

“But the odd thing was,” Carolyn continued, “he was right. Whenever I followed his advice, I won the hand, so I started betting higher and higher, and I bankrupted Bond, who said he’d sleep with me if I gave him some of his chips back —”

“— ew, Mum!” Arthur cried. Martin winced, and Douglas developed a sudden fascination with his cutlery.

“Anyway, I ended up winning everything, and I don’t remember if I slept with him or not. But it didn’t matter, because then it got really strange. When we flew home, it was Birling Day, and I actually won the Talisker from Douglas!”

“Yeah,” American Arthur said, looking confused, “that was strange.”

Douglas saw Eames kick him under the table.

“Um, I mean, is strange. What’s Birling Day?” Arthur asked.

“Mr. Birling is this really rich man who —” Arthur started, but Carolyn interrupted him.

“It’s not important. The important part was, I finally beat you, Douglas. It’s a sign. This year, the Talisker is mine.”

“We shall see.”

“Indeed we shall. My luck has changed, I’m sure of it.”

Eames and Arthur exchanged glances.

“Well,” Douglas said, “speaking of luck, I spoke with ATC before breakfast and they’re lifting the weather hold at ten. We should be in Grand Cayman by one.”

“I’d hope luck doesn’t have anything to do with it,” Arthur said, looking concerned.

“Ooh, Skip! Remember that time you got arrested in Boston because they thought you were going to crash the plane? We were almost a day late that time!”

“Code Red, Arthur!” Carolyn hissed, and Arthur leapt out of his chair like he was about to make a break for it, nearly overturning his glass of pineapple juice. “No, you idiot boy, sit down!”

“But Mum, you said —”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Martin said. “It was just a misunderstanding about some nose-hair trimmers.”

“That’s quite a misunderstanding,” said Eames, looking impressed.

“Oh look,” Carolyn said, in a valiant effort to change the subject, “there’s our waitress. Excuse me, could I get some more tea, please?” The gambit would have been less obvious if the waitress hadn’t been on the other side of the restaurant, something which required Carolyn to more or less shout the request.

Eames sat back in his chair, as if he was watching a play. Or perhaps a daytime soap opera. Amused.

Douglas looked at his watch. “I still have a few things to pack. Shall we meet down in the lobby at quarter past?”

“Ooh, are you going to keep your slippers, Douglas? And if you aren’t, can I have them? It’d be brilliant to have two pairs. I could save one pair for weekends.”

Eames stifled a chuckle, while Arthur just shook his head and drank some more of his coffee.

They all left the restaurant at the same time, but Eames pulled Arthur — still going on enthusiastically to Martin about the slippers — off to the side. “Got a minute?”

“Ooh, more than one!”

Douglas stopped under the pretense of tying his shoe so he could hear what they said; leaving Arthur alone with Eames was a recipe for disaster.

“Right, Arthur. Two things,” Eames said, looking at him very seriously.

“Yes?”

“First. Do you remember how the thing we talked about last night was a secret?”

“Yes …” he said, waiting for more.

“Well, part of a secret is that you don’t discuss it —”

“— but I didn’t —”

“— or randomly bring up chicken-related topics.”

“Ahhhh,” he said, realization dawning. “So what’s the second thing?”

“Chickens don’t eat eggs.”

As Arthur hurried upstairs to his room, Douglas caught up to Eames. He hoped it looked subtle.

“So …”

“Yes?” Eames said.

“Any luck last night?”

“It was a little … odd … but it looks like things went well, yes.”

“Great. Well, I’ve been thinking about how we should approach her. I should be the one to do it. She trusts me.”

Eames looked at him and laughed. “You’re fooling yourself.”

“She trusts me more than she trusts them. Or you.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’ll bring it up once we’re underway. Now, do you know how we’d work the details out? She’s big on details. Especially financial ones.”

“I have some thoughts,” Eames said, “but it depends how it goes. I’ll play it by ear.”

Douglas gave him a doubtful look. “If you say so.”

The skies had brightened, along with the mood of ATC, and they were in the air by 10:30. Carolyn banished Arthur to the galley with the strict order that the only people he was to serve had to be wearing silly hats, and the reminder that Douglas’ hat was almost as silly as Martin’s.

For the first time on this flight, she felt on sure footing. Even if these two were spies, they weren’t going to blow up her plane, and Eames had paid her in cash when they’d got to the hotel. She didn’t care whose money it was before — it was hers now. It would keep MJN afloat for at least a few more months.

As she handed them their tea and coffee, they both looked — dare she say it — happy. Even the normally sullen American one.

“Everything going well, gentlemen?”

“Lovely, thanks.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Wonderful. I do appreciate the accommodations last night. Best sleep I’ve had in years.” Then she remembered her dreams. “Well, for the most part.” At that moment, the flight deck door opened, and Douglas strode down the aisle towards them.

“Hello, Carolyn.”

“Good lord, Douglas,” she hissed, hoping they wouldn’t hear her. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you flying the plane?”

“Martin is a qualified pilot, you know. He flies the aircraft by himself all the time while I’m picking over the remnants of the cheese tray.”

“Get on with it. What’s going on?”

Arthur trotted up the aisle behind him. “Hello, Mum! What’s going on? Everything okay, Douglas?”

“Everything’s fine, Arthur,” he said, in soothing tones.

“Yes, but it’s just that you never come out of the flight deck. You even eat your lunch in there, but I suppose you have to, because that’s where you fly the plane. But now you’re back here, so I wondered if something was wrong.”

“Code Red, Arthur. Now.”

“Yes, Mum.” He dutifully scurried away.

“You too, Douglas.”

“You might want to rethink that. It seems our very generous clients have something to discuss with you.”

“Oh, God,” she said without thinking, “you are going to blow up the plane. It’s not Arthur’s fault. He’s always like this.”

All three of them gaped at her for a second, until Douglas finally spoke. “No, Carolyn, that’s not what they had in mind, despite Arthur’s unique attempts at customer service.”

“Right,” said Eames. “No. It was something a little less incendiary.”

“Ah,” she said, “sorry. Please do go on.”

“We have a business proposition for you,” said Eames.

Carolyn made shooing motions at Douglas. “Go and fly the plane.”

“I think you’ll want me to stay. I’m uniquely qualified to understand the details.”

“What, does it involve smuggling?”

Arthur and Eames looked at each other, eyebrows raised.

“No, it certainly does not.”

“So, I’m given to believe your son is part Australian?” Eames said.

“Unfortunately, yes,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

“Well, we’ve been looking to make a particular investment, but it requires the involvement of someone with Australian citizenship.”

“What sort of investment?” Carolyn said, warily.

Eames glanced at Douglas, who nodded. He continued. “It’s a piece of financial software that exploits certain — how do I put this? — ‘flaws’ in the gaming industry.”

“And you want Arthur to invest?” She looked at them like they had two heads and gave a quick laugh. “That boy couldn’t be trusted to own an ice cream van. Certainly not.”

“No,” Eames said quickly, “he wouldn’t be doing the investing. It’d be our money. We’d be using his account to, um —”

“— launder the returns?” Carolyn interrupted.

“Ah, see?” Douglas said, sounding smug. “She understands perfectly.”

“Most definitely not,” Carolyn said. “You can’t possibly use Arthur’s account. Besides, participating in illegal betting sounds as dangerous as Arthur taking up competitive figure skating.”

“It’s surprisingly legal. It’s just … ethically dubious.”

“Well, Carolyn,” Douglas said, “there you go. You do ‘ethically dubious’ all the time.”

“I don’t care. If it involves gambling and Arthur, it’s going to be a disaster. The only way it could be worse is if it involved gambling and Martin.”

“But it doesn’t, Carolyn. They explained how it worked to me last night. It’s all very ingenious.”

“We’d make it worth your while, of course. Financially,” Eames said.

“No. Not while there’s gambling involved. I’ve been on the wrong end of the bottle of Talisker one too many times.”

Arthur and Eames looked at each other with wide eyes.

“That wasn’t what it sounded like,” Carolyn added quickly, as she turned pink.

Douglas looked downright gleeful. “What she means to say is that I’ve bested her in our yearly contest for a bottle of scotch.”

“Ah,” Arthur said, his shoulders relaxing slightly, “but I thought you said your luck was about to change on that front?”

“Indeed it might,” she said, “but I’m not going to play around with the future of my company based on some dream I had. Gambling is gambling, and nothing good has ever come out of it for me.”

“Didn’t take,” Eames muttered under his breath. And then, with a forced smile, to her: “It’s really not gambling if it’s other people’s money.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Eames.”

“Don’t you even want to see the numbers?”

She did, but she wasn’t about to back down now. Not in front of Douglas. Not without a really good reason. Besides, they were clearly desperate, and perhaps those numbers would improve if she held out.

She turned to Douglas. “You: go and fly the plane.” Once he’d moped off, she gave them both a long look.

“All right,” she said, “what exactly is it that you’re talking about here?”

“I thought you weren’t interested,” Arthur said.

“I don’t have all the facts yet. Now tell me what you’re doing, and do it quickly, before another member of my idiot crew wanders back here.”

“We’re using arbitrage software to exploit online betting in the Australian gaming industry,” Eames said.

“Right. I have no idea what that means, but if Douglas wants a piece of it, it’s probably worth doing. How would it work?”

“It would all look legitimate,” Eames said. “We’d be standby clients who promise not to show up ninety-five percent of the time —”

“— or probably the other five percent,” said Arthur, “considering we usually have a luxury jet at our disposal.”

Eames nodded and continued. “But every month, like clockwork, we’d deposit a considerable sum of money into Arthur’s account, purely for the privilege of not showing up.”

“And for then getting to manipulate it in the Australian gambling system,” added Arthur.

“That sounds very lucrative. I accept. But only if you deposit it into my account instead.”

Eames groaned.

“Well, that won’t work,” Arthur said. “The whole point is that we have to make the transactions from an Australian account in order for them to be legal. I don’t understand why —”

Carolyn interrupted him with an exasperated sigh. “— because my idiot son let his father co-sign his bank account, and he’ll be able to see everything that goes through there. If he finds out I’m making actual money, he’ll figure out a way to get his miserable hands on it.”

“So,” Arthur said tentatively, “it doesn’t have anything to do with gambling?”

“Oh, it’s true I hate gambling,” she said, “but you’ve made clear this is money laundering, and I have no problem with that.”

“So if we were to prevent your ex-husband from finding out …?”

“Then I’d be only too happy for you to shower me with cash.”

Arthur and Eames looked at each other and smiled.

“What?” she said. “Do you have some way of hacking into the Australian banking system and covering up your tracks?”

“Perhaps Arthur would consider opening a different bank account in Australia? One without his father on it,” said Eames.

“Oh,” she said, feeling rather sheepish. “Well. I suppose that would work, wouldn’t it?”

“Piles and piles of free cash …” Eames murmured, as if to reassure her.

“Yes, I think we could arrange that.”

“Wonderful,” said Arthur, with what might have been the first real smile he’d given her since they’d met.

“On one condition,” she added.

Arthur and Eames groaned simultaneously.

“Tell me what happened last night. I know something went on, but damned if I can figure out what.”

“We ran into your crew and had dinner with them,” Eames said, obviously hedging.

“Not that. You did something to me. Or … I don’t know. I heard you say it ‘didn’t take.’ Did you drug me to try and force me to do this?”

“Of course not!” said Eames.

She gave them one of her ‘I wasn’t born yesterday’ looks.

Eames relented. “We did try and hypnotize you a little, so you wouldn’t be opposed to the gambling part of our plan.”

“But some people are too strong-willed for it to work,” Arthur added, “and clearly you’re one them.”

“Well,” she said, feeling smug, “anyone on my crew could have told you that. But what do you do exactly? Are you spies?”

Arthur and Eames glanced at each other, and then Eames said in a hushed tone, “Arthur works for the CIA as a sort of hypnotist, yes.”

She frowned. “Then what’s in the suitcase?”

Eames gave her a smile that was all teeth. “That’s for my job. I’m an interrogator.”

She blanched and backed away slightly.

“Don’t worry,” said Arthur, “we’re not going to do anything to you. We’re just happy you can help us.”

“And if … we don’t?”

Eames laughed. “Don’t worry. No men in black suits are going to show up. You’re not the sort of people we have to interrogate.”

“Right,” she said, still feeling distinctly nervous about the whole thing.

Eames seemed to sense this and said, “So, perhaps we could work out payment details with you now?”

“— and then promise to leave you alone afterwards,” Arthur added.

“Good, because dealing with Hester Macaulay was bad enough, without the CIA breathing down my neck.”

“Who?” said Arthur.

“The actress?” said Eames.

“Never mind. As long as I don’t have to deal with entitled actresses or rogue governments out for blood, I’m happy.”

“I can’t promise anything about the actresses, but you’re safe on our account,” said Eames. “So, how much do you normally charge standby clients? More to the point, how much does your business need to stay afloat?”

“Sorry?” she said.

“We can’t have you going under, not if we want our scheme to work. So, let’s make sure that you have a nice, thriving bottom line. Enough to, oh … say … be able to pay your captain a living wage, at least?”

“How did you hear about that?” She wasn’t sure which one of her crew to blame for leaking that piece of information, and normally she’d be outraged, but perhaps she could reserve judgement.

Eames gave her a sly look. “And, of course, we’ll need make sure the company is doing well in general. Perhaps even well enough that your son could find a place of his own to live one day.”

“Ah, well. Yes. I did mention that I don’t care where the money comes from, didn’t I?”

Eames chuckled. “I thought as much.”

Almost on cue, the door to the flight deck opened and Arthur hurried down the aisle. “Mum, Skip says to tell you we’ll be in the Caymans by one.”

“Perfect. We should be there before Browning,” Eames said.

“Would you like some lunch before we land?” Carolyn asked. “I picked up a salad and a roast beef sandwich at the airport.”

“Perfect!” said Eames. “My favorite.”

“And you must have heard how much I like salads.”

Carolyn frowned. She wasn’t sure why she’d picked them up at all. It wasn’t even a three hour flight. Still, given the way things were turning out, it had been a good move. “Super. I’ll be back in a bit. I’ll leave you to do whatever it is I’d rather not know about.”

“My highly secretive book reading,” Eames said.

Arthur rolled his eyes and went back to his laptop.

Carolyn strode up to the front of the plane, rounding up Arthur from the galley as she went. “Come on, meeting in the flight deck.”

“But Mum, you know how Skip feels about people in the flight deck while we’re in the air.”

“Trust me, he’ll get over it.”

She hustled him inside and closed the door behind them.

“Okay, we have one chance to get this right. All we have to do is keep our noses clean until we get to the Caymans. No engine failures, no hurricanes, no catering mishaps, and for God’s sake, no more interactions with the clients.”

“What’s wrong, Carolyn?” Douglas asked.

“Nothing, and that’s the point. They might be murderous spies —”

“— I don’t think they’re murderous, Mum —”

“— but they’re going to pay us a stupid amount of money to never fly them anywhere, and we have to make sure they don’t change their minds between now and when they get off the plane.”

“Can I help?” Arthur said, enthusiastically.

“That’s exactly what I don’t want you to do, my idiot child. Stay in the galley and don’t come out. I’ll serve them lunch. Actually, Martin —”

“What?”

“He’ll stay up here with you. He can use the locker if he has to.”

“Mum!”

“He’s not staying up here!”

“I can be quiet, honest!”

She sighed. Even at his quietest version of helpful, Arthur was a liability. “If I so much as glare in your direction, I want you to lock yourself in the loo. We can’t afford to mess this up. Literally.”

“Yes, Mum.”

“Oh, and Douglas?”

“Hm?”

“You’re doing the landing —”

“— but —”

“— Martin, don’t start. Douglas is doing the landing.”

She hurried out of the flight deck, wearing a smile in case either of her clients happened to be looking. If it took another few hours of ‘happy hostessing’ to ensure the future of her company, she was willing to do it.

Lunch passed without incident. Arthur seemed a little vicious with his salad, but didn’t offer any complaints.

The hurricane had blown through, leaving a lovely day in its wake. Douglas executed a perfect touchdown in the Caymans and managed not to run them into the sea at the end of the runway, always a real fear at these island airports. They were even ten minutes early.

Eames got his duffel from the overhead bin and pulled out another stack of cash. “This part of the transaction was unexpected, so I’m afraid you’ll have to take US currency.”

“For the standby fees?”

“No. This is just a show of good faith. We can set up the details later and I’ll make the payments via wire transfer.”

The bank-printed band on the money read $20,000. She gave him one of her most generous smiles. “I assure you, we’re very flexible,” she said.

“Well,” said Arthur, “this has been the most interesting flight I’ve ever taken, and that includes the one where I got kidnapped in Hungary. Thank you for the salad, though. That was a nice touch.”

“I’m glad you … enjoyed it,” she said, unsure of how to respond to the backhanded compliment.

“You were very accommodating under difficult circumstances,” Eames said, far more charitably. “We both appreciate it, thank you.”

“Of course.” She stopped before she added the word ‘anytime,’ because the last thing she wanted was to ever do this again.

As they filed off the plane, Arthur popped his head out of the galley. “Bye! Thanks for not blowing us up!”

She kicked him, hard.

Thankfully, Eames only chuckled.

Her clients headed across the tarmac, the tropical heat making the terminal shimmer a little in the distance. “Thank you!” she called after them and gave a quick wave, then waited for a nod of acknowledgment before she closed the plane door. She slumped against the inside of it. “Oh thank God that’s over.”

“Why Mum? They were great! I’ve never met real, live spies before. It was better than a Bond film. They don’t do hypnosis in Bond films. Oh damn. I wasn’t supposed to say anything about the hypnosis.”

She shook her head. “Thank God the security of our country doesn’t rely on you.”

“All safe, are we?” Douglas asked as he came out of the flight deck, followed by Martin.

“Not only are we safe, MJN is safe as well. And Martin, hell must have frozen over, because I’ll be paying you a salary from now on.”

Martin was too dazed to respond.

“Did you hear me, Martin?”

“You’re not talking about ‘three times my current salary,’ or something like that, are you? Because it wasn’t funny the first time.”

“No, a real salary, with which you can purchase entire bags of potatoes, or whatever vegetables you so desire.”

“Oh!” said Arthur. “Do I get one too? I’d like more potatoes.”

“Yes, as long as you promise to move out.”

“Oh,” he said, looking a bit hurt. “Can I live down the road and come and visit?”

“As long as you promise never to sleep over, yes.”

“Ah, well, that’s good then. Brilliant!”

“A real salary …” Martin said, still sounding dazed.

“Yes, Martin, actual money. But you need to stop looking stunned and fly us out of here before they change their minds.”

“What about me?” said Douglas.

“I’ll allow you to continue flying in our new, more profitable airline,” she said cheerfully.

“What if I told you I was instrumental in getting this to work?”

She doubted he was lying — neither of the others could have managed it. “Very well. I’ll buy you a nice bottle of Talisker every Christmas.”

“But I don’t drink!”

“I know,” she said gleefully, “isn’t it ironic? Now, let’s get out of here before we have any black helicopters following us home.”