Page 87 of The Atlas Maneuver

The moment of truth.

She looked at Kyra, who, along with the pilot, waited for her decision.

“I’ll stay. Do I now get to know where we are going?”

“Not until we are close,” the pilot said.

He then left them, retracted the stairs, and sealed the cabin door.

“Am I going to regret this?” she asked Kyra.

“I have no idea.”

The only thing that brought her some measure of comfort was that she controlled those bitcoin private keys. Katie wanted them. The CIA wanted her dead. The Japanese? Who the hell knew. So it seemed she’d chosen the lesser of many evils.

But that realization brought little comfort.

CHAPTER 48

COTTON STEPPED FROM THE CAR AND ENTERED THE BUILDING LABELED TRAVEL SERVICE BASEL. The small terminal incorporated a passenger lounge and pilot’s briefing room. Two hangars were attached and he noticed that all of the expected amenities were there. Limousine arrangements, catering, direct ramp access, and customs clearance. Everything and anything private charter services required.

Ejima’s eyes and ears on the ground had described the jet, which clearly belonged to the Bank of St. George. Unfortunately, the plane had stayed for only a few minutes, taking on two female passengers before taking back off.

That was forty minutes ago.

He approached a service desk where a bright-eyed twenty-something in a smart uniform greeted him with a smile, asking in French if she could help him. He decided to stick to her language, which might garner him some brownie points.

“I seem to have missed my flight,” he said. “I was supposed to be on the Bank of St. George charter.”

“Oh, I am so sorry,” she said. “That left nearly an hour ago.”

Ejima stood behind him, near the doors, keeping watch.

For what, he wondered.

“I realize that,” he said. “There are two scheduled to come this way. I need to find out which one it was.”

He knew that, just like in the United States, for every flight in European skies, pilots must submit a flight plan before its initial departure. These were then distributed electronically across the European Union. But to make sure his request was not dismissed, he reached into his pocket, found a hundred-euro note, and handed it over, adding, “Of course, I don’t expect to use your time for free.”

Back in the States that type of incentive was nearly always seized upon with vigor. But in Europe he’d come to learn that the gesture did not always work. He supposed it was the difference between capitalism and the socialism that dominated across the European Union. Just not the same degree of hunger to get ahead. It was there, but not as strong as in the United States. This young lady, though, readily accepted the offer and turned her attention to the desktop computer, tapping the keyboard, studying the screen before saying, “It’s headed to Marrakesh. Morocco. Three and a half hours flying time. Expected to arrive at 3:35P.M. local time.”

Morocco was an hour behind Swiss time.

He thanked the woman and walked over to Ejima, who’d heard everything.

“Catherine Gledhill owns an estate in the High Atlas mountain range, south of Marrakesh,” she told him. “She retreats there often. But tonight, she is hosting a gathering of national representatives there to convince them on the wonders of bitcoin. It’s been scheduled for some time.”

“And you’re just now mentioning this?”

“It was not relevant. Until now.”

“You have operatives there?”

She nodded. “Several.”

“Why are you being so cooperative?” He was having a hard time determining if this woman was on the good or bad side.

“Could we walk outside?” she asked. “Where we can speak more privately?”

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