Page 66 of Air Force One
They didn’t make it as far as the couch.
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Inessa almost missed the text. She was half afraid it was Artemy tracking her down. There’d been no word from him, though he’d never been particularly good at communicating by phone when either of them was traveling.
No, it came from the secure number.
She had to read the text twice. Get takeout from a restaurant in town for three: you and pilots. Don’t eat until back on the plane. Blue pills in galley into both their sodas. Red pill in one. Close your window shade five minutes after they drink.
Inessa had seen The Matrix when it first came to Russia. So both pilots were to receive unreality, or was it reality? She couldn’t remember which was which and she supposed that it didn’t matter.
All she knew was that she herself was shifting between the two—and she didn’t know which way she was going either.
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Inessa was exhausted from a long day of dissembling at the sad little clothiers she’d entered. And they’d been so excited at the prospect of having direct access to Inessa’s designs that it almost broke her heart. If all went according to her hopes, they’d never hear from her again. If it didn’t, well, they probably wouldn’t anyway. No misfortune comes without a blessing in it. Perhaps they would find some inspiration from her visits today; they certainly needed it.
After reboarding the plane, Inessa had to dig deep for the energy to charm the two pilots into sharing a meal with her in the main cabin rather than retreating to the cockpit. They’d almost defeated her need to plate the meals for them, but she’d insisted they get comfortable. “You are Russian men. I know better than to let you in the kitchen.” One protested some skill, which she waved away with a flick of her fingers.
In the galley, Inessa saw no sign of any pills on the marble counter. She checked the refrigerator and food storage cupboards below. Nothing. And no sign of Holly or her companion, though she was sure they were somewhere nearby. But there must be some reason they remained hidden.
She’d been in here too long. No help as her phone sat on the table in the main cabin by the pilots.
“Do you have need of assistance, Ms. Turgeneva?” one called out.
“You know my name is Inessa.”
“Do you have need of assistance, Inessa?” she could hear the smile in his voice.
She looked up to the heavens for help. And that’s when she spotted the line of tumblers through the glass-fronted cupboard. One glass with a blue pill and another with red and blue ones. She quickly filled them with sodas, then wondered if she was supposed to empty the pills first. Peeking at the bottom of one glass, she could see the outer casing dissolving away.
“Here,” she took both glasses to them, “You must be so thirsty. Drink up.”
“And what are you having?”
She’d gotten nothing for herself. “I am not flying the plane, so I am going to open a split of that fine champagne and truly enjoy the flight.” She winked at them and took her time pouring a flute.
They were too polite to start eating without her, but their sodas were mostly drained by the time she returned.
The copilot looked decidedly green already, and both were weaving in their chairs.
Inessa closed her window shade.
Inside of thirty seconds, Holly and her companion were aboard.
“Please tell me I haven’t killed them. They have been very nice to me.”
“Blue pills of forgetfulness and red pill of being terribly ill,” Holly snagged a barf bag just in time for the copilot to prove the latter.
“The blue pill is Midazolam,” the man answered. “It’s used by surgeons. It relaxes you, but rather than knocking you out, it makes it so that you can’t form short-term memories. You literally can’t remember the pain of the surgeon cutting into you…or anything else. This man won’t even remember being sick.” Which the copilot was still doing copiously.
“He, courtesy of the red pill of reality, is suffering from a heavy dose of ipecac syrup. You give it to a poisoning victim to make them throw up. It annoys the stomach lining, so he’s literally puking up the evidence.” He found a second bag and handed it to Holly. “The blue of forgetfulness should be out of his bloodstream long before they think to test for it. He won’t remember much between sitting down at this table and waking up in the hospital.”
“Less talk, more action.” Holly interrupted.
Mike nodded. “Ms. Turgeneva, would you be so kind as to call emergency services? We want to get this man removed to a hospital, though he won’t really need one. Hint that he perhaps had some street food and is likely suffering from a simple round of food poisoning. Tell them he has been throwing up for some time and you’re very concerned for him. We hadn’t anticipated two pilots in our planning and have to remove one of them. My name is Mike Munroe by the way, hello.”
“Inessa,” she managed weakly. Her head was spinning. While her hands dialed 103 and she asked for a single ambulance for a man who had fallen ill, she tried desperately to catch up.
