Page 32 of Gone Before Goodbye
“And vice versa,” Ivan says.
Porkchop disconnects the call.
Ivan Brovski is still smiling. “Your father-in-law has a flair for the dramatic.”
You don’t know the half of it, she thinks, but maybe he does. Still, it is comforting to know Porkchop is on this.
On the plane, Maggie takes a seat in an oversize leather-stitched recliner with a built-in massage function. She has learned something very fast and obvious in the past twenty-four hours:
It’s good to be rich.
Flight Attendant Hannah comes over and offers her “traveling sweats” from Brunello Cucinelli. Maggie accepts. Hannah asks whether she’d like a drink from the bar. Maggie is tempted, but for right now she wants to keep her wits about her, so she takes a water with a slice of lime.
She sits back and watches as the plane takes off from Teterboro Airport. Again she is met by the spectacular skyline of New York City. They don’t tell you this on tour websites, but if you want the best view of Manhattan, you have to go to New Jersey. The plane reaches its cruising altitude of, according to the pilot over the speaker system, thirty-seven thousand feet. The flight time, he tells them, will be eleven hours and twenty-three minutes.
“We have a large selection of films and television programming,” Hannah tells her.
“I just want to get on the Wi-Fi, thanks.”
“Oh, sorry, the Wi-Fi is currently unavailable.”
“Why’s that?”
Another nervous smile. “Here’s a menu of gourmet dishes we serve on board. Let me know if there is anything else I can do for you.”
There is only one other person on the plane—a large man with a scowl who speaks no English. He sits up front, near the pilots. Security, she assumes. Package delivery—and she’s the package.
Maggie heads back to the primary bedroom. The bed looks inviting. She decides—why not?—to lie in it and watch some television. There is no way, she figures, that she will actually sleep, but the blend of exhaustion and stress must be playing games with her. She falls asleep in minutes.
At some point, Hannah wakes her. “Are you hungry?”
She blinks her eyes open. “I am.”
“Our chef Gregor makes wonderful omelets.”
Remembering the Aman, she half jokingly says, “Florentine?”
“Of course.”
“How long was I asleep?”
“I’m not sure. But we land in about an hour.”
No way. No way she slept that long.
“Your luggage is in the corner, but there is a change of clothes waiting for you in the closet if you prefer. There is also a warm coat, hat, and gloves for you. You will need them.”
Hannah leaves, sliding the door closed behind her. Maggie manages to sit up and stumble to the bathroom. She sees the empty glass of water on the night table.
Did they drug her?
In the closet, she finds Loro Piana cashmere loungewear and puts it on. She can’t tell whether the full-length coat is real shearling fur or not—she suspects that a Russian oligarch doesn’t buy fake furs—but ethics aside for the moment, it’s too warm in the plane, so she carries it with her out of the bedroom. She sits at the plane’s dining room table, and Hannah serves her the omelet. It’s delicious, and she can’t help but wonder how Plane Chef Gregor’s compares to the one she refused atthe Aman. Inane thoughts like this circle her head because, as the kids say on social media, it’s about to get real.
They touch down at a small airport. Private, she assumes. No other planes in the air. Nothing lands immediately before them or after. She spots only a handful of other planes on the ground, all looking like rich people’s toys. They taxi to a stop. Maggie reaches into her purse. She has her passport with her. She always carries it, a habit she picked up during her many years working humanitarian crises overseas, when you never knew when you’d be traveling on a moment’s notice.
When the plane door opens, Maggie feels a crushing burst of cold air. She buttons up the coat—definitely real shearling—and slips the matching hat over her head. She finds fur-lined leather gloves in the coat pocket and slips them over her hands, flexing the fingers into place.
Hannah shouts over the howling wind, “Thank you for flying with us.”
