She beckoned the approaching steward, hoping to outflank this obnoxious American across the aisle. "Vodka and tonic, please."
"Same as the lady's having, pal." He gave the young Englishman a wink and a thumbs-up sign, then turned back. "By the way, I'm booked in at the Holiday Inn over by Marble Arch. Great room service. Almost like home. You staying around there?"
"No." She watched the steward pour her drink.
"Sorry to hear that. I was wondering, maybe we . . . Do these 'business' trips of yours include taking some time off? Let you in on a secret, just between you and me. I know this little club in Soho where they have live--" he winked, "I got a membership. Tell you one thing, there's nothing like it in Chicago."
"Too bad." He drew on his drink, then continued. "Long stay this trip?"
"Warner. William J. Warner. Friends call me Bill."
"Mr. Warner, I've had a very trying day. So, if you don't mind, I'd like to attempt to get some rest."
"Sure. You make yourself comfortable, now."
He watched as she shifted to the window seat, as far as possible from him, and stationed her leather handbag onto the aisle side. Just then the plane hit another air pocket, rattling the liquor bottles in the galley.
"Maybe we'll catch up with each other in London," he yelled.
"Most unlikely." She glared as she gulped the last of her drink, then carefully rotated to the window and adjusted her seat to full recline. Her face disappeared.
After that the flight went smoothly for a few minutes, and Michael Vance began to worry. But then the turbulence resumed, shutting down drink service as their puny airplane again became a toy rattle in the hands of the gods, thirty thousand feet over the Mediterranean, buffeted by the powerful, unseen gusts of a spring storm. For a moment he found himself envying Zeno, who had only the churning sea to face.
Almost hesitantly he unbuckled his seat belt and pulled himself up, balancing with one hand as he reached in the air to grapple drunkenly with the overhead baggage compartment.
"Sir," the steward yelled down the aisle, "I'm sorry, but you really must remain--"
Another burst of turbulence slammed the wings, tossing the cabin in a sickening lurch to the left.
He lunged backward, flinging his hand around to catch the leather purse and sweep it, upended, onto the floor. With a clatter the contents sprayed down the aisle. Comrade Karanova popped alert, reaching out too late to try and grab it. Her eyes were shooting daggers.