After the Champagne and before he knew it, the tray had been removed and the cabin lights dimmed. Somewhere over the sea, ignorant of how many hundred kilometers they were off Halifax or in how many hundred Iceland would be directly north in the darkness, Jules Lacour put his seat back a quarter of the way, checked his watch, and looked out the window. The cabin had grown quiet and the stewardesses had retreated. Standing in an alcove, illuminated from above and framed in black, they spoke softly and sometimes laughed. Most of their work was done until morning. Perhaps the one he liked was thinking of him.
Of the seven hours and twenty minutes of flight, almost six hours remained–six hours in which to think of how to plan revenge, save a life, and give his own. With stars all around, the plane split a path through the night, rising and falling more smoothly than a boat on a gently rolling sea.