CHAPTER 22

   The aircraft carrying former Russian SVR operative Zoya Zakharova flew south over England above a sea of gray clouds. The pilot, Arkady Kravchenko, had been silent for over an hour, but now he spoke up.

“Forty-five minutes from landing. Pay me now.”

Zoya was in the right seat, right where she’d been most of the sixteen hours of their flight time, and she replied, “I’ll pay you in forty-five minutes.”

Kravchenko growled softly. “No. We’ll fly around up here until I get the money.”

“Not a good idea.”

“I assume you don’t have it in cash. You can wire it from my laptop to my account in the Caymans.”

Zoya just looked out through the windshield for several seconds. Finally she spoke with nonchalance. “There is no money.”

She glanced over to the pilot after a few more seconds. The Russian had reddened, his muscles were tensed, but Zoya could tell he’d known the entire time this might happen.

“You aren’t with SVR, are you?”

She shrugged. “I was. At present I am a free agent. I needed a lift. Don’t feel bad, you did a fine job. Next time I talk to Yasenevo I’ll put in a good word for you.”

He reddened even more. “I will turn you in to the British when we land. Tell them you hijacked me.”

“I’ll be gone before we get to the ramp, and you’ll have no proof. And we both know you don’t want to draw attention to yourself after this.”

The man thought a moment. “I’ll contact Yasenevo directly. They’ll know you’re here in the UK. They’ll track you down.”

Zoya answered in a tone that conveyed boredom with the topic. “You do that.”

For the next ten minutes it was silent in the cabin. Then Kravchenko said, “I’m going to the bathroom once more before landing. You have the controls.” And then, “But don’t touch a damn thing. Leave the autopilot on and just sit there.”

She reached over and handed him a Bluetooth earpiece. “If I have any problems I’ll call you.”

He put it in and she slipped one into her ear, pushing back her headset a bit to accommodate it while also allowing the microphone to pick up her voice.

* * *

• • •

Kravchenko slid back his seat, climbed out, and headed towards the cabin.

He walked to the rear, opened the lavatory door, and stepped inside. Immediately he looked back up to the cockpit. He saw the brunette woman in the copilot seat, her attention focused on the gray outside the windshield.

“I’ll just be a minute,” he said, and her reply came over the Bluetooth.

“No need to rush.”

Still looking her way, Kravchenko spun out of the lavatory and moved across the cabin to the galley at the rear. He stepped in, again shielding himself from the woman at the controls. Quickly he reached for an access panel on the wall there and upon opening it he put his hand below the manual cargo-door override lever and felt around for a moment. Quickly his hand found what it was looking for, and he pulled out a small, stainless steel, .38 caliber revolver.

After he checked the cylinder to ensure that it was loaded, he spoke aloud into his Bluetooth. “I will give you some advice, young lady. Don’t cheat a Ukrainian, then threaten a Ukrainian, and then just let him get up and go retrieve a weapon. I’m sure you’ll agree it was very stupid of you to allow me the opportunity to get my gun.”

Her voice answered, but it was not over his earpiece. Instead she was right behind him. “Not if I needed to find out where you were hiding it.”

Kravchenko spun around quickly and was surprised to find the woman there. She grabbed him by the throat and slammed his head up against the wall of the galley, while ripping the pistol from his hand.

After a couple more rough shoves against the wall, he crumpled to the deck.

Zoya picked the pistol up off the floor.

* * *

• • •

Minutes later Kravchenko’s hands were tied behind his back and he sat in one of the cabin chairs. The plane flew on autopilot, with no one at the controls.

The Ukranian man looked up at the woman standing over him with the pistol in her hand. “How are you planning on landing this plane, bitch?”

“With your help, of course.”

He laughed angrily.

“I wouldn’t be laughing. You’re on board, too, remember?”

“You aren’t rated for twin engine, and you don’t know anything about this aircraft.”

She moved him into the cockpit and put him back in the left seat, with his hands still tied behind his back. She pulled out the ear buds and put his headphones over his ears, climbed into the copilot’s position, and put on her own set. After a deep breath she took the controls.

It was quiet in the cockpit for a long moment other than the hum of the aircraft’s engine. Outside the windshield she saw nothing but impenetrable gray.

Finally, she said, “Start talking, man.”

Kravchenko remained silent.

Zoya looked to him, saw the resolution on his face, and realized she had to snap him out of it. She reached over, flipped off the autopilot, and immediately pushed the yoke forward, and the Cessna jet began to dive.

“What the hell are you—”

Zoya said, “You’re right, no way I can land this without you, so let’s just go ahead and end it.”

“You’re fucking crazy!” Kravchenko shouted. “Level off! Reduce throttle! Put the fucking autopilot back on!”

Zoya maintained the dive for a few seconds more, wanting to put enough fear in Kravchenko to where he wouldn’t defy her again. Then she pulled back on the yoke, throttled back to slow her speed, and reengaged the autopilot. All the while the man in the left seat shouted at her.

“What’s wrong with you? You’re a crazy bitch!”

Zoya replied, “Yes, I am. Better not do anything to make this bitch even crazier right now, Arkady.”

Twenty minutes later she was lined up on the runway lights at London Luton, north of the capital. It was three thirty p.m., and heavy rain fell. Zoya hoped this meant she’d have an easier time slipping away from immigration and customs when the plane arrived.

She checked her altitude and speed and glanced over to Kravchenko. “How am I doing so far?”

He did not answer.

She smiled, an attempt to hide her nerves and indecision. “I’m disengaging autopilot.”