Different Circles

“Do you know why you were given this assignment?” Suzie asked him within five minutes of meeting him for the first time at Bangor International.

“They said it was because your previous copilot was released from his contract and I was the only one that they had available to fill in on short notice,” was his reply.

“That’s true,” Suzie agreed, “but not the whole story. He was not released from his contract. He was fired. And do you know why he was fired?”

“Why?” Scott asked nervously.

“Partly because he was an asshole,” she said, “but mostly because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He talked to a reporter and gave her details about our very famous passengers.”

Scott’s eyes widened. “You mean ... all that about how Celia and you ... about Jake Kingsley’s wife and those women... he is the one who talked?”

“He is the one who talked,” she confirmed. “And because he did that, our passengers and me are now in the midst of a whole lot of unwanted attention. My question to you, my new copilot, is what can you learn from Njord’s mistake?”

“Uh ... not to talk to reporters about what happens on the mission?” he asked hesitantly.

“Wrong,” she said. “Not to talk to anyone about what happens on the mission. That means no one, ever—even long after you are done with this mission. You don’t talk to your future PICs or copilots about what happens on the mission. You don’t talk to your wife or your girlfriend or your gay lover about what happens on the mission. You don’t talk to your fucking priest or your fucking rabbi or your fucking bishop or your fucking imam about what happens on the mission. After you die, when you finally get to meet whatever god you worship and believe in, if you want to discuss it then, that’s cool. But until that moment, your mouth stays shut. Are you following me?”

“Yes, absolutely,” he said. “What happens on the mission stays on the mission. Everyone knows that.”

“Apparently everyone does not,” Suzie said. “Now, let’s get this aircraft out of this hangar and preflighted. Our passengers will be here for the ride to Quebec in less than two hours. And this is an international hop, so we’ll have to deal with customs and all that shit.”

“Right,” Scott said. “Let’s do it.”

They did it. And two hours and thirty-eight minutes later, they were lifting off from Bangor International for the one hour and ten-minute flight across the United States border.

Chapter 5: The Tax Man

Rotterdam, Netherlands

May 30, 1996

The flight from Brussels to Rotterdam had only taken about twenty minutes from wheels up to touchdown. Though the flight was international—from Belgium to Netherlands—it was within the European Union and therefore no border check or customs clearance was required. As such, Matt and his band were checking into the Hilton of Rotterdam Hotel only fifty-eight minutes after stepping onto the plane at Brussels International. It took them even less time to find the nearest hash bar.

It was only a block from the hotel, an easy three-minute walk. The establishment was brightly lit, with a large counter where the cannabis products (as well as some underwhelming coffee, since the purported business of the establishment was selling coffee) were sold. The counter was staffed by two young Dutch men and one reasonably attractive Dutch woman. The customers were a mixture of European and American men and women with the notable exception being that none of them were Dutch. These customers sat at tables or played on the dozen or so pinball machines while listening to psychedelic music that played from the business’s sound system. The haze of marijuana smoke was heavy in the air.

Matt, Corban, Austin and Steve were recognized the moment they entered the establishment. They were mobbed by the crowd, fielding requests for autographs and concert tickets. They signed a few pieces of paper and two breasts, told everyone politely that they had no concert tickets to offer, turned down several offers to come smoke out and several more for blowjobs, before they were finally able to go to the counter and order up some quasi-legal smoke.

Overall, Matt found the experience a little disappointing. True, it was quite a novelty to walk into a licensed business and buy weed like he was buying beer in a 7-11, and then to sit down at a table and fire it up like he was in a local bar drinking a Jack and Coke, but, in truth, the ganja was not any better than the illicit European bud they had been smoking (which was nowhere near as good as the California-grown shit they smoked at home) and it was not all that interesting to just sit there and listen to trippy music and watch people playing pinball. And they also did not serve alcohol, just fruit drinks, sodas, and the mediocre coffee.

“Come on,” he said to his band after only thirty minutes in the shop. “Let’s blow this scene.”

“Works for me,” said Austin. “I’m gonna go hit the red-light district and give the legal hookers a try.”