To reach their chartered jet, they had to use an extremely exclusive side entrance to the Pan Am terminal that led directly to the airline's most isolated and protected ultra-VIP sanctuary. This was the place that was used only for the likes of Margaret Thatcher, Fidel Castro, or Michael Jackson. A quartet of Pan Am officials was waiting for them. There was an undercurrent of excitement in the superplush suite of rooms, as though the Pan Am people thought they were participating in some real-life James Bond epic. Gibson wondered what story they'd been told regarding the reasons for this sudden no-expense-spared flight.

Smith went straight to work. "Is the aircraft prepared for takeoff?"

"It's fueled and stocked but it'll be about twenty minutes before it can be integrated into the traffic pattern and given clearance. Would anyone care for a drink while you're waiting?"

Smith began to shake her head, but Gibson quickly interrupted. The Methedrine was riding roughshod over the tranks that they had given him, and if he didn't have something to mellow him out a little, he'd be chewing on the inside of his lips. "Yes, I would. I'd like a very large Scotch, please, the oldest single malt you have behind your bar."

One of the Pan Am officials beckoned to a hovering waiter. "Ralph here will take your order."

Gibson repeated the order to Ralph. To his surprise, as Ralph walked away, Klein beckoned to him. "I'll have one, too."

"Certainly, sir. What would you like?"

"I'll have the same as him."

Gibson raised an amused eyebrow. "I didn't know that you people drank."

Klein winked. "You'd be surprised what we do. I have a feeling that this is going to turn into a long and grueling trip, and I thought I might settle in just a little."

The drinks arrived before he could elaborate. Two very large Scotches on a silver tray with separate glasses of ice and water and a bowl of mixed nuts. Klein put two ice cubes into his and topped it off with a little water. Gibson took his straight. As the first sip hit his tongue, he let out a delighted gasp.

"Like a dancing angel."

It was possibly the finest whiskey that he had ever tasted.

All too quickly, as far as Gibson was concerned, the flight was ready to board and he found himself being ushered toward the escalator that led out onto the dark tarmac. The twin-engine executive jet was standing by itself under cold floodlights in the parking area reserved for large private aircraft. There was no other traffic that late at night, and they had the area to themselves. The plane was white with gold trim, and as they hurried toward it, one of the Pan Am officials attempted to fill in a little of its background.

"I think you'll enjoy traveling in this aircraft, Mr. Hoover…"

Hoover? Who the hell did they think he was? Didn't the guy recognize him? It wasn't that long since he'd been a regular in People magazine.

"… it was originally built for an Arab oil prince and it really is on the cutting edge of luxury."

Gibson glanced curiously at the official. "What happened to the prince?"

"He was assassinated by his brother-in-law. That's how the aircraft became available for private charter."

If pink leather couches, concealed lighting, gilt cherubs, and a fifty-inch projection TV were the cutting edge of luxury, then the Pan Am official was right on the money.

As he stepped into the cabin, Gibson looked around in wonder. "Christ, it looks like a flying whorehouse."

The captain was waiting to greet them. He smiled and nodded. "I believe that was what its first owner used it for most of the time. I'm Captain Donovan, and my crew and I hope that you enjoy your flight. Flying time to London will be just under seven hours."

Gibson wondered if all airline captains were turned out from the same mold: calm, tall, mature, good-looking and slow-spoken, laugh lines at the corners of their eyes, and gray at the temples-the very image of capable reliability.

Once again, Smith had no time for pleasantries. "Will we be leaving right away?"

"We're going through the final clearances right now. As soon as you're settled in, we'll start to taxi out to the runway."

"Which airport will we be landing at?"

"We'll be coming into Luton. It was thought to be less conspicuous than Heathrow."

"We'll need a suitable car waiting when we arrive."

The captain nodded, "As soon as we've reached our cruising altitude, I'll call ahead and make the arrangements."

Smith thought about that. "I'd rather this was left to the last moment, say when we're an hour or so out from London. That way there'd be less chance of word of our arrival leaking out."

The captain was nothing if not anxious to please. "Whatever you suggest." He indicated the cabin attendant, who up to that point had been standing in the background. "I have to go forward now. This is Janine, she'll be happy to answer any other questions that you may have and generally make your flight as comfortable as possible."

Janine stepped forward with a professional smile. "Hi, if you'd all like to take your seats and strap in, we'll be getting underway."

If anyone had ever needed a model for the perfect stewardess, Janine would have admirably filled the role. She had lavish red hair that might have belonged to Ann-Margret in her Vegas prime. Her figure was long-legged showgirl perfect and shown off to total advantage by the short tailored uniform that matched the pink and gold of the decor. As he dropped into his seat and fastened the seat belt, Gibson wondered idly how well acquainted he and Janine might become during the seven-hour Atlantic crossing. There had been a time when stewardesses had fallen all over him, but since his very public descent from grace, their ardor had cooled to nothing more than routine courtesy.

As soon as they were in level flight, and the seat-belt sign was off, Gibson stood up and started to explore the possibilities of the aircraft. The speed made it virtually impossible for him to sit still. The first thing that he discovered was a smaller rear cabin that was taken up by an enormous circular water bed and a second projection TV. When he saw it, Gibson laughed out loud.

"Jesus, it really is a flying whorehouse."

Janine stepped through the connecting door behind him."The ex-prince had very distinctive taste."

Gibson looked along a shelf of videocassettes beside the bed. They were mainly S amp;M porno punctuated by Clint Eastwood and Sylvester Stallone movies. "I don't think that even Elvis would have gone for decor like this."

He prodded the yielding surface of the water bed. "Did you work for the prince? "

Janine laughed and shook her head. "Definitely not. From what I heard, he expected things from his cabin crews that were far beyond my job description. I work for the charter brokers. The day after tomorrow I'll be dressed like a butler, serving cognac to a Japanese electronics mogul in a walnut-paneled Learjet that looks like an English stately home on the inside."

Gibson sat down on the bed. "That seems like a waste."

Janine reverted to formality. "Would you care for a drink, Mr… Hoover?"

Gibson looked at her with a who-are-we-trying-to-kid expression. "Hoover?"

"I was given strict instructions to not know who you were. The passenger list reads 'J. E. Hoover and party.' "

"I was starting to think that I'd been totally forgotten."

"Actually, I used to have nearly all of your records."

"Used to?"

"I still have them…"

"You just don't admit it in polite company anymore?"

"You did rather screw up, didn't you? I mean, telling the whole of Madison Square Garden to eat shit and die and then stalking off the stage was hardly a great career move. I was there, you know."

"I did worse than that."

"Yes, I read about it."