The Airport (The End – Chapter 3 – Part 1)

(if you missed the beginning or any other part, go there first)

I felt a twinge in my stomach just before the plane’s landing gear hit the runway. I wasn’t sure if it was the terrible whisky they had served on the previous flight, the fact that I hadn’t had a proper meal in almost two days, or the terrible feeling that I was going to die in less than a month. But I had felt better. I had also felt worse.

The private jet stopped on the apron, and soon the door opened. I grabbed my hand luggage. As my travelling companions left the plane, I looked through the small round windows. Our welcoming committee was there, waiting. It reminded me of the airport scene in Time and Tide. Or was it a trashy, post-modern version of The Magnificent Seven? You decide.
A hypersensitive academic killer, a misanthropic empath, a generator of blank thoughts on Prozac, a chaos mage in latex, and a manic-depressive instant Zen master. The finest motley crew you could find in the business. I sometimes got the impression that Mr Id liked to surround himself with such aberrations. He could recruit well-balanced agents, but no. They all knew that the reason they were here was to risk their lives. And they all had a smile on their faces. So did I.

I was the last to leave the plane. The weather at HQ was beautiful. Not a cloud in sight. A light breeze perfumed the air with the scent of the local flowers. Everyone was hugging, joking, and chatting. It was finally time to rejoin this merry band.

Bond was wearing his leather trousers. He was the only one who thought they looked cool. Although it was my duty as his friend and partner in crime, I dared not tell him they had been out of fashion for a decade or two. It would have broken his heart. Instead, we burst out laughing as a greeting.

There was no time for small talk. The white limousine we had seen approaching as the plane parked arrived. The laughing and talking stopped immediately. The engine continued to run. A door opened.

Jules, a Tom Collins in hand, was waiting for us in the limousine. We all got in one by one. After making sure we were all comfortably seated, he tapped on the window separating us from the driver. The engine roared, and the vehicle sped off towards the main building, just a few hundred metres away. The Taulier’s right-hand man turned to the minibar. With the precision of a Japanese tea master, and in monastic silence, he gave each of us our favourite drink. As always during this ceremony, he held Roman’s gaze for half a second longer than was comfortable as he handed him his tomato juice without vodka. When everyone had been served, he raised his glass and announced in a solemn voice,

“Ladies and gentlemen. Cheers, but not your feet.”

There was a confused silence. Some agents slowly raised their glasses, glancing at each other. Was this a code phrase they were supposed to know? I wondered for a second, then it hit me. Especially when I saw Jules’ perplexed face. Sadness, almost. I smiled, not that it was very funny.

“Uh, Jules… I’m afraid your joke doesn’t translate well into English.”
“Ah? Oh… OK… Thanks for the info, Count.”

The other French speakers in the car started to get it. One of them even giggled (at the terrible pun or at Jules? We’ll never know).

“Never mind, finish your drinks. Or bring them with you. We’ve arrived”.

(to be continued)

If you missed the beginning or any other part,
click on the logo below:

Author(s)

GP

Factotum polymathe et petite main de la réclame. Ici pour écrire de la fiction de genre sans prétention à la chaîne et mâcher du chewing gum. Or je ne retrouve plus mes chewing gums.

DavidB

Frenchman, exiled on the other side of the planet, DavidB writes. It's not always very good, but who cares, the goal is to write. Sometimes, he also does other things.

MetaStructure is one of his longest-running projects. It was started in the early 2000s. Stopped many times. Started over a few times. Let's hope this time is the right one.