Pandemic

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‘So what the fuck did you do?’ Jonas snapped, loosening his seat belt and looking across the dimly lit cabin at the tall thin man in the leather seat opposite. The Lear had reached top of climb at thirty-five thousand feet out of Cairo, and was heading west into the gathering dusk.

This atypical expletive – Jonas was the senior man and almost always calm and controlled – shocked Wilson. ‘I just did what the three of you refused to do,’ he said, looking back at the hostile expressions of the other men. ‘I had to – my conscience wouldn’t let me ignore it. You know exactly what we were doing back there.’

‘No,’ Jonas said heavily, ‘we don’t know anything. You’re just guessing, and you could be guessing wrong.’

Wilson laughed shortly. ‘You’ve seen the file,’ he said, ‘and you’ve seen the research. How can you ignore it?’

‘Quite easily,’ Jonas replied, and turned to glance out of the window at the navigation lights of their escorting F-4E Phantom jet, a dimly seen shape a quarter of a mile out to starboard and slightly behind the civilian aircraft. Then he turned back to face Wilson. ‘Look, why didn’t you just do what you’ve been paid – and very well paid – to do?’

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