Episode Four: The Arrival

Verity Defensor was well rested and well fed. She had arrived the previous night at Cebu Mactan airport, taken the MyBus to SM City Cebu mall, crossed the road (very precariously) and checked into the Bayfront Hotel North Reclamation. Her jetlag had improved, her stomach was full with a delicious unlimited breakfast buffet, she had passed through the chaotic reception and had picked up a hired motorcycle from the hotel’s car park, complete with a jet black helmet.

She was ready for action.

And she would certainly see some today.

She was meeting with Ma’am Norma Jones MBE – Deputy Chief of Mission of the Embassy of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. And she was meeting her at the restaurant at the Bai Hotel.

Now, this place was new. It hadn't been there when Verity was last in the Philippines. But it did not take her long to find it. As she drove up Oano Avenue in Mandaue City, past North Drive Mall on her right and Park Mall on her left, past Cebu Doctor’s Hospital, there it was, jutting high into the sky: an enormous grey, black and white complex, folded in half like a book standing on its spine, with the hotel's other facilities in a small building in the middle. Twenty-three floors. Six hundred and sixty-eight rooms. A rooftop pool bar that was the envy of most other hotels in Cebu.

If Norma Jones was trying to impress her, or intimidate her, she was going about it the right way.

Verity turned right into the hotel access road, passed their other business (restaurants, a hairdressers, small shops) and followed the directions of their staff to park her motorbike in their spacious parking lot, before entering reception.

And this place was impressive: brightly lit in golden yellow, great circular sculptures hanging from the ceiling several floors above her, comfortable couches....

Okay, she had to have her helmet checked and her bag scanned to even get into this place, but so what? It was worth it.

At least she knew UK tax payers money was being well spent.

She asked a passing staff member where Cafe Bai was. He told her very politely, showed her to the lift, and placed his hand to his heart as he wished her a pleasant day.

Okay. She thought. Little cultic, but never mind.

A quick ride in a very smart and clean lift to the third floor and she was there. She turned to her left out the lift and headed to Cafe Bai.

What greeted her was a feast for the eyes, not just the stomach. In front of her was such a rich array of food that she honestly wished she hadn’t eaten before coming here: breads, cereals, Korean food, Japanese food, local favourites, cheese, ham, yogurt... It just seemed to be endless. And all presented with a compulsive obsession for perfection.

A very smartly dressed waiter met her at the entrance while her eyes were still drinking it all in. ‘I’m sorry, Ma’am, but the buffet is now closed until lunch time.’ he told her in a gentle, but authoritative manner.

It was then that she noticed the waiting staff were actually putting food away, not putting it out.

Good thing I've already eaten, then. She told herself.

‘I’m here to see Ms Norma Jones.’ She told him.

‘Ah, you are a guest of Ma’am Norma.’ he said to her, with a little bow of his head, before placing his hand on his heart, as seemed to be their way here. ‘My apologies. I will take you to her. The kitchen staff are clearing up, but I can get you something, if you wish.’

She quickly scanned around. ‘I don’t suppose you have any sikwate available? Or mga puto?’

‘I will see what I can find for you, Ma’am.’ he told her, as he led her to a table for two in a far corner of the cafe with a wide view of the city beneath them.

The lady at the table dabbed her mouth most politely with a napkin and rose to meet her. She was middle aged – forty-ish, Verity would say – and power dressed in a flawless royal blue suit jacket and prim knee-length skirt. Her hair was pinned to within an inch of its life, so that it would not dare stray out of line. Her make-up was brutally efficient: enough to let you know it was there, not enough to overpower. She clearly was a deeply impressive, deeply professional person.

Or, at least, that was the opinion she wanted to project.

And she was at least a foot and a half taller than Verity. Her deep blue kitten heels made it worse.

She extended her hand towards Verity. ‘Verity Defensor? Norma Jones. Please to meet you.’ she announced, performing her perfunctory politeness.

Verity shook her hand briefly. ‘Please to meet you, too. Thank you for making the time.’ Verity took a seat opposite Norma, while Norma brushed her butt to straighten out her skirt and sat back down where she had been.

‘Your timing was impeccable. I had a breakfast meeting with the Mayor on behalf of some British businesses. I’m happy to make the time for you. You work for the Morning Edition, don’t you? A fine institution.’

Verity opened her mouth to correct her, but Norma was in mid flow and would not be stopped.

‘Only you don’t work for them anymore, do you? Quite the spat with the boss, I hear. And now you’ve transferred to the Island Times. From a nationally respected media outfit to a small local rag. That’s quite the drop, isn’t it? What makes someone do that?’ Norma probed.

Verity was a little stunned. Her preparation for this interview had told her that Norma came from a legal background, but she hadn’t anticipated being cross-examined during her own interview. ‘Wow! You know a lot about me.’ she breathed.

‘I make it my business. Especially when I'm being interviewed by the press.’ Norma smiled smugly, while eating a slice of toasted bread and bacon.

Verity inhaled a lungful of air to calm herself down. ‘Yes, I have transferred. But Island Times is a local institution and I’m proud to work for them.’ She told Norma, deliberately making it seem like she had been wounded.

‘Quite the salary drop, I imagine.’ Norma shot back, slurping hot coffee from a mug.

‘I’ll get by.’ Verity parried, as a plate arrived with a mug of hot sikwate and three puto was delivered by a waiter in immaculate uniform, and placed on her table with the usual hand on heart greeting.

Norma’s eyes broke her professional cool. They opened wide and gazed at the dish Verity had just been delivered. ‘What is that?’ she cooed.

‘Local hot chocolate with rice cakes. Quite the delicacy in Cebu. Have you never tried it?’ Verity asked.

‘I usually don’t bother with local food. I’m a meat and two veg and baked beans sort of person. But I have to say, that looks interesting.’ Norma raised her spoon. ‘May I?’

‘Go ahead.’ Verity permitted her.

Norma took her spoon and dipped the tip of it into the sikwate, before tasting it. ‘Oh my!’ She exclaimed. ‘That is most agreeable. Certainly puts “Horlicks” in the shade. If I bathed in that stuff, I would not need a plughole.’

Verity shivered and did her best not to imagine that rather disgusting picture.

Norma wasn’t done. ‘Anyway, down to business. What was it you wanted to discuss?’

‘Is “on the record” okay?’ Verity asked, removing her mobile phone from her trouser pocket.

Norma nodded. ‘The British government has nothing to hide.’ She patted her lips with her napkin again. ‘Fire away.’

Verity placed her mobile phone on the table and pressed record, before posing her first question: ‘I’ve noticed that the British Embassy in multiple countries has begun to use influencers to spread the word about British businesses. Where did that idea come from?’

Norma was happy to engage. ‘Well, that is an interesting question. We realised that entrepreneurs and business leaders were getting younger. They didn’t want to connect with a fusty, old fashioned, behind-the-times British Embassy. They wanted something more social media savvy, more up-to-date, more “down with the kids”, if you get what I mean.’

Verity smiled knowingly. She wondered if Norma had ever been ‘down' with anyone.

Of course, Norma wasn’t done. ‘So we engaged with a bunch of social media influencers – people who could make an impression on the current generation, make them want to invest in us in this post-Brexit world.’ she added.

‘Was the contact direct or through an intermediary?’

‘We used an agency: Pink Boy Media.’

‘Which, itself, is led by an influencer.’

‘Correct: Shiloh Stalker Valdez. And, I have to admit: they are really hands-on. Did you know that they are bringing their own team and shooting the campaign themself? What a great person!’ Norma gushed, her enthusiasm for the programme plainly apparent.

‘And has that endeavour been successful?’ Verity probed, carefully keeping her emotions in check.

‘Yes, I believe it has. We have some of the brightest and best signed up to come to our wonderful country once they graduate. We have thousands of nurses currently applying for visas. And Shiloh themself is recruiting so many people for their entertainment company. In fact, they are holding an event in a couple of days' time, at the Heritage Hotel in Ormoc City. You should go. I hear his benefits are astonishing. You'd get better pay than working for a local rag, for sure.’

Verity knew she was being goaded. But she couldn’t be riled. She was here for a reason. Getting angry at a clueless career civil servant wasn’t it.

But it was time to stop messing around and head for the jugular.

‘So, these influencers who do work for you... are they hired by Pink Boy Media, or by the Foreign Office directly?’ Verity probed.

‘Pink Boy Media does the hiring and firing – although there’s not been much call for firing.’ Norma chortled, horse-like, before slurping more coffee.

‘Have they been vetted?’ Verity asked her pointedly.

Norma wasn’t expecting that. She put her coffee cup down on the table. ‘Whatever do you mean?’ she asked.

‘Well, if I passed an interview for the Foreign Office, or anywhere in the Civil Service, you would vet me to make sure I wasn’t a terrorist or a criminal. Were Pink Boy Media vetted, and are their employees vetted?’ Verity explained herself, putting Norma even further on the hook.

‘Well, we financially vetted all the directors of Pink Boy Media. They came up clean. And their employees are their problem, not ours. Why do you ask?’ Norma batted back.

‘What if one of the directors in Pink Boy Media was involved in serious criminality? What if I had evidence of this? What would happen?’ Verity went for the kill.

‘I would need to see this evidence.’ Norma spat.

‘But would you act on it?’

‘I would need to see it first. What kind of offences are we talking about anyway?’ Norma fired, obviously growing very uncomfortable about the line of questioning, since it was no longer about her and her achievements.

‘Modern slavery. Fraud. Money laundering. Drug smuggling. People trafficking. Running brothels. Paedophilia.’ Verity rattled off from her notes. ‘Would that be enough for you to take action?’

Norma rocked back in her chair in shock. ‘Those... those are pretty serious charges.’

‘They are.’ Verity agreed. ‘And it would be such a pity if the UK government became attached to a company that was guilty of them. What a scandal that would be!’

Norma was stunned. ‘What I meant is to say that those are pretty serious charges, and they need some pretty serious evidence to prove them.’ She scolded Verity. ‘You can’t just throw them around like they are meaningless.’

‘Oh they are not. Definitely not for me.’ Verity corrected her.

But, of course, Norma wasn’t listening. ‘I mean, someone of your position can’t really make accusations like that against someone like them.’ she jabbed.

Now it was Verity’s turn to be shocked. ‘”My position”? What do you mean?’

‘Did I say “position”? I meant “persuasion”.’ Norma clarified.

Verity stared at her, simply stunned.

‘Look, it's like this.’ Norma began. ‘They are who they are. You are who you are.’

‘And who am I?’ Verity was plainly irritated, but wanted to see just how much this jumped-up pen-pusher with an inflated salary and sense of self-importance knew about her.

Norma could see she was offended and tried to dig her way out of the hole she had dug for herself. ‘A woman of colour, who, in a certain light, and with a certain perspective, may be seen as attractive. To some men. Maybe even women. Anything is possible nowadays.'

Verity shook her head in disgust.

Norma continued. ‘...But who, coming from an Evangelical Christian background and from a highly religious culture, may hold certain arcane beliefs about other minority groups that may be seen, by a judge or jury, as causing bias.’

‘I’m sorry? What?’ Verity spat.

Norma tried to explain herself better. ‘It’s like this. Let’s just say you make these accusations and you stand by them. I have no doubt in my mind that Pink Boy Media and their CEO will absolutely sue you for defamation. No question. Then you will have to present your evidence in court...’

‘... which I am absolutely willing to do.’ Verity bluffed, knowing that, as of that moment, what she had was not nearly strong enough.

Norma continued. ‘But do you think the judge or the jury will hear you? Or do you not see that they will think, “She’s a religious nut. She wants all gay people to burn in hell. She’s doing this out of spite.”?’

Verity was winded. She could not believe that she was hearing. Her mouth gaped open. She stared hard at Norma, hoping she had somehow dreamed up the words that had just come out from our mouth.

But Norma wasn’t done yet.

She abruptly changed tack and trumpeted, ‘What I can say is that we will not tolerate crimes like that. The British government never has. We have never tolerated slavery...’

(Completely forgetting the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade).

‘... we have never tolerated corruption...’

(Forgetting the decades that it stalked the UK government.)

‘...we have never tolerated drug smuggling...’

(Forgetting the Opium Wars in China)

‘...and we have never tolerated paedophilia.’

(Forgetting the countless scandals of the past century when the British Government and its various institutions had done exactly that).

‘...and so you can be assured that I will not tolerate them now.’ Norma pontificated, before climbing down off her high horse. ‘Now, you have to tell me where to get that hot chocolate. It was just to die for!’

Not so far away, on an island between Cebu and Ormoc, Charlotte Chapman was finally waking up. She scanned wearily around. She appeared to be in a bedroom, painted in restrained pastel colours. No-one's belongings but her own were in the room and the wooden wardrobe was empty, which led her to believe it was a guest room. The simple and under-stated furnishings told her this was not a high end hotel. On the wall was a wooden Christian cross, without Jesus, so not a crucifix. She didn’t know much about religion, but she reckoned that the owner was probably not a Catholic, which was unusual here. There were also colourful posters on the wall with pictures of nature and what seemed to be Bible verses in English and at least one local language.

Protestant. Her host was a Protestant Christian.

Well, things could have been worse.

Gloria Amparo was passing her room when she heard her groaning, and the wooden struts of the bed creaking. She knocked on the door and eased her way inside.

‘Where am I?’ Charlotte groaned.

‘Safe. Let’s just say “Safe” for now.’ Gloria gently told her.

‘But how did I get here?’

‘I pulled you from the sea.’

Charlotte looked quite taken aback by this revelation. Gloria looked diminutive. Not weak, but surely unable to have carried out such an act of heroism. Not her. Surely.

Gloria tried hard to reassure her. ‘Don’t worry, Charlotte. Only a few people know where you are. All those who might seek to harm you believe you are dead. You are safe here. Completely safe.’

‘I don’t even know where I am.’ Charlotte mused. ‘Or how you know my name.’

‘Have a wash, get dressed, come for breakfast and I will explain everything to you.’ Gloria told her. ‘But take your time: I’m not so young anymore. I can’t cook so fast.’

Keen for answers, Charlotte did as she was told: she followed Gloria’s directions to the bathroom, got dressed in some clothing Gloria gave her (just a loose top and some baggy trousers), and found the living room and kitchen, where Gloria had just finished cooking garlic and egg fried rice, lumpia (spring rolls), tocino (spiced and sweetened pork), fish and cups of hot, sweet chocolate.

It was then that Gloria explained everything:

‘My name is Gloria Amparo, and this is my retreat, here on Poro Island in Camotes. For the past few days, you have been followed by my dear friend, Rohelio Gomez.’

Charlotte didn’t like that. She suddenly became agitated, looking like she would get up from the table and run. But Gloria touched her hand.

Instantly, Charlotte was calm. There was something about this gentle little old lady that reassured her.

‘Don’t worry: I will not turn you over to him. That is your choice, not mine.’ Gloria explained carefully. ‘He knows all about you and what you have done. But he also knows what has been done to you. Rohelio told me about you. He told me to rescue you from the water.’

Charlotte was still not convinced. She looked away, as if Gloria’s soft eyes could somehow hypnotise her.

Gloria tapped her hand. ‘Charlotte, we care for you. We want you to live – to really live – free of this awful man. But we can only help you. You have to decide for yourself. And while you are thinking, you are welcome to stay here for as long as you want. No conditions. We only want what’s best for you.’

Charlotte stared at this old woman once more.

She believed her. She actually believed her.

And deep inside, it felt like her heart was already starting to heal.

But slowly.

And warily.

Six thousand miles away, and six hours behind, Alexei Orlov lay resting in the basic hotel room the Polish police had found for him. Without warning, there was a knock at the door. Alexei knew better than to let his guard down. He looked through the peep hole in the door.

Two burly men flashed their identity cards. ‘Policja’ they announced themselves.

Alexei opened the door. One of them thrust his phone at Alexei and motioned for him to take the call. Alexei obliged.

‘Dobry den.’ The male voice spoke with an obvious American twang. ‘Is this Alexei Orlov?’

‘Yes.’ Alexei replied in his own heavily accented, russified English. ‘Who is speaking?’

‘FBI.’ the male voice said to him. ‘Meet me at the Chopin Monument. Half an hour. These gentlemen know the way.’ he instructed Alexei.

Alexei was somewhat reluctant. ‘Am I in trouble?’ he asked.

‘No. Not at all.’ the American man tried to reassure him. ‘I have an opportunity for you, that’s all.’

‘What opportunity?’

‘Come and see. No pressure. I promise you. You do not have to accept it, but it could change your life. So will you come?’ the man asked.

Alexei reasoned for a second. His life was a mess. He had no income. No job. No place to live. And some... (he had no words to describe what he felt about him)... had pimped out the love of his life until she lay in pieces in a Polish police cell.

Maybe it was time things changed for the better.

‘Okay. Okay. I'll come.’ he agreed.

‘Great. Let me speak to my Polish friends and we’ll make it happen.’ the voice told him. Alexei complied. He passed the phone back to the policemen. Within a few minutes, he was sitting in the back of an unmarked police car, two plain clothed cops in front of him, being chauffeur-driven at speed through the downtown Krakow traffic to the Chopin Monument.

And it really was quite something: steel pipes, modelled to look like the pipes of a church organ, each one spurting water into a fountain, in beautiful grounds between the Philharmonic building and the city walls. It was so peaceful. And green.

It almost made Alexei forget there was a war.

There, in a quiet bench on a far corner of the tree-lined park, sat a man in a shirt, tie and trench coat, despite the warm temperature. He looked more than a little overweight, with a not-so gradually receding hairline, and used a handkerchief to dab great beads of sweat from beneath his Panama hat.

Alexei chuckled.

Evidently this guy was not under cover.

He wandered over to him and sat down on the bench behind him.

‘You’re Alexei Orlov, aren’t you?’ the CIA agent asked him.

‘If you need to ask, then the CIA is not as good as they say.’ Alexei replied pointedly.

‘Ouch.’ The CIA officer pretended to be wounded by his remark, before adding sarcastically, ‘You see? Words like that are why I’m in therapy.’

‘You know my name. What is yours?’ Alexei asked him. ‘Your real name: not some dumb spy name.’

‘Stefan Polchinski. Polish by culture. New Yorker by breeding.’ Stefan told him.

‘Please to meet you, Stefan Polchinski.’ Alexei extended a lean, but muscly hand, which Stefan shook with five thick, sausage-like fingers.

‘I think you will be even more pleased to meet me once you hear what I’m offering.’ Stefan told him.

‘What are you offering?’

‘One million dollars. Cash. Half now; half on completion of the job I have for you. American passports for you and your wife.’ Just in case Alexei missed the point, Stefan laid it on thick. ‘You can get out of here, Alexei. You can start again in the land of the free. You can get your life back.’

Alexei whistled. ‘Nice offer. Very tempting. But what is the job?’

Stefan sucked in some air to ensure he had enough oxygen to explain it. ‘You and I have a common enemy, Mister Orlov. He is an international criminal making serious money from the suffering of women like your wife. Every police force in Europe and North America, not to mention a few in Asia, want this guy. But we cannot touch him, because...’ He spat his next words with all the venom of a deeply frustrated man. ‘...some clown in an Embassy of one of our close partners decided to hand him diplomatic immunity. If we take him out, the Vienna Convention crumbles and it’s open season for our personnel, including me.’

‘So what do you want me to do about it, Mister Polchinski?’ Alexei asked, a pointedly sarcastic inflection in his tone.

Stefan sighed. ‘We want you to liquidate him.’

‘You want me to take all his money?’ Alexei teased.

‘No, no. We want you to ice him.’ Stefan tried to clarify.

‘That’s easy. I’ll turn his air con up too high.’

Stefan’s hackles were starting to rise. ‘We want you to send him home in a box.’

‘What? Like Fed Ex? Kind of expensive. Especially if he is a big man like you.’ Alexei parried, a sly look on his face, which irritated Stefan all the more. ‘Look, you Americans and your silly slang! You are so quick to send a foreigner like me to do your dirty work for you so your hands are clean, but you’re so afraid of what it is you actually want me to do: you want me to kill this man, don’t you? You want him dead?’

Stefan sighed with exasperated relief. ‘Yes, yes we do, Mister Orlov. We want you to kill this man. We want him dead.’

‘Well, just say it then!’ Alexei corrected him.

‘I think I just did.’ Stefan pointed out.

‘So you did.’ Alexei agreed. ‘Well done. We’re making progress. But I just have one question.’

‘What?’ Stefan sighed in frustration.

‘Which man do you want me to kill?’

Stefan fished a large and clearly expensive mobile phone from his jacket breast pocket, unfolded the screen, which doubled in size, and showed him a video clip.

‘This man.’ he said, pointing at the screen. A live feed was showing of what seemed to be a rather outsized Asian woman in a tight top (which showed a decidedly muscly body) and their devastatingly pretty Asian male and female companions, all in teeny-tiny clothing, cavorting and splashing around on a stunning white sandbar.

Alexei was a little confused. ‘Which man?’ he asked.

Stefan placed his finger on the over-tall Asian ‘female’. ‘This man.’

‘To quote the great Steven Tyler, that dude looks like a lady.’ Alexei quipped.

‘Well, he’s biological male. He has all the equipment. His name is Shiloh Stalker Valdez.’ Stefan told Alexei. ‘This is a live feed showing him and his buddies having fun on Kalanggaman Island in the Philippines, while your better half is lying in a police cell, broken. It’s like they’re dancing on her grave, Orlov.’

‘Only, she is not dead.’

‘I know.’

Alexei thought for a second, and then clapped his hands together as the realisation hit him. ‘Now, I get it. He is gay. You cannot shoot a gay man because you are American and that would be a hate crime. So you get a homophobic Russian to do it for you. Very clever!’

Stefan was quick to correct him. ‘No, no, it’s not that. Not at all. Honestly. Although I have to admit that my boss will send me on a “Diversity and Inclusion” course after this case. This guy genuinely does have diplomatic immunity – he’s working on some influencer contract for the British Embassy. It was part of the deal. So we really cannot touch him.’

‘And this guy made money from my wife’s suffering?’ Alexei asked, intrigued.

‘He makes money from lot of wives’ suffering.’ Stefan added.

‘Sorry, I just had to check. Wouldn’t want to be killing the wrong guy. Your justice system is too good at that.’ Alexei quipped.

‘Again, ouch.’ Stefan pretended to wince sarcastically. ‘Especially as it comes from a soldier whose army make a habit of killing innocent people. So are you in?’

Alexei toyed with him. ‘Ex-soldier, but yes, I’m in. However, my price just went up. You know inflation. It’s a pain. But there is a war on. And I am taking all the risks in your little outsourcing arrangement.’

Stefan sighed deeply. ‘What do you want, Orlov?’

Alexei grinned. ‘I want two million dollars – one now, the other on completion – paid into a Swiss bank account in my name. Make it high interest.’

‘Okay. We can do that.’ Stefan affirmed.

‘And I want to travel Singapore Airlines. No-one else. Business class.’

He watched as Stefan mentally noted it down and nodded his agreement.

‘And I want the American passports in advance. Mine should be diplomatic. And I will only do this job if, tomorrow morning, I have a video call with my wife and she is on top of the Empire States Building in New York, and tells me she has an appointment with the best therapist money can buy. I want my wife to be safe, Mister Polchinski. I want her back. I am sure you understand.’

Stefan nodded, albeit somewhat reluctantly. ‘Okay. Okay. I think we can do that. So, do we have a deal?’ He extended his chubby hand for Alexei to shake.

Alexei shook it firmly. ‘We have a deal. Consider him dead.’ he said definitively.

‘You know, I really would prefer “iced”.’ Stefan attempted to correct him.

Alexei smiled sarcastically. ‘Yeah, I’m sure you would.’

That night, the still tearful Lyudmila was taken from a cell and placed on a US government charter flight directly to La Guardia Airport.

The next morning, Alexei took a taxi from his rundown hotel and exchanged it for John Paul II Airport, with its modernistic glass and steel exterior on the outskirts of Krakow. He hoisted his duffel bag on his back, ready to check it in, and noticed on the boarding pass the Polish police had given him said that he was travelling Lufthansa.

He hoped they were not trying to hoodwink him.

He checked in his bag without any issues, crossed security and sat down in the departure lounge, waiting for his gate.

It was then that his phone rang. It was then that he had a tear-stained call with a very grateful Lyudmila, whose shampooed and conditioned blonde locks were glistening in the spotlights, and wafting in the breeze, as she gazed in wonder at the view of New York City from the top of the Empire States Building. He confessed his undying love for her. He promised her he would see her soon.

And then Stefan's chubby face blocked out his view. ‘Alright, Orlov. Thank you for sending me home. But we have a deal.’

Alexei sniffed back a sob. ‘I’m all checked in and ready to do what you asked.’ He told Stefan. ‘Just don’t you dare harm her, or you will be next.’

‘Noted, Orlov. Noted. You’d better go. Gate Ten. One of our people will meet you when you arrive. Godspeed, Alexei Orlov.’ Stefan wished him.

The call ended. Alexei strolled towards Gate Ten, where, alongside families with infants, those with assistance and certain loyalty club members, he was given priority boarding.

Business class. Just as he'd asked.

And he meant business.