Beloved Enemy by Eric Van Lustbader

Hitch?”
    Hitch nodded. He was a rangy blond with an easy, open face, and a ready smile. “It sure is.”
    Tweet rose, stretched, and yawned hugely. In contrast to his navigator, he was dark-haired, with long arms, a bulge at his waist, and an avowed weakness for Dunkin’ Donuts and Big Macs. “See?”
    Jack rose as well, stretching his legs. “I meant I don’t want to get you guys in trouble.”
    Tweet spread his hands. “How’re we going to get in trouble? Nobody knows you’re here, and nobody will, right, Hitch?”
    “Fuckin’ A,” Hitch said, giving a thumbs-up. “I’d die first.”
    “No, really, guys, seriously.”
    “We are being serious,” Hitch said.
    Tweet laughed. “As serious as we ever get.”
    “Listen, Jack, these milk runs are as boring as shit.” Hitch picked up a clipboard, began filling out the first of what looked like multiple forms. “And when they’re not boring, they’re fucking tedious.” He brandished the clipboard. “Ferrying you to Bangkok is gonna make our week.” He grunted. “Hell, it’ll make our whole damn month.”
    “Settle back, pard,” Tweet said. “An hour or so and we’ll be airborne again.”
    “You’ll have to make out a flight plan.”
    Hitch hooked a thumb in Jack’s direction. “Listen to him. A pilot already.”
    “Leave the flight plan filing to us, okay, Jack?”
    Tweet sat back down and began to talk rapidly into his headset, presumably to someone in the control tower. After a minute of trying to translate the jargon on the fly, Jack stopped listening and got himself some food from the small locker built into the side of the cockpit. In the past seven-plus hours, he’d had enough Dunkin’ Donuts to last him several lifetimes.
    “Flip over one of those roast beef sandwiches,” Tweet said as Hitch rose and went out of the cockpit. “And a Coke.”
    Jack tossed him the wax-paper-wrapped sandwich, but handed him the Coke. He had noted during the flight that these flyboys stocked only bottles of Coke manufactured in Mexico, where they used sugar instead of high-fructose corn syrup as a sweetener. Much to his surprise, the flavor was completely different from the domestic version.
    He chose a turkey and swiss, and the two men ate in companionable silence until Tweet said, “Pardon my mouth, but d’you know what the fuck you’re doing?”
    “To be honest,” Jack said around a bite, “I don’t know.”
    “Then why—?”
    “I have no choice.”
    “We all have a—”
    “A friend of mine was killed. I’ve got to find out who did it.”
    “Bad shit.” Tweet shook his head. “Well, for Christ’s sake, don’t get lost in Bangkok.”
    *   *   *
    Hitch locked himself in the tiny toilet, unzipped his trousers, and enjoyed a good, long pee, all the while whistling “Zip-A-Dee-Do-Dah” and imagining a parade of his favorite Disney cartoon characters. When he was finished, he slipped out his mobile and punched in a number. He whistled a different tune, as if by doing so he could conjure up the flying monkeys from The Wizard of Oz .
    “Yes?” the female voice said in his ear.
    “We’re in Berlin.”
    “He’s with you?”
    “Safe and sound, like I said.”
    “Has he deplaned?”
    “Uh-uh. We’ve volunteered to continue on.”
    “That won’t be a problem for you?”
    “Nah. We have the locals greased—have done for years, it was seen to. No worries there.”
    “Has he told you where he wants you to take him?”
    “Bangkok.”
    “Then he knows about Legere.”
    “It would seem so.” Hitch picked at a piece of lint on his trouser leg. “And that Connaston was killed.”
    “Good. Keep him safe until you arrive in Bangkok.”
    Hitch stared at himself in the mirror. “And then?”
    “Then,” the voice at the other end said, “he’s on his own.”
    *   *   *
    Stepping out of the airport terminal into the Bangkok morning, Redbird felt as if he had fallen into a vat of chicken soup. The air was so thick, so