The Brotherhood of the Rose by David Morrell

folders, then the numbers and letters above the rows of seats. They split up, ten rows apart, ahead of Chris.
    He'd waited as long as he could before he'd bought his ticket, hoping to be the last passenger on board the plane. From the back, he'd been watching for anyone who hurried to get on even later than he had.
    As they turned to take their seats, he leaned across the man beside him, staring down the aisle. Their shoes. He wasn't looking for extra-thick soles or reinforced caps that would make the shoes a weapon. Despite the myth of karate, an operative seldom struck with his feet. A kick was too slow. He looked for a more important characteristic. These men wore highbacked shoes snug above their ankles. Preferred by operatives, the high fit supplied the primary function of preventing them from slipping off in a chase or a fight. Chris wore the same design.
    He'd been spotted, no way to tell by whom-the Russians, the English, the French, maybe even his own people. At this moment, someone was making urgent calls to Mexico City. When he landed, a team of assassins-maybe several teams would be waiting for him.
    The jet moved, backing from the dock. It turned, its engines roaring louder as it taxied past the terminal.
    A bell rang in the cabin. A stewardess came along the aisle, checking that everyone's seatbelt was fastened.
    He gripped the arms of his seat, swallowing hard, turning to the woman beside him. "Excuse me. Do you have any Kleenex?"
    She seemed annoyed. Groping in her purse, she.handed him several pieces. "Thanks," He tore the Kleenex, shoving wads of it in his ears. The woman blinked in astonishment.
    The sounds in the cabin were muffled. Across the aisle, he saw two men talking to each other, their lips moving, words indistinct.
    The jet stopped. Through the window, he saw the takeoff strip. A plane streaked out of sight. Another plane took its place. There were only two more planes in front of this one.
    He shut his eyes, feeling the plane's vibrations. His chest tightened.
    The jet moved forward again. When he opened his eyes, he saw only one plane between this jet and the runway Suddenly he yanked his seatbelt. He jerked up, squeezing past the man next to him toward the aisle. A stewardess lunged to grab him. "Sir! You have to stay in your seat! Fasten your belt!"
    He pushed her away. Passengers turned, startled. He heard a muffled scream.
    The two men stared back, surprised. One scrambled to stand.
    Chris grabbed the handle of the emergency door across from him, pulling.
    The door flew open. Wind rushed in. He felt the deeper rumble of the jets.
    The plane approached the runway. As the stewardess lunged again, he clutched the lower edge of the door frame, swinging out into space. He dangled, peering toward the cabin, the frantic passengers, the killer who darted toward him.
    Chris let go of the moving plane. He hit the tarmac, rolling, his knees bent, his elbows tucked, the way he'd learned in jump school. Despite the Kleenex in his ears, he winced from the shriek of the engines. Exhaust roared over him, heat smothering. Another jet loomed close to him.
    He ran.
    The room was massive, antiseptic, temperature-controlled. Computer terminals lined the walls. Fluorescent lights hummed, glaring.
    Eliot's wizened forehead narrowed in concentration. "Airline passengers," he told a clerk. "Which city?"
    "Bangkok. Departures. The last sixteen hours."
    The agency clerk nodded, tapping on a keyboard. Eliot lit another cigarette, listening to the clatter of printouts. The problem stimulated him. There was always the chance that Chris had stayed in Thailand, hiding somewhere. Eliot doubted it, however. He'd trained his operatives to leave the danger zone as soon as possible. Before the Russian's body was discovered, Chris would have wanted a good head start. He'd have used a cover name, possibly an independently acquired passport. Probably not, though. Freelance forgers were a security risk. More likely, Chris would have