Page 3 of Gryphon

He could dump the whole thing in her lap and go get drunk now. Or at least hide out in his country place in Västerås. The cross-country skiing in the woods out his back door was supposed to be very good, not that he visited there much. Gertrude had chosen it, the former biathlete Olympian who had swept him off his feet forty years ago, and still skied with a grace like she’d been born for no other purpose.

It was very un-Swedish of him but, other than the joy of watching Gertrude, he hated cross-country skiing.

The winter sky shimmered outside his office window. It looked as if it had been carved from blue sapphire. His last time to look out this window? See his planes soaring aloft?

Only one plane was in sight as a tiny black speck climbing aloft out of Arlanda. He grabbed the big binoculars, the finish worn smooth with that precise gesture repeated thousands of times over the years, to check the paint job.

It wasn’t one of his.

Stockholm to Fjällberget. Fourteen minutes in the air. Driving time of three hours. Anything would be an improvement over sitting in his office, achieving nothing for the next three hours except feeling heartsick. And if he went, there would be no possibility of being back in time for tonight’s retirement dinner; the first good news of the day.

Ten minutes later, he was in his car and driving northwest along the E4.

Why had the damn thing gone down?

2

“Ms. Chase?”

Mike looked up at the man who’d approached their table at the conference luncheon. And kept looking up. Not that he stood particularly tall. But it felt as if he did.

Not even on Mike’s best days, when he was skiing every weekend and hitting the gym most weekdays to keep himself in a steady supply of Denver ski bunnies, had he looked like this guy. Not quite six feet but a chest you could land a 747 on. Well, maybe only a Gulfstream 550 bizjet, but it was still ready for prime time.

Bald, black, and built. He didn’t know that guys looked like that outside of the movies.

He’d addressed the question to Holly, who pointed at Miranda.

Miranda had retreated in many ways over the last few months. She wore top-of-the-line Bose noise-canceling headphones and gold-mirrored Randolph Engineering sunglasses that she probably wished were mirrored on the inside too—so that she didn’t have to look at people at all.

Meg, the autism therapy dog she’d been given after Andi Wu’s abrupt departure, lay on the floor between her feet, snoozing off the small plate of raw ground meat that the conference chef had thoughtfully provided.

It was his first ISASI conference and it felt like being battered in a wind tunnel test. The International Society of Air Safety Investigators conference in Reykjavik made international the key word.

Jeremy was chattering away with the three delegates from the Japan Transport Safety Board in a rapid patter that wholly eluded Mike’s own konnichiwa and arigatou command of the language.

The thick Indian-accented English from the AAIB guys at the table behind him sounded almost as foreign as the group at the next table the other direction from the French BEA laconically discussing the first morning’s lectures in their native tongue.

Miranda’s attention remained riveted on her plate of grilled langoustine and lemon fettuccini. She’d been staring at it without touching her fork; Miranda wasn’t a big fan of foods touching each other, especially unfamiliar foods. Mike separated the two on his own plate and dumped all the mushrooms onto a side plate; she didn’t like their squidgy texture.

Holly tapped Miranda’s arm, then pointed at the newcomer.

While her attention was diverted, Mike switched their plates, giving her the prepared one.

Holly, who always noticed everything, typically nodded her approval when he did something like that. But she hadn’t noticed while too busy admiring Mr. Chest.

He tried to ignore the letdown. Since when did he need her approval? Or anyone else’s? For his entire life before joining this team he’d never needed anyone. Never trusted anyone. And now he felt hurt because Holly hadn’t acknowledged him taking care of Miranda? Since when had pathetic become a line in his team job description?

Miranda tapped the button on her left earmuff, turning down the noise-cancellation on her headset without removing it.

“Ms. Chase?” Mr. Chest had a bass voice low enough to make Vin Diesel sound like a tenor.

“I’m Miranda Chase,” her sunglasses focused on the man’s left elbow.

“I’m Tad Jobson. That’s short for Tad Jobson. Pop wasn’t big on fancy names. He claims it comes from me being just a small tad of a thing when I was born. Mama has more than a few things to say on that any time he brings it up—most of ’em along the you-try-passing-a-watermelon-out-of-your-body-and-see-how-you-feel lines. Either way, I’m your new rotorcraft specialist.” He flashed a big smile.

Miranda turned into an absolute statue long enough for Tad Jobson to look up and around at him and Holly.

When she snapped back to life, Tad didn’t jump, but he sure twitched.

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