Unknown 9 by Layton Green (e reader txt) 📗

She stored the comment away for further thought. “You said you were in love many times,” she said with a smile. “I can’t imagine any woman refusing the advances of a young Dr. James Corwin.”

“Ha! Plenty have, believe me. The heart can love more than one thing at the same time, Andie, and not just other people. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. Your job, should you travel the path of intuition, is to figure out who or what you hold most dear.” He pointed the cane at her. “And that choice is where the true heartbreak lies.”

Andie finally drifted off to sleep. When she woke, they were touching down just after dawn on a private airstrip surrounded by miles of red-gold desert. “Steve” claimed he had arranged all the details, and Zawadi would foot the bill. Andie was relieved they wouldn’t have to risk using their own documents until they arrived in India.

Under a blazing morning sun, the futuristic skyline of Dubai shimmering in the distance like some high-tech mirage, Steve led Andie and Cal across the tarmac to a white microjet with a portable staircase attached to the side. The engine was thrumming, poised for takeoff.

“Who’s taking us the rest of the way?” Cal shouted over the noise.

“Someone like me,” he answered.

“Why can’t you take us?” Andie said, her lungs choking on dust and fumes, nervous about another transfer with someone she didn’t know.

“Afraid the copter’s my only bird. Don’t worry—he’s in the network.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Cal asked. “How many of you are there?”

“Once you’re in India, you’re on your own. I don’t have contacts there.”

“Are you going to answer my question?”

“I thought we discussed that. I don’t do questions. Listen, you ever been to Kolkata?”

Neither Andie nor Cal had.

“Watch your back there,” the pilot continued. “And not just because of what happened in Bologna.”

“What do you mean?” Andie said.

“I’ve been through a few times on . . . other business. That city’s not for tourists. There are places you shouldn’t go without protection, especially at night.”

She stepped onto the first rung of the movable staircase. “Isn’t that true everywhere?”

“Sure, but some places more than others.”

“We’ll be careful,” Cal said. “Thanks for your help, Steve, or whoever you are.”

“Just doing my job.”

Once they’d boarded, he started rolling the staircase down the tarmac without a backward glance. After exchanging a friendly but curt greeting with the pilot—an African American wearing jeans, a green polo, and a black baseball cap with no logo—the microjet stirred clouds of dust as it roared out of the desert.

The tiny plane had six passenger seats and a restroom so small Andie had to sit sideways. The pilot had set out bottled water and light snacks on their seats: peanuts, apples, and Swiss chocolate bars.

Even more reticent than Steve, the pilot refused to answer any questions except to say they were traveling on an approved flight path, the journey to Kolkata took less than five hours, and he would be dropping them off at Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose Airport to clear customs.

Andie worried the pilot wasn’t who he said he was, or the Ascendants would intercept their flight, or they would be held at customs, or that some other nasty surprise awaited them in India.

But there was nothing she could do about any of that. After she and Cal devoured the snacks, she washed her face in the sink and finally managed to fall asleep.

When she woke, they were touching down in Kolkata.

After landing, the pilot told Andie and Cal to wait, then left the plane to talk with a customs official who had driven up in a grungy white van.

Andie adjusted her watch to account for the three-and-a-half-hour time difference from Sicily. It was 2 p.m. local time. The gray drizzle outside her window obscured the glass-and-concrete sprawl of the airport. On Cal’s side, past a cluster of small planes and Bengali workers scuttling through the rain, she could just make out the skyline of the city in the distance.

“Well,” Cal said, staring out the window. “I hope this airport and the inside of that van isn’t the last thing we ever see. Because that would be depressing.”

Andie felt disoriented. She had never been to India and wished she had woken up sooner, to get a feel for the geography as the plane descended.

They saw the pilot slip something to the driver of the van. Soon after, the pilot returned and said, “You’re all clear.”

Andie and Cal exchanged a glance. Better not to ask questions.

“I assume you’ll want a taxi?” the pilot asked.

“Please,” Andie said.

He stepped out again, shielded his eyes from the rain, then whistled and waved a hand. Within moments, a dark-blue sedan pulled away from a line of cars parked near the rear entrance to the airport. Andie guessed they serviced the private jets, and was relieved they had an easy way out.

The pilot opened the door. After checking her pockets to ensure her devices were intact, Andie climbed down after Cal. Despite the cloud cover, the outside air took her breath away, as hot and steamy as a sauna.

“I’d love some caffeine and a solid meal,” Cal said, “but I vote for leaving the airport as soon as possible.”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

The shouts of workers mingled with the cacophony of noise from the planes. Andie thanked the pilot. He replied with a nod as the driver of the sedan, a portly balding man with a birthmark splotched on his forehead, stepped out to open the door.

“No bags?” he said with a too-quick smile and a heavy Bengali accent.

“It’s just a quick trip,” Andie said, not wanting the driver to remember them.

“Your destination?”

“Quantum Café in Howrah.”

Before leaving Sicily, she and Cal had sourced a café within walking distance of the science institute. They felt safer approaching on foot instead of being dropped in full view at the entrance.

The Quantum Café had a solid web presence—and the name seemed appropriate.

“Yes,” the