The flight to Prague was nine hours long and contained anxiety.
We'd taken a taxi to Newark instead of JFK, less obvious, Damien said. Paid cash. Used our false Canadian passports without issue.
The TSA agent had barely glanced at our documents.
Now we were somewhere over the Atlantic, cruising at thirty-five thousand feet, and I couldn't stop my leg from bouncing nervously under the tray table.
Damien sat beside me in the window seat, outwardly calm. Reading a book he'd picked up at the airport, some thriller about corporate espionage. The irony wasn't lost on me.
Sarah had the aisle seat, laptop open, working on something she wouldn't let me see. Probably coordinating with her Czech intelligence contact.
And oh I forgot to mention Sarah went with us for professional reasons.
The plane was only half full. Economy class on a Tuesday night wasn't exactly prime travel time. Most passengers were either sleeping or absorbed in their own screens.
