Three Rivers by Roberta Latow Read Free Book Online Page A

guest — she was, after all, an employee — and where was her passport? Her feet were cold, and as she fought off the impulse to rub them, she wondered why she was not more anxious, which was usually the case with Isabel.
    As the extra-long, dark Mercedes shot through the shiny wet streets of Mayfair, she and Alexander, on first-name terms at last, spoke about London, her ability to speak Japanese (so he
was
impressed; clever Endo) and his knowledge of Arabic. In spite of their trivial conversation, there was something nice about Alexander. She felt he was holding something back, but then so was she. Why were they both so cautious? He was kindness itself and certainly doing all he could to make her comfortable, but of course he was under instructions from Sir Alexis to do just that. She wondered if he knew that she was going there as an employee. If he did, he never mentioned the matter. All she knew was that she was feeling well cared for and she settled even deeper into the royal blue velvet cushions as the car sped on.
    Isabel noticed that the rain had let up considerably, and by the time they drove around to the back of Terminal 3 at Heathrow Airport, the rain had stopped. The car pulled up at a pair of high, open, wire-mesh gates set into a fence that ran to the left and right as far as Isabel could see. The chauffeur sounded the horn. Two guards came forward, flashed a light at the license plate and opened the gate. Then one of the guards spoke to the driver, took a pass from him and came to the rear of the car. Alexander pushed a button and the rear window went down. He spoke to the guard, and it was quite evident that they knew one another. The guard tipped his hat and wished Alexander and Isabel a good flight. He went back to his partner and they pushed the two large gates wide open. The car sped through, passing a few cars parked in a vast empty space, headed onto the tarmac of the airfield and pulled up at a flight of stairs leading up to the open entrance door of Sir Alexis Hyatt’s jetliner.
    Isabel looked up at the huge aircraft. All the lights in the plane were on. It looked like some great prehistoric bird that had been grounded. It was painted white and glistened with rain, looking altogether mysterious and beautiful as it stood on the slick, wet tarmac against the black of the night.
    Alexander turned to Isabel and asked her to wait in the car for a few minutes. He opened the door and went up the stairs to the airplane. Isabel noticed that there was still a fairly heavy wind, but no rain. She could see into Terminal 3, all ablaze with light, and thought of the many times she had been stuck in that dismal place. So why did it look so inviting from where she was sitting?
    After a few minutes Alexander appeared on the platform at the top of the stairs, while the same Sudanese servant who had taken Isabel’s cases descended with a thin cashmere shawl over his arm. The chauffeur opened the door for Isabel, and the Sudanese servant smiled and said, “Welcome, madam,” draping the shawl around her shoulders. It was as soft and as light as feathers, and she drew it around her body against the cold wind as she hurried up the stairs. Alexander took her hand and helped her off the platform and into the plane, the servant following behind. As she turned from the entrance to enter the main cabin she saw two men running across the tarmac. When they reached the stairway one went on each side to pull it away. A young man came out of the cockpit, looked Isabel over, closed the door and double-checked the lock.
    The main cabin of the plane had large, comfortable easy chairs, upholstered in navy blue glove leather and mounted on swivel bases. The chairs were arranged in groups, around coffee tables piled with periodicals. All the walls of the plane were paneled in American cherrywood. It looked very elegant, simple and comfortable; what one imagined the ambience to be in the most luxurious club car on the old Twentieth