The Racketeer

the data and specs online, but I’m not in the market. I only need a quick rental, at $5,000 an hour. The charter service is out of Raleigh, and it has been paid in full with a Skelter Films check drawn on the bank in Miami. We’re set for a 5:00 p.m. Friday departure out of Roanoke, just two passengers—Nathan and me. I spend most of Friday morning trying to convince the charter service that I will e-mail copies of our passports as soon as I can locate mine. My story is that I have temporarily misplaced it and I’m turning my apartment upside down.
    For trips outside the country, a private charter service must submit its passengers’ names and copies of their passports several hours before departure. The U.S. Customs Service checks this information against its No Fly List. I know that neither Malcolm Bannister nor Max Reed Baldwin is on the list, but I don’t know what might happen when Customs receives a copy of Nathaniel Coley’s fake passport. So I stall, hoping and believing that the less time Customs has with both passports, the luckier I might get. Finally, I inform the charter service that I’ve found mine, and I kill another hour before e-mailing it and Nathaniel’s to the officein Raleigh. I have no idea what Customs will do when it receives the copy of my passport. Quite possibly, my name will trigger an alert and the FBI will be notified. If this happens, it will be, to my knowledge, the first trace of me since I left Florida sixteen days ago. I tell myself this is no big deal because I’m neither a suspect nor a fugitive. I’m a free man who can travel anywhere without restrictions, right?
    But why does this scenario bother me? Because I don’t trust the FBI.
    I drive Vanessa to the Roanoke Regional Airport, where she catches a flight to Miami, through Atlanta. After I drop her off, I drive around until I find the small terminal for private aircraft. I have hours to kill, so I find a parking place and hide my little Audi between two pickup trucks. I call Nathan at his bar and deliver the bad news that our flight has been delayed. According to “our pilots,” there is a bug in a warning light. No big deal, but “our technicians” are hard at work and we should take off around 7:00 p.m.
    The charter service e-mailed me a copy of our itinerary, and the Challenger is scheduled to be “repositioned” in Roanoke at 3:00 p.m. On the dot, it lands and taxis to the terminal. The adventure at hand makes me both nervous and excited. I wait half an hour before calling the charter service in Raleigh to explain that I will be delayed, until approximately 7:00 p.m.
    The hours pass and I fight boredom. At 6:00 p.m., I stroll into the terminal, ask around, and meet one of the pilots, Devin. I turn on the charm and chat up Devin as if we’re old pals. I explain that my co-passenger, Nathan, is the subject of one of my films and we’re headed off for a few days of beach fun. I don’t know the kid that well. Devin asks for my passport, and I hand it over. Without being obvious, he checks my face with my photo, and all is well. I ask to take a look at the airplane.
    Will, the other pilot, is in the cockpit reading a newspaper as I step onto a private jet for the first time in my life. I shake his handlike a politician and comment on the stunning display of screens, switches, instruments, dials, meters, and so on. Devin shows me around. Behind the cockpit is the small kitchen, or galley, complete with microwave, a sink with hot and cold water, full bar, drawers filled with china and flatware, and a large ice bin where the beer is just waiting. I specifically asked for two brands, one with alcohol and one without. Behind one door is a collection of snacks in case we get hungry. Dinner will not be served, because I do not want a flight attendant on board. The people at the charter service insisted that the aircraft’s owner required the use of a flight attendant, at which time I threatened to cancel. They backed down, so it will be just Nathan and me on the trip south.
    The cabin is furnished with six large leather chairs and a small sofa. The decor is soft earth tones and very tasteful. The carpet is plush and spotless. There are at least three screens for movies and, as Devin goes on proudly, a surround sound system. We move from the cabin to the restroom, then the cargo hold. I’m traveling light and Devin takes my carry-on bag. I hesitate as if I’ve forgotten something. “I have a couple of DVDs in