Grigsby embraced Dalia and whispered something in her ear. Ryūki and Ira thanked her and then climbed aboard the Concorde. The French pilots saluted their three passengers and fired up the engines.

Ira had flown on the Concorde when it was in service in the 1990s. This Concorde was different to him. It had couches, a bar, an upright piano and other strange amenities. Grigsby was trying to unlock a humidor and ended jimmying open with a safety pin. He pulled out a cigar, cut it, and lit one.

“Grigs is that an animal pen?” Ira asked.

Grigsby set his cigar down and looked toward the rear of the plane where chicken wire and hay was strewn about. He laughed.

“That’s coach.”

The pilot came on and told everyone to take their seats. The Concorde taxied to the absolute end of the airstrip. The idling exhausts were uprooting small trees. At once the throttle went full tilt and the plane was tearing the Earth apart. Grigsby gazed out the oblong windows and saw Dalia waving. Seconds later they were weightless in flight. The green hills of Kenya shrank below and soon vanished under the clouds. Moments later a sonic boom roared as they broke the sound barrier.

Once they reached cruising altitude Grigsby went over to play the piano. He began with Rachmaninov’s Prelude in C Sharp Minor.

“Grigs, where are we heading? Tokyo?” Ira asked.
“No,” Grigsby said without breaking a beat, “We’re going home gentlemen.”

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