Owen knew that the flight to Kathmandu was going to be long and tedious so he tried to relax with a low-key meditation. He resisted the urge to look out of the small windows and was determined not to be drawn into any conversations, grunting moderately when Ianto tried to speak to him.
"Suit yourself," said Ianto. He felt vaguely sick with the movement of the plane, and tried to settle in his chair under a heavy dark blanket. He attempted to read but he stopped as it gave him a headache. "I never understood the appeal of Dylan Thomas anyway", he grumbled. The only option left was to look at the pictures in a slightly dated celebrity magazine.
In the seats up front, Gwen tried to chat with Tosh, but Tosh was not in a mood to talk.
"Is that Everest?" asked Gwen pointing out of her window. She vaguely indicated a distant line of snow-covered peaks.
"I don't think we're anywhere near the Himalayas yet," Tosh noted indifferently. "We're probably only just into Pakistan. A few hours yet."
"Plenty of time to relax then. I'm not really sure what we'll do when we get there. We might stick out a bit if it's just a load of Buddhist monks. What will we talk about?"
"Maybe you could swap fashion tips," offered Tosh. She was not sure if she liked Gwen's casual characterization of the people they had not met yet.
"Oh, I don't know what I'd have to offer in that area," Gwen replied obliviously.
Tosh regretted her sarcasm and tried to pick up the conversation. She pointed to the front of the magazine Ianto was holding in front of his face. "The Prime Minister's wife is always well dressed for the cameras. I don't know how she does it."
Gwen studied the vacant but beautiful face on the cover. "Never smiles, does she? Not properly anyway. Mind you, with her family's money, she doesn't have to make an effort to be sociable."
"Some people hide their fears well," said Tosh. "It's not all fox-hunting and cucumber sandwiches, I imagine."
"Probably a lot of lettuce though. She doesn't look like she eats too well either, poor lass."
:::
No-one asked about Bruce. He might have been sleeping in the hold or flying the plane one-handed for all they knew. No-one thought to ask. But Bruce worked well in the shadow of indifference; composing his messages and sending his transmissions. He sat well back from the general cheerfulness in a small area near the tail of the plane. There were a few signs that it had been used for food preparation in commercial times. He used the loosely fitted kettle to make some terrible tea while checking what messages he could during the data gaps in the plane's most-modern communications.
Among all the usual reports and leads were some trivial looking valedictories from the new Prime Minister. It was all rubbish, as much junk as the electronic mails promising affordable loans and under-the-counter pharmaceuticals. What he was really interested in was the transit report from ordnance. He needed to know that his plan was coming together. He scrolled down to the only message with a double red flag and hit the select button.
The subject read "UNIT Burrow T2 Tracking – Report". He was used to directing materiel here and there using only his clearance. He rarely trusted individuals to carry out his demands. People proved inefficient and unable to hold their tongues. However, he was concerned that this particular task should have had more hands-on control. It was by far the most important thing he had ever done, but joining up the two strands made him uncharacteristically nervous.
The Wiltshire update was carelessly written, but at least it was clear his packages were on their way. He made a note in his data assistant to have the bunker staff sent on a Plain English course.
A second double-flagged message arrived as he was fretting over the inadequacy of the first. The subject read "RAF Cuprum T2 Tracking – Report". The description was overly ornate, the work of a bored individual who did not know the real meaning of hard work. But the attempt to conceal the operational mistakes was clear. Something had obviously gone wrong at Larnaca. Bruce had noticed the odd activity around the airfield. From the report he could now work out that a ham-fisted grunt on the ground had panicked. She had decided to use a graphite bomb to shut down all the electrical activity around his special delivery. That might prove fatal to his plan. His 'electrical' goods might not function as he intended if they had been completely shut down.
He made another note in his data assistant. He had a few recommendations to make about potential promotions when he returned home.
:::
In the seats up front, Gwen and Tosh had begun to chat more easily. They flitted from famous people and mortgages to coffee plantations and personal relationships. Artfully, they never strayed into the domain of how work might be destroying their lives.
When their conversation dipped occasionally it was easily restarted by frequent pointing out of the window. "That looks nice." "That looks lovely." The sky was clear and bright and they had left behind any suggestion of the sea.
Owen at last felt bored enough to sit with Gwen and Tosh. He leaned over the seats behind them. "Is that Everest?" he asked. They laughed knowingly. Gwen poured a plastic cup of coffee from a flask on a trolley and offered it to him.
"Sorry Owen. Take a seat. I have a feeling that we still have a long way to go," said Gwen.