Marta Salas hated flying, even in the luxurious surroundings of a private jet. She gripped the armrests, bracing herself as the wheels left the runway. It was a short flight, she told herself, no more than a couple of hours from Denver to Las Vegas. Maybe it was because she was brought up on an island, she loved the sea, or perhaps it was the knowledge that she was no longer in total control of her fate, but either way she hated it. Her husband was a frequent flyer; he loved it. He was vice-president of the company that owned the jet, and he spent days and weeks away from home, crisscrossing the country. It appeared to outsiders that they had the glamorous lifestyle of the super-rich, but she knew differently.
Ignoring the queasy sensations in her stomach, she distracted herself with the reason for the trip. She took the manila wallet from her bag and read the cover:
Ms Amber Duberville.
She flicked through the typed letter reports, copies of key documents and the photographs of a young woman, a tall leggy blonde with Barbie doll looks in her twenties. The private detective had been particularly thorough to include medical and dental records, misdemeanour rap sheets, job applications and CV, even the relevant sections of the high school year book. Most of the images included a much older man, stout and overweight with a dark Mediterranean complexion; the man was Marta's husband. They were pictured in restaurants and nightclubs; on a yacht in the Caribbean, in hotel rooms and corridors; and through the bedroom window of the villa in Forte Lauderdale. It was damning evidence of her husband's latest infidelity. Marta had had enough.
The jet cleared the low lying cloud and soared high over the Colorado Rockies. She had met him in Puerto Rico twenty years ago, where she had fallen for his brash, brutish charm. He was the son of a Greek magnate, looking to escape from the shadow of his father and the wreckage of his first marriage. She was the only daughter of a plantation owner, the apple of his eye, but she yearned for a world beyond the coastline of a small island. Her husband had always had a wandering eye, which for the most part she tolerated. Powerful men, like her own father, often had insatiable appetites. However, he no longer conducted his affairs with expected discretion and that she could no longer overlook. He needed to be taught a lesson in humility.
The plane levelled off and the seatbelt light went out. Marta unbuckled hers and stretched her legs. There was movement behind the privacy curtain as the cabin crew readied for service. Only one flight attendant had been booked for the short flight, indeed she had been requested. The curtain drew back and the young woman emerged into the main cabin. She was tall and blonde, like a Barbie doll, with long, slender legs that made other women jealous. The girl was easily recognisable, besides her name badge.
"Good afternoon, Mrs Salas, and how are you doing today?" Amber spoke with a thick Southern drawl. She grew up in Mobile, Alabama, the only daughter of Methodists.
"Fine." Marta placed the wallet back in her bag.
"Can I offer you something to drink?"
"A French 75 I think, with a lot of gin. I'm feeling adventurous." With chilled champagne, gin and lemon, this cocktail kicked like a stubborn mule. It was an acquired taste.
The girl returned shortly with her drink, a large one, and a small bowl of olives, which Marta pushed away as soon as she had left. She was sick of the sight of olives. She sipped her cocktail for a few minutes and then drained the glass with a flourish. Half-an-hour had passed since take-off. She rose and went to stand at the bar, where Amber was busy with some paperwork. The girl looked up and smiled.
"Can I get you another, Mrs Salas? Something to eat, perhaps?"
"Yes, another would be nice, the last one was perfect, and please call me Marta. Do you like champagne, Amber? I hope you don't mind if I call you Amber." The girl shook her head. Her grades at high school were above average, but she had several warnings on her record about wanton behaviour, and even a misdemeanour charge for possession from the local sheriff's office. In most professions she would have been red-flagged, but in this line of hospitality it was an advantage. Of course, Amber liked champagne, and a lot more besides, she was a party girl. She was easily led astray.
"We are not supposed to drink on duty, Mrs ... Marta." Amber replied, nibbling her lip.
"Well, I won't tell anyone if you don't."
Reaching over the counter, she took the bottle and poured the girl a generous glass. Amber drank it, hesitantly at first, but she grinned as Marta topped it up. After they had finished the bottle, Marta initiated the next stage of the plan.
"You know, Amber, this is the first time I have flown without my husband in a very long time. You know my husband, Nikolai, don't you? I am sure it will surprise you to learn that I have never been to Las Vegas in all my years living in America. I am looking forward to letting my hair down this weekend, catching up on the fun." She enjoyed Amber's discomfort. Her husband often took his girls to see the bright lights and the casinos in Nevada. Rummaging in her jacket pocket, Marta put the bag of coke on the counter. There was a couple of grams, of the highest quality, so the man had told her. Enough blow to last even the most jaded party girls an hour or two. Amber's eyes were like saucers. "My father would say '
