Free Falling Glass by Adrian McKinty Page A

of your work,” Coulter said and then added in an undertone, “and he would know.”
    Killian winced. It reminded him again of that Christmas Eve when he and a bunch of other guys had fucked up their bodyguarding gig and let Michael make fools of them and top their boss. If he’d been Japanese, no doubt the only honorable course after that would have been bloody suicide. But he wasn’t Japanese, he was a Pavee and half of all Pavee were dead before they were forty. Suicide was the luxury of long-lived people.
    “How was your trip?” Coulter asked.
    “No problems.”
    “They brought you in a speedboat, right?”
    “Aye, it was very Bond villain, I was impressed.”
    Coulter smiled. “And who did you fly with?”
    “Cathay Pacific.”
    “They’re good. Fully horizontal chairs, right?”
    “Well there was a bit more room than bloody Coulter Air,” Killian just about resisted saying and instead offered the safer: “Very good service. How is the airline business these days?”
    Now it was Coulter’s turn to wince. “We lurch from crisis to crisis. Passenger numbers are off, fuel’s still historically high, taxes are through the roof. They’re killing the goose. You know I had to cut half our routes out of Luton? The taxes were three times the cost of the ticket. Bloody BAA. Idiots. The volcano dust! Volcano dust is it? My God. No, no, it’s still not good. We’re gonna be in the red all this year and probably the first quarter of next.”
    Killian nodded and the conversation died.
    It wasn’t Killian’s place to revive it but he felt uncomfortable with Helena just sitting there looking awkward.
    “So I hear you’re going to be the first Irishman in space?” he said, hoping to chance upon a happier topic.
    “Not if I have any say in the matter,” Helena said with a laugh.
    Coulter laughed with her. “Honey, I’m on the first flight with Richard Branson and his kids and Sigourney Weaver and Bill fucking Shatner! It’s gonna be safe as houses.”
    Helena rolled her eyes and Coulter leaned across and kissed her on the cheek. Helena kissed him back on the lips.
    Killian smiled. Despite the age and other differences these two clearly adored each other.
    Coulter turned to Killian. “And it’s mostly for PR, you know? The association with Branson is good for us, and the publicity in the tabloids will be gold. Branson has promised me I will be on the very first flight, so don’t believe anything you hear about Michael O’Leary, he’s not booked till flight three.”
    Killian knew the story. He had read that this space race between Coulter and O’Leary – two of Ireland’s richest men – was fierce.
    “I’m impressed,” Killian said and meant it – you wouldn’t catch him going up in a rocket and he had nothing to lose, never mind a pregnant Italian model wife.
    They talked airlines and flying for a couple of minutes before Coulter turned to Helena and with an apologetic grin said: “Darling, would you possibly excuse us for a moment? I’d like to talk business with Mr Killian, here.”
    “Of course,” she said. Coulter helped her to her feet. Killian stood again and watched her walk to the door.
    “You like Helena?” Coulter asked when she was gone.
    “She seems nice.”
    “She’s from Arpino,” Coulter said and swirled the Scotch in his glass for a second or two before taking a sip.
    “I don’t know where that is,” Killian said.
    Coulter unbuttoned the jacket of his immaculately tailored blue suit and leaned forward.
    “It’s in, uhm, she’s from…” Coulter said and his eyes narrowed, his fingers squeezed tighter on the whisky glass and his temple throbbed through the tan.
    “Are you okay?” Killian asked.
    “Yes. I’m just…This whole thing. It’s the last thing I need. She couldn’t have picked a better time. Everything’s so fragile. You work so hard and it’s all so fucking fragile,” Coulter said.
    Killian nodded. “Aye.”
    “But then you have to remember