Customs and Immigration at LAX were located in terminal two where the Flying Tiger plane taxied into. There was no jet bridge, as most airports were installing instead of the giant metal staircase that was set up to rest against the left front side of the 747’s fuselage. Before the front door was opened, I was able to give my young ‘escort’ back his Steyr and get him to promise that he’d never given it up. There’d been no incident that might require its use on the flight, and why someone at either end making such a decision had determined there might be was troublesome in several ways. Did the person making that decision have any clue about the inherent cabin safety of international travel? How had a weapon been allowed to pass through security? Why was I thought to be in danger once out of the country, since there’d been talk but no real physical threat to my life?

I went down the stairs. The kid traveling with me had little understanding that if he told his handler the truth about what had happened it would likely be career-ending for him and could even be problematic for me. The whole mission had been one of strange controversy and revealing positions and relationships.

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