Alex raised his palms and shrugged. She laughed. ‘You work a lot with the police, don’t you?’ he said, changing the subject. He’d wanted her relaxed and felt he’d succeeded.
‘Yes. We fly special weapons teams to incidents such as sieges and armed farm invasions.’
‘Sounds dangerous. You don’t carry a gun yourself?’
‘Sometimes, but not on PR jobs like this,’ she said. ‘The colonel’s old-school, though. He always has a pistol on him. He was shot down twice in Angola during the border war.’
The pilot, who Petrice referred to only as the colonel, was probably the squadron commander, Alex thought. He saw the man stub out his cigarette and place the butt in a zippered pocket of his flying suit. He couldn’t see a pistol belt or shoulder holster, but as the officer swung his arms out and around
