CHAPTER 47
EIGHT MEN STAGGERED past me, singing a painful homage to Ol’ Blue Eyes at the tops of their voices. One of them dropped the blow-up donkey he was carrying and spilled half his pint as he stooped to pick it up.
“Fuckin’ plane’s late,” he slurred at me.
“I got that.”
I hated the airport in Sharm el Sheikh. I’d asked Sloane to book me on a scheduled flight because it seemed more sensible than sending a private jet to Egypt for just one person, but having spent three hours sitting in the departure lounge as it became ever more chaotic, that was a decision I very much regretted. The first hour had passed quickly—I’d spent it people watching, and there were some very odd people going through Sharm airport, let me tell you—but after that, the lack of edible food and clean toilets b
