When the private jet touched down at JFK Airport, the clock struck six in the evening. The New York winter was different from Istanbul's; here, the morning snow had already transformed into a grayish mud on the tarmac, and the air smelled of fuel and haste.
I hurried down the plane's steps and climbed straight into the armored SUV waiting for me on the private tarmac. We moved toward the international terminal, weaving through the internal traffic. I sat in the back seat, tablet in hand, monitoring the Air France flight's status in real time.
There were only twenty minutes left until landing. Ten minutes. Five minutes.
"The lady's plane has just touched down, Mr. Volkov," Marcus announced over the intercom from inside the terminal. "My men are already positioned at the B-area customs ex
