The following morning, Forrest Vaalon and Lonnie Pilot would be flying to New York for a meeting Pilot saw as being pivotal. Much as he wanted to, he could not see their claim of sovereignty succeeding and was impatient to hear Ambassador Geirsson’s plan. The first thing that met Pilot’s eyes outside the arrivals hall at JFK was the elongated, charcoal-grey, chauffeur-driven Lincoln Continental with tinted windows waiting at the curb. Vaalon stopped at the back door of the limo. “These are as common as black cabs in London,” he said. “An inconspicuous way to travel around Manhattan.” He pointed to the car behind – a Nissan – and began walking towards it. “That’s ours. Even more discreet.” The driver – black-haired, stocky and a lot shorter than Pilot− Vaalon introduced as Aaron Serman, one of Pilot’s American crew. “Sit in front, Lonnie. I’ll go in the back.” Vaalon’s brownstone in the Upper West Side was as understated as his car− on the outside.
