Gander International Airport was a relic of a different era—a sprawling expanse of concrete and fog sitting at the edge of the North Atlantic. It was the "Crossroads of the World," a place where titans refueled their private jets before the long, lonely leap toward Europe. At 3:00 AM, the terminal was a ghost town, but the tarmac was alive with the screaming whine of turbines and the strobing orange lights of fuel trucks.

The Valerius Gulfstream sat on the far end of the apron, its silver falcon gleaming under the high-intensity floodlights.