Air Time (21 page)

“This could be it,” I say. “Exactly the proof we hoped for. The clincher.”

I pause, hands clamped over my ears to keep out the airport noise, resting both elbows on the scuffed white plastic of the phone-booth counter. Waiting to hear my future.

Through a second of silence, I feel a hesitation. A tension.

Then I hear that Josh-chuckle. “Charlie Mac, I love you. All of you. And you know? That means I love how much you love your job. And that means I’ll be here. Keeping the champagne cold.”

“And yourself hot,” I add. I’m attempting to sound seductive. Sexy and suggestive.

We both burst out laughing as soon as the words came out of my mouth.

“Love you,” he says. “Stay safe. Come home soon.”

“Love you, too,” I whisper. I hang up the phone, holding the receiver just a second longer than necessary. Keeping our connection.

With luck, I’ll be sipping champagne in just a few hours.

The plane is now scheduled to land at 10:50 p.m., one of the last commercial arrivals of the night. This should all be over by 11:10 p.m. As predicted, I got beeped, and what looks like a baggage claim number appeared. And now, finally, after reading the entire
Boston Globe
front to back, I’m heading for the Logan Airport ladies’ room. On my way to become Elsa for the last time.

I glance up to the mezzanine where Lattimer probably has the entire baggage claim area under surveillance. I don’t see him, but I guess I shouldn’t expect to. I don’t
see Franklin, either. Also a good thing. He and our Sony HC-43 are going to meet me back at the station. He’s getting the whole thing on tape. Two can play this game.

“Lattimer will kill us,” Franklin had said as we headed back to our office after our meeting with the agents. “But who cares. He reneged, completely backpedaled on what clearly was an agreement to allow us to shoot video of the baggage-claim rendezvous. I vote we go for it.”

“Shoot now, answer questions later,” I’d agreed. “Who’s he to tell us what to do?”

“Well, he’s the FBI, I guess,” Franklin said.

“Yeah, well, we pay his salary. Think you can hide? And still get the shots?”

“It’s only a question of whether I’m a sky cap. Or passenger. Or perhaps I’ll be a gray-haired minister in my Dad’s old collar and jacket. Let me figure it out. I’ll get the shots this time for sure,” Franklin said, nodding confidently. “No more feet.”

He’s still not over the Strathmeyer Road fiasco. But what happens in about twenty minutes will be the best video we could hope for.

I yank open the ladies’-room door, smiling, expectations high. A frazzled-looking mom with a baby draped across her shoulder hurries an empty stroller past me out into the corridor. The door closes, muffling the late-night sounds of the airport clatter and cleaning crews.

Once inside, it’s all hum and glare. Porcelain. Mirrors. White-and-gray tiled walls, white-and-gray tiled floors. The fluorescent ceiling lights turn every reflection haunted and harsh. A bedraggled-looking woman fusses with her hair, frowning. Another stands, impatiently rubbing her hands under a laboring automatic dryer. I see the towel holder is empty.

Following instructions, I go all the way to the back
where a second row of sinks and mirrors lines the rear wall. This part of the bathroom is empty. Perfect.

I rip a section of coarse brown paper toweling from a wide roll someone deposited on the ledge of the sink, twist the faucet, and hold the towel under a stream of tepid water. The only temperature available. I attempt to wipe off my makeup, but the plain water doesn’t make a dent. It doesn’t matter. Streaky make-up is totally Elsa. We’re not going for glamour.

I add her trademark blue eye shadow, her favorite pinky-pink lipstick, then look down at my watch. Keresey should be here. And when I look back into the mirror, there are two of us.

“Here’s your sweatshirt and here’s your hat,” Keresey says. She, too, has blue eyelids and bubblegum-pink lips and a ponytail. She’s wearing a gray Red Sox hoodie with “Ortiz” on the back and a navy blue baseball cap with the Sox “B” emblem on the front. Her purse—still, I assume, fully loaded—is slung across her chest, messenger style.

My hoodie is identical. My bag, although holding only makeup, looks identical. My hat is red.

“No more blue larges,” Keresey explains.

I yank the sweatshirt over my head, redo my ponytail, then add the cap. We eye each other in the mirror. And both of us smile.

Then Keresey frowns.

She looks around the deserted bathroom, then points me to an open stall door. “Come with me,” she says.

With a final check to confirm we don’t have company, she draws me into the handicapped stall and latches the door behind us. She perches on the edge of the toilet seat, propping her running shoes on the wall.

“Only one pair of feet will show,” she says, her voice
low. “Stand by the sink. And listen. But don’t answer. If anyone hears voices, they’ll assume someone is on the phone.”

I look at her, trying to gauge her expression. Something’s up. “What?” I mouth the word.

“I know the SAC thinks it’s better for you to pick up the bag,” she says, her voice so soft I struggle to hear. “But I know he’s wrong. I think it’s too dangerous. I don’t want you anywhere around that baggage claim. You’ll go behind the last bank of chairs, right by those three potted palm containers. Lattimer knows that’s my position. He won’t be able to tell it’s you. And I’ll do the pickup.”

I hold up a hand, stopping her. I unlatch the door, and look out. No one.

“The place is empty,” I hiss. I close the door and turn on the water in the sink, full blast. “And no way, Keresey. I’m not afraid. Lattimer is watching. You’ll be there. It’s a public place. And, K, you’ll get nailed. You can’t unilaterally change your boss’s plan. You can’t put your career on the line.”

Keresey shakes her head, undeterred. “This operation is snake bit. Raids fail. Our sources are wrong. What if it happens this time? I can’t risk anything happening to you. And I still insist this could blow up because of a chain-of-custody violation. And that’s unacceptable. Trust me on this, Charlie. I need to get that suitcase myself. Then we’ll meet back here as we discussed, and secure the evidence. End of discussion.”

“But Lattimer will—”

“I checked with Lattimer before I came here, when he gave me the radio. He’s seen me in this blue cap. Give me your red one.” She holds out her hand. “And the Hartford bag. And give me that beeper with the claim check number. Now.”

The
Boston Globe
newspaper someone left on the chair beside me is now positioned in front of my face. The three potted plants are behind me. I’m sitting in a far corner of baggage claim. As instructed, I’m hiding. But I’m worried. I don’t see Keresey yet. She may honestly be protecting me, I suppose. But picking up a suitcase at an airport baggage claim is about as safe as any activity could be. So why did she insist on doing it?

‘I need to get that suitcase myself,’ she’d said. Why? And why did she insist on taking the beeper? She knew the claim check number. Of course, the bad guys will expect me to have it and it might clinch Keresey’s disguise.

What’s haunting me is that the beeper is my only proof of the setup. We should have shot some videotape of it, but we just didn’t think of it. I’d never have predicted someone would take it from me. Even someone I’m pretty sure is on my side. If something happens to the beeper—what, I don’t know, but something—we could never prove any of this happened. I don’t have the order form. I only have a business card Regine gave me at the Baltimore airport. That’s about as weak as evidence gets.

“Passengers on Flight 1017,” the static-slurred announcement blares over the public address system, cutting through the silence, “may claim their luggage at Area A.”

I close my eyes briefly in silent entreaty. Keresey will get the suitcase. Lattimer will never know. Franklin will get the shots. We’ll get our story.

Carefully, slowly, tentatively, I peer out from behind my newspaper. The baggage claim area is filling with slow-moving passengers, dragging carry-on bags, coats
slung over their shoulders. I position the newspaper back in front of my face.

I bite my lip, calculating the dangers of revealing my whereabouts versus my unrelenting desire to catch the action as it unfolds. No one will notice me, I convince myself. I risk another look, moving my newspaper barrier, cautiously, to one side.

I don’t see Keresey. There’s an extra-large black wheelie, two huge cardboard boxes and three smaller battered-looking bags still available on the conveyor. My bet is on the big black one. And if I were doing this, I’d have already grabbed whichever suitcase has a claim check with the number that’s on the beeper and headed for the hills.

Now the place is almost empty.
Where is she?

A woman in a denim jacket claims two of the small black bags, wheeling them toward the exit. A Harvard sweatshirt takes another. The skycaps heft the cardboard boxes onto a waiting cart, and an elegantly suited businessman hands them some money and pushes the cart away. The skycaps head for the staff-only door, one punching buttons on the lock pad beside it. Only the black bag remains on the conveyor belt, gliding slowly along the wall toward the fluttering black rubber flaps that lead outside. And no one here to claim it.

Keresey will be here any second. She has to be. There’s only one bag left.

And then, a tall man in a dark suit, raincoat over his arm, trots across the claim area, and grabs the bag. He hefts it off the belt and wheels it away. I almost leap from my chair.
That’s ours!
I want to yell. Did he take our suitcase? Who is he? Does Keresey see him? Do I need to stop him?

Out from behind the rubber flaps that lead outside, another suitcase is added to the line. A massively huge
black one. Wheels. A Delleton-Marachelle luggage tag, just like mine, is looped through the handle. And taped beside it, the thin white sticker with the baggage claim number.

And suddenly, I’m looking at myself. Red baseball cap, hoodie, purse casually over one shoulder.

Keresey is alone, walking confidently toward baggage claim. In five seconds, she’ll have the black bag. The last one to come off the plane.

I cover my face again, my heart racing, every muscle clenched, holding my newspaper so tightly the pages are crumpling in my fists. I don’t dare put it down. I don’t dare show my face. If Lattimer sees me, he has to think it’s Keresey. Even Franklin may think I’m Keresey.

I can’t look.

I have to look.

I peer around the corner of the paper. And Keresey is gone.

H

“Keresey?” I say out loud. Where the hell is she? Why is her purse on the floor? I whirl, looking up to the mezzanine. Over to the exit. Beside the escalator. Where’s Lattimer? Where’s Franklin?

It’s just me.

I race to the conveyor belt and grab Keresey’s purse, slinging it over my shoulder. I’m panicked, my brain on fast forward, trying to understand what’s happened. Nothing makes sense.

“Keresey?” I call out, louder. But I get no answer. And I realize something must be very, very wrong. Where did she go? And why?

The staff-only door. Where the two baggage guys went. I yank on the handle. It’s locked. The only way out is—

I leap onto the conveyor belt, just before the spot where the rubber flaps still flutter, and take one wobbly step until I reach the opening. Grabbing the steel railing above it, I swing my legs through the flaps, and drop down to the other side.

This is where the bags come out. When I got the
beeper in Hartford, this is where the mysterious voice came from. I blink, getting my bearings. There’s no one here now.

Two huge—and empty—motorized luggage carts stand on the cement alley that’s the baggage handler’s roadway from the arriving airplanes to baggage claim. There are no walls out here, but a corrugated metal roof runs above me, down the length of the building. It’s a checkerboard of lights—pin spots illuminating some of the path into pools of brightness, other parts left almost impenetrably dark.

What am I supposed to do now? My tote bag with my phone is in Keresey’s trunk. I wasn’t supposed to need it. I struggle to hold down my panic. Should I go back inside and find the police? Where the hell is Lattimer? Every moment that passes, Keresey may be deeper in danger.

I look to my right. Darkness. And a flat expanse that must lead to the tarmac and the runways beyond.

I look to my left. In a patch of light, I see something red. A few quick steps and I’m there. It’s my Hartford bag. Keresey’s gone this way. Or more likely, been taken this way. But why?

I have to find her. We traded places. This is what she would have done for me.

I race down the path, running on tiptoe, hugging the side of the building, my fingers scraping along the bricks. At the end of the covered alleyway is an expanse of asphalt leading to buildings beyond. Two hundred yards ahead, splotchy, eerie light glows from an airplane hangar. Flickering green neon letters spell out General Aviation.

Closer, I see something on the ground. Straining all my senses, I hear nothing. I see no one. I race toward a
pool of shadow. It’s a red baseball cap. I look up. And silhouetted in the raw light showing through the opening of the cavernous airplane hangar, I see Keresey’s unmistakable shape. She’s not alone. Two other shapes—who?—are dragging her by the arms across the floor.

Keeping myself in the shadows, holding my breath, I dash across the pavement toward the hangar. It takes just seconds. I flatten myself against a dark outside wall, two stories, no, three stories high. I peer around the corner into the building.

In the center of the hangar, under a huge bank of glaring megawatt spotlights, is a sleek white prop plane, a single-engine Cessna, nose pointed toward the tarmac.

And, crumpled on the cement floor, is Keresey. Limp and motionless. I clutch the door frame for support as my stomach lurches, throwing me off balance. Is she…dead? I watch, paralyzed. Mesmerized. I see her chest rise, then fall. She’s breathing. Struggling for equilibrium, struggling for calm, I plaster myself against the outside wall again. Trying try to figure out what the hell to do.

I need one more look inside. I have to see what they’re doing. And then I’ll go for help.

The muscles in my neck and back tense as I lean forward, infinitesimally, toward the opening, barely daring to move.

Now, in the light, I can clearly see the two men. And I recognize them. The blue-uniformed skycaps from baggage claim. Muttering to each other, they’re ignoring the still-motionless Keresey. Both are focused on the plane, its propeller motionless, its wheels still chocked with yellow blocks.

One of them, shorter, with buzz-cut hair and padded ear protectors around his neck, walks along the fuselage,
then examines something under the right wing. The taller one unlatches the cockpit door, grabs a strap, and pulls his rangy body up into the pilot’s seat. I can see their shirts have embroidered patches on the arms—Local 376. Airline workers’ union. James Webber’s rank and file.

I not only recognize these guys, I recognize what they’re doing. This is a preflight check. What if they’re going to take Keresey away? What will happen when they find out she’s not me?

If I leave to get help, they could be gone, airborne, before anyone can get here to stop them.

I lean back against my wall again, staring, unseeing, toward the terminal. I’m baffled. And enraged. And terrified. And bewildered. Lattimer must have seen this go down. Franklin, too. Where on earth are they? This is not how this was supposed to work. I’m alone. And faced with an impossible dilemma.

I can’t go in. They’d overpower me, too.

I can’t leave. They’ll take Keresey away and disappear.

What’s more—it was supposed to have been me picking up that bag. If Keresey hadn’t insisted, it would have been me on the floor. It would have been me in mortal danger.

And suddenly, overwhelmingly, that makes me mad as hell. And I know how I can win. Keresey pretended to be me. So I’ll pretend to be Keresey.

I have her gun. And her radio. And I know how to use them both. The realization hits me so hard my eyes sting with tears. Channeling my new alter ego, I know I have to become as steely and hard as any federal agent. Now. What would Keresey do?

I see both men are focused on the plane. Before I can
stop myself, I press my back against the wall and ease around the corner. I’m inside the hangar, keeping myself hidden by the shadows. I wait, assessing. No one notices me.

I crouch down behind a baggage cart, one of a dozen—some full of suitcases, some empty—lined up in front of me along the wall. Slowly, one click at a time, I pull back the zipper on Keresey’s purse, holding one hand over the opening to muffle the noise. It’s so quiet I fear even the clicks of a plastic zipper coil might give me away. After an eternity, the bag is open. And there are my secret weapons. The radio. The gun. Feeling a rush of power and impending triumph, I settle in, making sure I’m concealed behind the hulking baggage cart. I don’t have to make a move yet. And the longer I wait, the more likely Lattimer will finally arrive and end this whole disaster.

Tall Guy climbs out of the cockpit and walks to one of the baggage carts.

“Hey. Nolan,” he calls to Short Guy. His voice echoes through the hangar, alien and hollow. “Let’s get this done.”

Nolan yanks a black suitcase from a cart on the other side of the hangar. It’s huge, almost a trunk. “Jesus Christ, Eddie,” he hisses. “Get over here. I need a hand with this sucker.”

Together, the men drag the trunk across the floor, the scraping of metal on cement reverberating across the room. They reach Keresey. And stop. Nolan clicks two latches on the side. The top flips open and they both look inside. What’s in there? Is that where they’re going to put Keresey?

“Eddie, you done?” Nolan says. “She ready to go? He told us fifteen minutes.”

“Roger that. Preflight checks out. Just need to confirm the fuel shutoff. Check the fuel mix. Start the engine.” Eddie points to the Cessna, and both men head in that direction. “Unchock the wheels, yo. Let’s do this. Then we’re good to go as soon as it’s time.”

It’s clear whatever I’m going to do has got to be done soon. Gun first? Or radio?

I glance into my purse. And instantly my plan disintegrates. Even in the gloom and shadows, I can see my secret weapons are duds. I’ve got a radio, all right. But it’s a dead chunk of metal and plastic. No lights flash, no speaker buzzes. It’s been turned off.

And I have a gun. That’s good. But it’s not loaded. That’s bad. The magazine lies in the bottom of the bag, taunting me.

If I turn on the radio, the static and squawk will instantly telegraph where I am. If I slam the magazine into the Smith & Wesson, the sound will be a dead giveaway. I’m trapped by the silence. Where the hell is Lattimer?

And then I see Keresey move.

She stretches one leg, slowly. She shifts one arm from across her face. I can see her eyes. They’re open. And blinking.

Eddie’s in the cockpit, in the pilot’s seat. Nolan’s by the open passenger door, back to me, looking into the plane. No one is paying attention to Keresey but me. She’s up on one elbow. And she must comprehend what’s happened. And maybe what’s about to happen.

There’s a whine and a rattle, then the propeller begins to whirl into motion. And that’s all the noise I need.

I slam the magazine into place. Ratchet ammo into the chamber, just like Keresey taught me. The clatter of the propeller fills the room, racketing against the metal walls and rattling the metal girders across the
ceiling. I spring from behind the luggage cart and roar into the dim light, my adrenaline powering into the red zone. I’m almost screaming.

“Federal agent!” I yell. Both hands are wrapped around the weapon, just as Keresey taught me. The forefinger of my right hand flat against the barrel. My feet wide apart, braced, the gun aimed straight at Tall Guy. I hope. “Freeze! Freeze! Freeze! You’re done! You’re done!”

Nolan turns away from the plane, mouth open, his face twisted in surprise, then rage. He slams the cockpit door closed.

Short Guy cuts the engine, the propellers slacken, then stop. In a split second, Nolan’s reaching behind his back. He takes a step away from the plane, then two.

“Charlie! Shoot! Now! Aim for body mass, like I taught you!” Keresey’s yelling as she tucks her elbows and rolls toward me. She scrabbles to her feet, still yelling. “Now, now, now!”

“FBI! Freeze! And both of you—back off!” Marren Lattimer’s voice bellows through the hangar. “Do it!”

Holding the biggest and loveliest gun I’ve ever seen, Lattimer strides across the floor, leather jacket, running shoes, badge around his neck, brandishing his weapon at Nolan. “I said do it! Back off. Do it! Show me your hands, asshole. Then put both hands on the plane.”

Nolan retreats, hesitating, wary, walking backward, hands outstretched. They’re empty.

I’m in love with Marren Lattimer.

Lattimer gestures with his weapon, hurrying him. Nolan turns, slowly, keeping his eyes focused on Lattimer. Finally he puts his hands, palms flat, on the fuselage. Eddie, still in the cockpit, is twisted in his seat, watching out the window.

Did I say I’m in love with Marren Lattimer? I can’t believe he’s here. My hands are shaking, still clenched on Keresey’s gun. My eyes swim with tears. I don’t have to shoot someone. I wasn’t sure I could and I’m tremblingly grateful I don’t have to find out. I’m only a reporter. I think for a living. And I think I want to get the hell out of here.

Keresey puts her arm across my shoulders, backing me away, as I lower the gun. “It’s over now, Charlie,” she murmurs. “You did great, sister. But why didn’t you radio for help?”

“Your radio was off. The gun wasn’t loaded. Are you okay?” I ask, my voice low. My heart is still racing. Every nerve is on fire. I know she’s right, it’s over, we’re safe, the cavalry has arrived, but tell that to my wobbling knees.

“I’m good.” She gives a weak smile and steadies herself on the pole of the wheeled metal luggage cart beside us. Sinking to the floor of the cart, she sits, stretching her neck and shoulders, one arm still wrapped around the pole. “Really. I’m good.”

Lattimer is approaching, his gun still aimed at Nolan. Lattimer’s smiling, but I figure Keresey’s in deep trouble. If I had done the pickup, as Lattimer ordered, she could have moved right in to nail these slimes. She’d have loaded her gun. And turned the radio on.

“I’ll take that now, Charlie,” Lattimer says. His voice is reassuring, even friendly, as he holds out a hand for the gun. He glances at Keresey, then back at me. His eyes narrow. “We don’t want civilians doing our job.”

“Right,” I say, with as much smile as I can muster. I still have both hands on the gun. And I’m thinking—it’s Keresey’s. Why isn’t she getting it back? Maybe this proves she’s in trouble. Maybe I can still protect her. “But Keresey was only trying to—”

“Now,” Lattimer says. He cocks his head at the Cessna. “This is not the time.”

True. I glance up at the plane. Short guy still plastered to the fuselage. Tall guy in the cockpit, watching through the tiny side window. I guess you don’t try anything when the feds have got you cornered with major artillery.

I feel Keresey move behind me, then she steps between me and Lattimer. “I’ll take my own weapon back, Lattimer,” she says. Her voice is ice. Demanding. She reaches her hand behind her, waggling her fingers. “Let’s have it, Charlie. My purse with the radio, too.”

“Don’t do it, Charlie,” Lattimer says. “Give me that gun. Now. ‘No’ is not an option.”

“Wha—?” I look at Lattimer, then Keresey, then Lattimer. I take a step away from Keresey. My fingers curl around the gun again. Aren’t we all on the same team?

“Charlie. Give. Me. My. Weapon,” Keresey demands. “Listen. Lattimer’s in on this. Why do you think he’s more worried about that gun than about the assholes with the plane? They’re his assholes. That plane is full of bags. I watched them load it. Give me the gun.”

“Bullshit, Stone. This is Keresey’s show, Charlie. She’s in on this. She set you up. She tried to keep you away from the pickup. That was all to lure you out here. She’s clearly not hurt. Her gun wasn’t even loaded. Her radio wasn’t on. Wonder why? Helping you was the last thing she cared about. You were going into that trunk. Give me that gun. I’ll take her—and her moron crew—into federal custody.”

One of these two is a fraud. One of these two is a counterfeit cop. One of them set me up. The other can save me.