The Flight Attendant

by Chris Bohjalian

  * * *

  « «

  Cassie decided not to join any of the crew on their different excursions. She murmured that she just didn’t feel up to much that afternoon, but she told the group that was shopping closer to the hotel to let her know where they were having dinner: she might catch up with them then.

  At the hotel, she didn’t set the alarm on her phone and she didn’t ask the front desk for a wake-up call, and she was sound asleep by eleven in the morning. She opened her eyes on her own a little before two in the afternoon, waking to an almost catlike contentment. She never slept better than those deep, late-morning naps when she landed in Europe. For a long moment she gazed at the large abstract of the Coliseum on the wall beside the bed, and then she watched the thin, laser-like strip of light from the drapes. Eventually her mind wandered back to the last time she had awoken in a hotel room bed and she grew a little queasy. She knew she should reach for her phone on the nightstand.

  Still, however, she allowed herself a moment more to linger. She thought of the cats at the shelter and she thought of her nephew and niece. She wanted to fixate on things that she loved and the moments in which she was not a mess.

  Finally she stretched out her arm and grasped her phone. She pulled the sheet back over her head and looked at the screen. Was it worse than she expected? Perhaps. Perhaps not. She saw that she had slept through a phone call from Frank Hammond of the FBI and texts—three of them—from Megan. The texts alone told her all that she really needed to know:

  Don’t know where you are but I saw two photos online. Have you seen them?

  Call me when you can. I’m still in U.S. Not flying out til tonight. I have your back.

  Guessing you’re in Europe. Call me. Jada and Shane have seen the photos too.

  She put her phone down on the pillow beside her and closed her eyes. It was interesting that Megan had been careful to text nothing incriminating—or, at least, not irrevocably damning. The short sentence “I have your back” was the only thing she had written that might even be problematic, but Cassie had watched enough legal dramas on TV to know (or, at least, to be able to reassure herself) that a remark like that could be construed a thousand ways.

  But its implication was clear to Cassie: Megan believed that she was the woman in the security camera photos and likely had spent the night with Sokolov, and now Megan was willing to cover for her friend. She was willing to keep to herself the fact that Cassie had only returned to her hotel room in Dubai moments before the crew was supposed to be downstairs to leave for the airport. Perhaps she was willing to do even more than that: perhaps she was willing to be part of an alibi.

  Either way, Cassie knew that she had to call Megan back. She wasn’t sure about Hammond. She should probably call Ani instead. Wasn’t that what lawyers were for?

  Either way, however, first she needed a drink. She should probably eat something, too.

  She climbed from the bed, surprised by how cold the room was, and saw the small refrigerator in the hotel room was empty. There wasn’t a minibar, which meant that she’d have to go downstairs. And while she guessed it was possible she’d run into someone from the flight, she thought it unlikely. By the time she had showered and gotten dressed and taken the elevator to the lobby, they’d be long gone—if they hadn’t left already.

  * * *

  « «

  When she was dressed, her hair dry and her makeup on, she sat on the edge of the bed and surveyed the hotel room. She had never stolen anything from a hotel for herself, but over the years she had taken things for her sister and her nephew and niece. Sometimes she tried to rationalize the thefts: the hotel was overpriced, the stuff was junk anyway, and (of course) everyone else took the soap. She could recall bringing her sister a beautiful black bathrobe from France (which she had actually stolen from the dirty hamper of a maid service cart in the hallway), exotic throw pillows from Vietnam, fancy wooden coat hangers from San Francisco, a Wedgwood blue coffee service from Italy (which was on the corridor floor outside another guest’s hotel room), very fluffy towels from Miami, and a brass magazine stand from Germany. For the kids she was most likely to pilfer little decorative sculptures or small but interesting prints or paintings or photos that weren’t bolted to the wall. (When she took a photograph or a print, she would always steal it the moment she checked in, calling down right away to the front desk to report the blank spot above the bed or beside the armoire.) She’d brought them images of lighthouses and skyscrapers and the iconic architectural landmarks of Paris and Sydney and Rome. In her hotel rooms, she’d found them trinkets and paperweights of dragons (Hanoi), Vikings (Stockholm), and ballerinas (Moscow).

  Did her sister suspect the gifts were stolen? Perhaps. But Cassie always insisted that she had paid for them, in some cases swearing that the objects were sold at the hotel gift shop. She always cleaned them, boxed them, and wrapped them when she was back in New York.

  She wasn’t searching for gifts for anyone in particular right now, but she noticed a small replica of a famous statue of the mythical twins Romulus and Remus as infants, nursing from the wolf that saved them. It was on a side table, atop the leather-bound guest directory and a magazine for tourists about Rome, and she realized that once upon a time it had been half of a pair of bookends. She stood up and lifted it. The bookend was maybe six inches long and six inches wide, and made of copper. It was hollow, but filled with sand. Her nephew was about to start sixth grade, and she had a vague memory of studying the Greek and Roman myths when she was that age. She associated Diana, the Roman goddess of the hunt, with her beautiful young teacher for sixth grade: Diana Dezzerides. She thought Tim would get a charge out of the sculpture once he had been properly introduced to the great myths. It would be a Christmas present. She would tell Rosemary that she had discovered it in an antique store, and because it was only half the set, she had gotten it for a song. The key would be to find something equally as idiosyncratic for her niece.

  The idea of slipping the copper bookend into her suitcase gave her a small rush. The truth was that she didn’t loot like this to punish the hotel or because it was the only way she could afford to bring her family gifts; she didn’t even really try and convince herself that it wasn’t all that different from stealing the soap, because she knew it was. Like almost everything else she did, it was crossing a line that most people wouldn’t. She did it because it thrilled her. It was just that simple. She did it because it was, like so much else that made her happy, dangerous and self-destructive and just a little bit sick.

  * * *

  « «

  The hotel bar was quiet in the middle of a weekday afternoon, but it was cozy and dark and warm without being hot. Most people preferred to drink outside in the sunlit piazza, and so Cassie had the place to herself. She brought her paperback with her, though she was never one of those single women who minded eating or drinking—certainly not drinking—alone. She didn’t bring the book as a prop or a buffer against intrusion. She thought she might actually see if “The Death of Ivan Ilyich” would offer any spiritual insight into the death of Alex Sokolov. She doubted it, but she’d read a little more of “Happy Ever After” upstairs in her hotel room and found that the story had been a welcome diversion from the maelstrom of her real life. She was starting to like Masha: she was starting to like her a lot.

  The bartender was a slim young guy with reddish-brown hair he slicked back and a trim mustache. His eyes were moonstone, and the uniform here was a white shirt and blue vest that happened to match those eyes perfectly. He smiled at her and she ordered a Negroni, and then took it with her to a leather booth in the back, choosing the one beside a replica of a classic sculpture of Mercury and beneath a Tiffany lamp with a stained-glass shade. She made sure there was cell service before she got comfortable. Then she took a long swallow, savoring the burn of the gin, and sucked for a long moment on the orange peel. When the glass was half empty, she sat back and
called Megan. Her friend picked up quickly.

  “My overseas plan is fine for texting, but not great for talking,” she told Megan, “so we should get right to it.”

  “See, if you had small children, you’d have a great plan for talking. But if you had teenagers, like me, you wouldn’t: the last thing you want is to deal with your daughters’ dramas overseas. I’m in the same boat as you.”

  “Your kids are terrific.”

  “They’re hormonal beasts who love me madly one day and want me locked in the attic the next.”

  “I read your texts. Are you alone? Can you talk?”

  “Yeah, now is fine. The beasts are out,” Megan said. Then: “Look, I saw the photos. We’ve all seen the photos. It is you, isn’t it?”

  And instantly Cassie understood her mistake: she shouldn’t have called Megan back. She should only have phoned Ani. Yes, she and Megan had known each other for years, but in the end Cassie was now going to have to ask Megan to perjure herself. She wasn’t quite at that place yet, however—she was still too sober. But the crux of the problem was really very simple: she had told Megan one thing in Dubai and Derek Mayes another at the diner in New York. So far she had told the FBI nothing. If she was to accomplish anything right now, she should see if there was a way to reconcile her two stories and get Megan and Derek on the same page. She swallowed the last of her Negroni, and the bartender, as if he were telepathic, emerged from behind that great, wonderful balustrade of a bar and was at her side, asking if she wanted another drink. She nodded enthusiastically.

  “What photos?” she asked Megan, stalling for time by playing dumb.

  “You haven’t seen them? You really haven’t seen them?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Cassie could hear the woman’s great sigh of exasperation through the phone. “There are two photos on the web of a woman who looks like you and is wearing a scarf that might be the one you bought when we landed in Dubai. You know, at the airport? The photos are from the hotel in Dubai where the guy from two C was killed. The hedge fund guy. In one picture, she’s with the dude; in the other, she’s alone. Jada is sure it’s you. Shane is absolutely positive.”

  “And you?” Cassie asked. She wished Alex Sokolov were more than the guy from 2C or the hedge fund guy. He deserved better. “What do you think?”

  “Tell me, were you with him? I know you didn’t kill him. But were you with him? Just tell me that. The FBI has been calling. I’m supposed to meet with them today and I need to know what you want me to say.”

  What you want me to say. The words echoed in Cassie’s mind.

  “I guess the FBI will be calling me, too, when I get back,” she said, instead of mentioning that she already had a message from an agent herself. She watched the bartender preparing her drink, and tried to will him to hurry up. She needed to ratchet up the pain medication.

  “Yeah. I guess,” said Megan, her tone equal parts frustration and derision.

  “I’m glad I’m in Italy. Where are you this month?”

  “Berlin. The seven-thirty flight tonight.”

  “I like that flight.”

  “You’re not answering my question. Should I read something into that?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “Then what’s going on? What’s really going on?”

  The bartender returned with her drink and when he placed it on the table, she had an urge to reach out and touch his long, beautiful fingers. Instead she murmured her thanks and plucked the orange peel from the rim, tossing it unceremoniously onto the table beside her small paperback book. Then she drank it down at least an inch and a half. “Here’s what I want you to do,” she began.

  “Go on.”

  “I want you to forget I ever told you that I picked up a guy at the hotel bar in Dubai. I want you to forget we ever spoke that morning in my hotel room before we left the city. As far as anyone knows, I never left my hotel room that night. I didn’t even order up room service. That’s all.”

  There was a long pause and Cassie used the opportunity to drink some more. Her stomach was empty. She knew she would be feeling better soon.

  “So you want me to lie,” said Megan.

  “I doubt it will ever come to that.”

  “It will.”

  “Then, yes. Please.”

  “Can you tell me anything more?”

  “Oh, Megan, I just don’t want people to get the wrong idea. I just don’t want you to get sucked into this. Assume I really did hook up with a guy from our hotel. Why not just believe that, okay?”

  “Because you’re a spy.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “One more thing,” Cassie said. “You haven’t told Jada or Shane or anyone about our conversation in my hotel room in Dubai that morning—and what I said, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay, then. Good.”

  “Send me your schedule for August, so I know when we’re both going to be in the same time zone,” Megan asked. “We have a lot to talk about. It would be great if it could even be in person.”

  “I agree,” Cassie said. “I’ll send you my schedule. Maybe we’ll be at JFK the same day.” Then she thanked her—deeply and sincerely—and took the last of her Negroni to the bar. She knew she should call Ani now, but she couldn’t cope. She just couldn’t. The bartender was leaning back and looking at something on his phone. He had a gold badge with his name: Enrico.

  “Another one?” he asked when he noticed her. He had only a trace of an Italian accent.

  “Yes, please. You make a good one.” She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had sex sober, and wondered a little now at the synaptic connection between her body—body image, really—and booze. Between intimacy and intoxicants. She ran her fingers through her hair: she needed another drink to make these sorts of mental gymnastics go away. Some lives, including hers, were best left unexamined. She was buzzed just enough to crave a little shame. To crave this young waiter.

  “Campari is an acquired taste,” he said.

  “Oh, I acquired it a long time ago.”

  “It couldn’t have been all that long.”

  She shrugged. “You’d be surprised.” Then: “Your English is very good.”

  “I have a grandmother who’s American. And we have lots of American guests here.”

  “Tell me something, Enrico,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “Did they pick the vests here because of your eyes?”

  He smiled at her, one side of his mouth curling up a little higher than the other. If he hadn’t been so young, she guessed it would have looked rakish. She hoped he only worked until dinner, so she could bring him back to her room and still get a good night’s sleep.

  FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

  FD-302: MEGAN BRISCOE, FLIGHT ATTENDANT

  DATE: August 1, 2018

  MEGAN BRISCOE was interviewed by properly identified Special Agents NANCY SAUNDERS and EMORY LEARY at the FBI office in Washington, D.C.

  SAUNDERS conducted the interview; LEARY took these notes.

  BRISCOE said in her first interview (see FD-302 July 28, 2018, taken at JFK Airport) that she did not see CASSANDRA BOWDEN in Dubai, other than when traveling via the airline van between the airport and the airline’s hotel. She said that she assumed BOWDEN spent the night there alone in her hotel room.

  When shown the two security camera images of the woman in the sunglasses and scarf at the ROYAL PHOENICIAN HOTEL, she said yes, that could be BOWDEN. She corroborated what flight attendant JADA MORRIS had said: the scarf the woman is wearing in the photo looks like the one that BOWDEN had purchased when they first landed in Dubai on Thursday, July 26.

  She then remembered seeing BOWDEN at the airline’s hotel on the mor
ning of Friday, July 27. She saw her returning to her own room and they spoke there briefly. In her recollection, BOWDEN said something that suggested to BRISCOE that the woman had spent the night with a man in a different hotel in Dubai.

  BRISCOE said this wasn’t the first time that BOWDEN had disappeared when she traveled for work. According to BRISCOE, she does this often when she is overseas. And while these may be sexual liaisons, BRISCOE acknowledged that there may be more to them since BRISCOE has never once met any of the men that BOWDEN allegedly is seeing.

  She added that the woman was distracted and upset in the van to the airport in Dubai that Friday morning and was crying soon after takeoff. She also said that BOWDEN lost her handbag in the United Arab Emirates, but not her passport or wallet.

  11

  Elena didn’t seriously believe that she had killed her father, but every once in a while, especially in the small hours of the night, she wondered if she had been the last straw. Years earlier, just as she was finishing her second year of college, her father suffered what everyone assumed was a stroke. He’d lived, but he was a frail shell of what he’d once been. He walked slowly and with a limp, the left side of his face sagged like badly bunched drapes, and his words—when he could find them—were barely comprehensible. Now she had flown to Sochi for a visit—the Olympic construction had begun, but his summer estate was on a small lake far from the madness—and had just helped him from the passenger seat of the BMW he could no longer drive, and either he had lost his balance or he had tripped where the asphalt met the first slate step, and suddenly he was falling onto the driveway. She managed to cradle his head just before it would have cracked onto the pavement, and for a moment was relieved at how quickly she had reacted. But certainly his fragile brain inside his fragile skull had been violently shaken. She knew it then and she knew it as the evening progressed. He’d seemed fine at dinner—or, at least, as fine as he ever was at that stage in his life, which meant that he spoke in drooling whispers and ate very little—but it would be later that night that he would be found unresponsive on the floor of the living room. It was his live-in nurse, a Georgian who coincidentally shared the name of a Russian football team her father followed, who had heard the fall, discovered him, and called upstairs to wake her. The nurse was a gentle giant with a chinstrap beard named Spartak. Elena had been nodding off in the very same bedroom she had lived in as a teenager those weeks or weekends when she would be sent to see him after her parents’ divorce. (Get to see him, really, because she missed him terribly after her parents separated.) He’d die at the hospital a few hours later. Cause of death? A cerebral hemorrhage. A burst blood vessel. Another one. This time his brain had drowned in its own blood.