by C. F. WALLER
“I don’t have a sister.”
“Right, that’s understandable,” he verbally tip toes. “There’s going to be a parole hearing next month. The State of California will be trying to contact you.”
“I don’t have a sister,” I repeat, glaring at him.
He opens his mouth, but I cut him off, talking slow, one word as a time.
“I— do— not— have—a—sister.”
“Right; well, if you change your mind just ask,” he back peddles, sliding to the outside of the booth. I put a hand on his wrist and he pauses, at a loss for words.
“We didn’t talk dollars and cents,” I point out, then raise an eyebrow.
“Right, yes, the money. There’s a Bank of America debit card in the stuff I gave you. Pin number is the last four of your old social.”
“My old social?”
He nods, but doesn’t elaborate.
“How much?”
“Plenty,” he assures me. “Stick it in an ATM and check the balance. If it’s not enough call me. My number’s in your new phone under Daddy.”
I sift through the contents of the envelope. Hal slides out and towers over the table.
“It’s Lydia Knox’s debit card,” I complain, holding it up between two fingers. “Won’t be much good to me after this is over.”
“You can thank me later,” he remarks, scanning the room before leaning over to whisper. “Two female college students called 911 yesterday afternoon claiming a Stacy Smithson broke into their apartment and held them at gun point for several hours.”
“You don’t say,” I answer in surprise; recalling a deal where Ryan and Brittany agreed not to call the cops. “Are the authorities looking for her?”
“No, tragically the late Mrs. Smithson died in an apartment fire later that afternoon. It would appear the poor woman was deranged.”
“Or possibly just misunderstood.”
Hal takes a deep breath, the conversation having veered off course.
“So, you’re saying what?”
“You really are Lydia Knox,” he informs me, standing and straightening his jacket. “You’re welcome.”
“What about the real Lydia Knox?”
“It’s just a name. Care to guess how many Hal Foresters reside in the continental United States?”
He’s suggesting that when this is over I can just start over using the identity he’s provided. This sounds pretty appealing, but one thing seems off.
“You’re paying me up front.” I point out, standing with a hand on his shoulder. “What if I check out of here and disappear?”
“You won’t. I just covered up two felonies and made you a millionaire. I think you’re well aware what happens if you try and stiff me.”
I nod and wrinkle up my nose.
“Besides, we’re old friends.”
“If you say so,” I exhale, thinking that’s a stretch.
“Tell me something?” he asks as he turns, walking backward away from the booth. “Were you really going to kill yourself yesterday or was that a negotiating tactic?”
I pantomime turning a key to lock my lips. He pauses to see if I offer more, but leaves when I slip back into the booth. I study the debit card, tapping it on the table top. Did he say millionaire? What are the odds I go from working at Old Navy to government spy in just over 24 hours? This is a tale that would seem far-fetched, even for a book.
“Can I bring you another coffee?” Tiffany asks, drawing me back to reality.
“What time is it?” I inquire, slipping the card into my blazer pocket.
“Let’s see,” she replies, pulling her phone out of her white apron to check. “Quarter to five.”
“No more coffee,” I sigh, pushing the mug to the center of the table. “Absolute and cranberry, rocks glass, one ice cube.”
“Coming right up,” she chirps, turning, but now lost in her cell phone.
“In truth, I wasn’t working at Old Navy yesterday,” I whisper, leaning back with an arm over the top of the booth. “I was fired from Old Navy yesterday.”
Chapter Four
The circle drive in front of the hotel is thrumming with activity. I watch a parade of taxis and shuttles drop off suitcase toting travelers. A high percentage of these are business types. Most wear dark suits and carry over-the-shoulder bags or drag rolling suitcases behind them. I fuss with my hair, viewing my reflection in the glass wall that runs along the front facade of the hotel. My dirty blonde locks with grey roots are gone, replaced by an expensive brown dye job that looks odd to me. Have I ever been a full-on brunette?
A silver four door sedan greets me at exactly twelve noon. The lone occupant, a woman, doesn’t get out. The passenger window rolls down, then she curls a finger for me to get in. When I motion to the handle of my small rolling suitcase, the trunk lid pops up, keyed from within. I slip it in the trunk, noticing a few duffle bags and a lock box. Looks like a government car. Full of lord knows what.
There isn’t any small talk as we fly down US-66 toward Dulles International Airport. The scent of smoke is thick in the car; ash droppings litter the center console, although no cigarettes are visible. I pull mine out of my inside blazer pocket and wiggle them in front of me to get her attention. She doesn’t give me verbal permission to smoke, but my window does drop down a few inches.
“Thanks,” I offer, lighting one and blowing smoke out the cracked window. “I’m Stacy.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Not what?”
“Not Stacy. Your name is Lydia,” she frowns, eyes locked forward. “Lydia Knox.”
“Right,” I agree, exhaling smoke over my head into the backseat. “My bad.”
When we reach Dulles, she follows the signs for Cargo Planes, then navigates to a building near the runways. It’s a white building with a Fed-Ex logo down the side in letters ten feet high. I shag my own suitcase and follow her into the building. We pass a receptionist and several offices that look normal, but come out into a large hanger full of dark suits. The huge sliding doors are open and the sun reflects off of three small jets. These planes also wear the Fed-Ex logo, but I doubt that’s accurate. This is a tax payer funded five-star travel agency.
I am directed by my mute companion to one of the planes. Inside are a dozen seats, three rows split by the center aisle. I drag my suitcase into the aisle and plop down. The tan leather seats are worn, but clean. There is a narrow door marked as a rest room and a small galley area forward of the seats. This is an older jet, but it probably draws less attention that way.
Out the window, I observe my blonde driver conversing with two guys. If I lost 10 pounds and left my hair blonde, we would not look much different. Okay, maybe twenty pounds. She wags a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the jet, then two men nod in an understanding way.
With the engines off, there doesn’t seem to be any air conditioning. After a few minutes sweat bubbles up on my forehead and I seek fresh air. No one takes any notice of me in the hangar. My driver stands just outside the hangar doors in a patch of sun, her cell phone in one hand, a burning cigarette in the other. I wander over as she chats.
“I’ll be back by morning,” she barks into the phone, one eye on me as I approach. “Not staying the night, just San Diego and back.”
I’m hesitant to light up and scan around the tarmac for gas trucks. She nods her head as she listens, holding up her smoke to indicate I may proceed.
“Yes Jack, I’ll call you when I hit the ground,” she groans, ending the call.
“Figured there’d be jet fuel or something,” I mutter.
“There is,” she rolls her eyes and exhales smoke to one side. “Try not to explode.”
“I’ll do my best. How long ‘til we leave?”
“Your guys are on route. Wheels up in an hour.”
I guess she’s referring to the dive guys. Hal had suggested there would be two men accompanying me. I’m not sure if the agent, or limo driver, or whatever her job title, is awa
re that I’m not actually one of them. Wait, she did correct my name confusion earlier? Let’s assume she’s aware.
“Who do you work for?”
She eyes me and continues to smoke, choosing not to answer. Dark suit pants, white blouse and a surprisingly decent pair of short black heels leave her looking the part of a Government employee. Back inside the hangar, a commotion draws my attention. A man in grey overalls is having a spirited conversation with the two guys in dark suits. They all look our way, then the suits wave him off and appear to laugh. Someone doesn’t like us smoking around the planes.
Her cell phone rings, echoing an Adele song off the aluminum walls. She takes the call, mostly nodding, but offering a few grunted acknowledgments as well. When the call ends, I begin to repeat my previous inquiry, unsure who I actually report to. She must read my intension from my expression as she pulls out her credentials and holds them up for me to read.
“Anna Katz, Central Intelligence Agency,” I read aloud.
She flips it closed and slides it back inside her jacket. Does Hal work for the CIA or are they just shuttling me around? Before I can form a reasonable follow up, we are interrupted.
“Your friends are here,” she announces, flicking her butt into a crack in the concrete.
Inside the hangar, several men push dollies of equipment next to the plane. A guy in a white dress shirt and khaki pants trails along behind. I’ll assume these are the friends I have yet to meet.
“So Anna,” I sigh, heading back inside. “You just along for the ride?”
“Until I hand you off to the Airforce in San Diego.”
“They tell you who I work for?”
“You work with the dive guys,” she remarks. “Right?”
“Yeah, I forgot,” I exhale, flipping my butt to one side as we walk. “Are you gonna run your mouth all the way to the West Coast or can a girl get a little shut eye?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she replies, the slightest hint of a chuckle at the end.
Chapter Five
I climb the switchback stairs from below deck slowly, desiring to put this off as long as possible. I hover outside the door to Todd’s tiny fiefdom, before going in.
“Okay, John, keep your eyes on the ball,” I whisper, praying a simple salvage doesn’t turn into a media circus. “One thing at a time.”
Inside the room, the entire table top has been swept clean. The only thing on the surface are the long strips of printed paper. Todd stands on tip-toe, lining up a ruler in the center. An untold number of black outlines cover the underwater map, leaving it looking like a cemetery. While there are no images, just wavy lines, the black marker tracings leave it looking like the aftermath of a shooting.
“Body outlines all over the street,” I mutter.
“What did you tell him?” Todd asks, standing up straight and arching his back to stretch.
“I told him there was more than just our plane.”
“How many more?”
“Yesterday, you told me a dozen.”
“Yesterday it was,” he nods, dragging the ruler over the table. “It’s eighteen now.”
“How many commercial?”
“Nine big ones,” he sighs, tapping the ruler on the largest outlines. “A half dozen small ones like the Gulfstream.”
“And how many military?”
“Three so far, but this is only a twenty-mile square map. Who knows how many could be down there.”
“A problem for someone else.”
“You aren’t seeing the—.”
Todd is interrupted by a static crackle from a flat screen monitor sitting on a rolling table. The chubby face of Gerald Bates flickers into focus. Bates is the man who hired me, but is on dry land somewhere. The closest I got to meeting him was on Skype. Todd shuffles over and checks the placement of a camera under the screen. It’s round and moves side to side and up and down, basically like a security camera. This one allows Bates, and whoever else has the feed, to see the table and us. As Todd steps back, the camera pans around the room.
“Where’s Lee?” Bates’ voice crackles.
He is referring to Masso Lee, the person in charge of collecting the briefcase and returning it to our employer. That’s if we manage to get it to the surface. Lee is below deck trying not to throw up. He arrived by seaplane yesterday and the motion sickness pills haven’t kicked in yet.
“Around here somewhere,” I shrug. “Sea sick.”
“How many?”
“Nine commercial, six private and three possibly military,” Todd reports excitedly.
“And that’s all of them?” Bates demands.
“That’s all we can see on this twenty-mile square scan,” I remark. “It’s a big ocean.”
“But you’re sure ours is down there?”
“Yes, we have the GPS location from the black box,” I assure him, putting a finger on the outline of the Gulfstream. “She’s right under us.”
“Good,” he grunts, his bloodshot eyes glaring at the camera. “The dive people arrived in Australia today. We will have them on a Bombardier tomorrow.”
“How long for them to bring it up?” I ask, hoping it’s quickly.
“No idea. I’m not even sure how they are going to do it. Flynn’s people are telling me they can put eyes on the bottom.”
“But, they are going to find the case and get it topside?” Todd rephrases the same question.
“That is what I have been promised.”
“How long do you think we can wait to alert the authorities?” I ask tentatively, understanding this is a touchy subject as well as an extremely low priority to everyone but Todd.
“As soon as Lee gets the case on a plane, you can call the appropriate people. Keep an eye on the dive people. We don’t need them posting pictures of triple-sevens full of dead passengers on YouTube.”
“It’s pretty hard to get a signal out here.”
“Don’t underestimate these guys,” he warns.
The camera pans down and scans the map on the table. Todd already sent all this stuff to Bates, but the tiny motors on the camera tip it back and forth as if studying it closely. Or possibly showing it to someone else. While I do not know what’s inside the case, the amount of time and money being invested in its recovery is stunning. I wait several minutes, receiving an eye roll from Todd.
“John,” the speaker crackles, the lens rising and pointing at me.
“Yes?”
“How much water is sitting on this mess?”
“Six.”
No reply comes and I wait. On the screen, Bates is talking to someone off camera. He is handed a sheet of paper, scans it, then wads it into a ball, tossing it off screen. A hand covers what must be the speaker as the sound is suddenly muffled. An exchange occurs between Bates and an unseen person off camera. It’s heated, ending in Bates waving a hand in the air, then freeing the microphone.
“John, the case may have been compromised, either by the crash or the extreme depth.”
“I suppose that’s possible.”
“Make sure that Lee sees all the images from the bottom and reports back to me before you bring anything up,” he warns. “Is that clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Good, call me when the dive people arrive,” he orders, then the screen abruptly cuts to static.
“I wonder what’s in the case?” Todd mutters.
“Who knows,” I sigh, rubbing my temple. “I’m more curious as to how all these planes became submarines.”
“Sounds like he’s worried about word getting out.”
I chose to not offer my thoughts out loud. He’d be naive to think it hasn’t already.
Chapter Six
“When do you leave?” Hal asks eagerly.
“Your guy told us they would pick us up in three hours,” I yawn. “Sounded like a private plane to somewhere in western Australia, then a seaplane to the ship.”
“You getting any sleep?”
“Only been in cou
ntry for two hours,” I yawn again. “I’ll be fine after a shower and a nap.”
“How are the dive guys?”
“Pissed. I don’t know what you threatened them with, but the fat one keeps blabbering on about a lawsuit.”
“Twisted their arm pretty hard.”
“Apparently so, they aren’t talking to me at all.”
“Will that be a problem?” he asks in a concerned tone. “I can have someone talk to them.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I assure him, worried the phrase, talk to, could mean threaten or worse. “I’m not looking to get to cozy.”
“But you need to pass for one of them.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll call you when we hit the deck. Are you sure this phone will get a signal out there?”
“Pretty much anywhere. Take pictures of anything interesting and send them to me.”
“It takes pictures? I was going ask where the wraparound sun glasses and full length leather jacket went that came with it.”
He doesn’t answer, clearly not making the connection to this type of phone and the movie The Matrix. I need to look the phone over more carefully. If it can take and send pictures, there’s probably a text function.
“I’m not sure—.”
“Forget it,” I cut him off. “I’ll send you anything interesting.”
…
Sleep doesn’t come, so after an hour spent staring at the ceiling, I go to the lobby for a coffee. It’s noon here, but there’s still a complementary pot sitting next to a stack of paper cups. I’m stirring in sugar when it becomes obvious something is going on. A huge flat screen television is mounted on the wall in front of a couch surrounded by a few lounge chairs. A half dozen people stand in a semicircle, eyes glued to the screen. From my position across the lobby, I can’t hear the anchor, but the banner headline reads loud and clear.
Breaking News… Two U.S. F-18 Hornets shot down over the East China Sea… China denies reports that Shenyang J-16 fighter jets were responsible for the attack… Two American pilots have been pulled from the water… The crew from the second F-18 is presumed dead…
