Lattimer is shaking his head, clearly ready to reject her idea.
“And what’s more,” Keresey continues, “if I do the pickup, the bags will never be out of federal custody. The chain of evidence will be stronger. We don’t want to risk losing our case based on some legal technicality.”
“Duly noted. Thank you for your input, Agent Stone.” Lattimer, dismissive, turns back to me. “Miss McNally, you’ll do the pickup as I outlined. You hand over the bags you collect. We’ll use the claim-tag routing numbers to trace the issuing ticket clerk and convince that person to give us the principal players. All we need. Chain of custody is not a consideration. We’ll be there. We’ll witness the exchange.”
“All the more reason for me to shoot it,” Franklin persists.
“But what if it goes wrong?” Keresey, both palms flat on Lattimer’s desk, leans toward her boss, pushing. “What if this move puts Charlie in danger? Should we check it out with the director in D.C.?”
“You’re over the line, Agent Stone,” Lattimer replies. “I’m in command of this operation. If these guys have someone staking out the exchange, they’ll expect to see Miss McNally. And, if she’s willing…?
I nod.
“…it’s Miss McNally they’ll get. And we’ll proceed as planned.”
“Nice purse,” I say to Keresey, pointing to the black shoulder bag on the front seat. She’s driving our nondescript unmarked car, procured from the FBI motor pool. “Is it loaded?”
“Government issue,” Keresey replies, accelerating up the winding ramp into Logan Airport’s central parking. “Assigned to me fully equipped with one loaded Smith & Wesson. Marren’s going to give me a radio set to airport emergency frequency. Under the seat, there’s another bag just like it for you, too. Put on your Elsa makeup, then you can stash your own purse in the trunk. You won’t need anything else from it.”
“Is mine fully loaded? Gun and radio? I’m still quite the hotshot, you know, after your lessons.” I point my forefingers and shoot some parked cars, making the appropriate noises.
“In your dreams,” Keresey says. “Your bag is empty. Counterfeit, you might say. But we have to match. And remember, that course was just at the firing range. I’ll take care of the bad guys. You stick with your pad and pencil, sister.”
Even now, we actually do look like sisters. We’re both still in jeans and boots, our hair down, wearing Audrey Hepburn–sized sunglasses. While I hide in the ladies’ room, she’ll soon be shopping for the accessories that will transform us into identical twins.
“Where’s Franklin, by the way?” Keresey asks, pulling into a parking space.
I shrug. “Maybe home with Stephen. Sulking.”
That’s not true. I hate to mislead Keresey, but we’re not missing these shots. If it’s not on video, it didn’t happen. I figure Kevin will approve.
“Listen, now that we’re alone,” I say, changing the subject. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of Lattimer, but we heard from Katie Harkins.”
Keresey clicks the car into Park, and turns to me, her eyes wide with surprise. Or fear. Or questions.
“I didn’t say anything in front of Lattimer, because thinking back to that day on the bridge, I didn’t remember whether you had told us he knew you were asking about her,” I continue. “But I got a text message from her. Yesterday.”
“We got a message from her, too,” Keresey replies, her face grim. “Early Saturday, Lattimer said. What did yours say?”
“Just that she wanted to reschedule our meeting. So where is she? What’s up with her? I thought she was the big insider? What did she say to you?”
“Off the record?”
Whatever. We’ll figure the rules out later. Now I just want to know.
“Sure.”
“She was apologizing. Said she got burned by a source. Katie Harkins is the one who tipped us to the L.A. warehouse, said we had to move in that day. But it was a bust. One of our agents was killed.”
I know this. From Yens. Who told me he heard it from sources. This Katie Harkins thing is haunting me. She’s the piece that doesn’t fit.
“You ever think maybe she’s in on it?” I say. “Like, she’s leading you guys to the wrong places? On purpose?”
“Sorry. Classified,” Keresey says.
A thought slams through my brain. Maybe Simone Marshal uses yet another name. I struggle to see whether that would make sense, but Keresey is talking. And I realize it’s time for us to go.
Keresey slings her purse over her shoulder, and opens her car door. “Just to confirm we’re on the same page. We’ll go in separately. You find a spot to wait. Check the board, confirm the plane’s arrival time. I’ll get sweatshirts, hats, whatever else looks good. Meet me in the ladies’ room, departure level by the Legal Sea Foods restaurant, fifteen minutes before the flight comes in. You got the Hartford bag?”
“And the beeper.” I pat my belt. “Because we need that claim check number.”
“Right.” Keresey says. She opens the trunk for my tote bag. “Are you all set? Ready for this? It’ll go down exactly as it should. Just follow my lead.”
Of course the plane is late. Thunderstorms in Atlanta make a nine-o’clock arrival wishful thinking. The red lights across from the listing for Flight 1017 from Atlanta are flashing “delayed.” Estimated time of arrival, 9:45 p.m. I have more than an hour to wait.
I know exactly how I need to spend it. First, calling Amy to feed Botox. Then, announcing my own delays and rearranging my own arrival time. Josh had texted me he had a Bexter Board of Directors meeting, was dropping Penny at Victoria’s, and invited me to a late-night anniversary celebration. Now I know our celebration is going to have to be just a bit later. And I know I’m going to have to handle this just a bit delicately.
My cell phone is in my purse. In Keresey’s trunk. Time to hit the pay phone.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I say, as Josh answers. “Happy Anniversary, second notice. Guess where I am.”
I quickly fill him in on the strategy. Lattimer, Franklin, Keresey. Ladies’ room.
“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.
Chapter Twenty-Two
H
er purse is on the floor. The bag is still on the conveyor belt. The staff-only door is closed and the skycaps have disappeared. “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.
Air Time Page 21
