by Marc Cameron
Benavides braced himself for another blow from Thibodaux. A smear of bloody drool dripped from the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know.” He choked back a sob. “I’m just a grunt. I do what Walter tells me to. He’s the one running the show.”
“I guess your boss wouldn’t be too happy to hear you’re blabbing your head off in a bar,” Bowen mused.
Benavides slumped even farther in his seat, defeated. “He’d kill me.”
“Okay,” Bowen said, “Walter doesn’t need to know anything. As long as you keep me informed about Director Ross.”
“That’s all?”
Thibodaux loomed over the backseat. “Hell no, that ain’t all,” he said. “Both hands on the wheel and hum quietly to yourself while I make a call. Don’t be listenin’ in. That’ll get you killed.”
Benavides looked as though he’d been shot. “I can’t help but hear if you talk sitting back there. Can’t . . . can’t you just step out of the car if it’s a secret call?”
Bowen stifled a chuckle as Thibodaux pressed the phone to his ear and swatted Benavides in the back of the head. “I told you to hum.”
Joey B began to hum something unrecognizable—far from the mighty songs of himself he’d been crooning earlier.
Thibodaux hit him again. “Would you shut up,” he snapped. “I’m on the phone.”
Bowen had to look away to keep from laughing.
Dazed and confused, Benavides leaned his forehead on the steering wheel, bloody lips emitting something in between a sob and a hum.
“It’s me, sir,” Thibodaux said in the backseat. “Yes . . .”
Bowen wasn’t sure who the Cajun was talking to, but it was someone he trusted. Thibodaux ran down the specifics of the conversation with Joey Benavides—who hummed louder every time his name was mentioned.
“Yes, sir,” Thibodaux said after he finished his report. He listened intently, nodding and making just enough noise so the other party knew he was still on the line. “I understand, sir,” he said at length. “No, I agree. It has to be done. We’ll take care of it.”
“What has to be done?” Benavides sobbed, unable to contain himself. “You don’t have to do anything. . . .”
“Ahhh.” Thibodaux tilted his head to the side and leaned over the seat. “Somebody’s been listenin’ when I told them not to. . . .”
Benavides deflated like an empty balloon.
“Here’s the deal, Joey B,” Thibodaux said. “Turns out Director Ross will be moved today. You’re gonna call me and tell me where they’re takin’ her.”
Benavides groaned. “I’m not approved to know that kind of thing before it happens.”
“Well go and get your ass approved,” Thibodaux whispered. “Because if you screw me around, I’m gonna come to your house and mess up your shit.” He leaned in so his eye patch was almost touching Joey B’s cheek. “And I don’t mean your stuff. I mean your actual shit. Your house will be covered in little tiny bits of what was once you. Understand?”
Benavides nodded quickly, forehead wrinkled like his head was about to explode. Unintelligible whimpers gurgled from his throat.
“I’m done here,” Thibodaux said. “Being near this guy makes me feel like I might catch PMS.”
Bowen looked at him.
“Puny Man Syndrome,” Thibodaux said.
Bowen gave a slow nod. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.” He raised a brow at Joey B. “Not a word to your bosses about our meeting.”
Benavides dabbed at his split lip. “What do I tell them about what happened to my face?”
“Not our problem,” Thibodaux said. He flung open the rear door.
“Run your car into a tree on the way home,” Bowen offered on his way out. “Tell them you fell asleep at the wheel. I got a feeling they’d buy that.”
Thibodaux leaned down, looking in the window with his hand to his face, thumb and little finger extended to look like a telephone. He grinned like they were old friends. “Call me,” he said.
Chapter 47
Flight 105
Quinn had only meant to close his eyes for a moment, but the massive adrenaline dump from the day before had taken a heavy toll. More even than the physical stress, hours of worry over Mattie and Kim had eaten away at Quinn’s reserves. Once on the plane, he felt relatively safe, and allowed himself to relax before his body shut down entirely. He’d all but passed out after Mattie had returned from visiting her new friend, leaving her to watch over him while she read Lemony Snicket.
Quinn had always been athletic, climbing mountains, running track, and boxing from the time he was a boy. He’d learned, even then, that when in peak condition, the mind and body could do amazing things. In China and Japan, he’d witnessed feats of skill and stamina that seemed superhuman. The Air Force Special Operations pipeline taught him that human limits went far beyond the wildest imagination of most—but there was always a price. Reaching those limits required huge expenditures of energy—and with that came the eventual need to recharge. No matter how tough and well-trained a person was, at some point, body and brain needed a break.
Roughly an hour after Quinn had closed his eyes, he became aware of someone in the aisle beside his seat.
Willing himself back to consciousness, he sat up to find Carly the flight attendant standing above him. Her hand resting on the back of his seat, lips tight, she looked down as if she was afraid to disturb him. Her blond hair had lost the perfection of before, more disheveled, as if she’d been on a run or just gotten up from a nap.
Quinn coughed, rubbing the grit of sleep from his eyes. His head ached and he felt as if he’d swallowed a cup of sand. He wondered how long she’d been standing there and chided himself for allowing her to hover over him at all. That kind of lapse could get a man in his line of work very dead.
Carly forced a smile, probably for Mattie’s sake. She cast a quick glance toward the rear of the plane. “May I speak with you a moment?”
Quinn was instantly awake. Flight attendants didn’t summon passengers out of their seats for no reason. He half turned in his seat, expecting to find a couple of ham-fisted government agents waiting for him at the bulkhead, ready to slap the cuffs on him. There was no one there but an elderly woman who disappeared into one of the lavatories.
He looked at Mattie. Her nose was still buried in her book. “Hey, kiddo, you be okay for a minute?”
She shook her head without looking up, the way Kim did when she was exasperated about something—which was usually him. “We’re on an airplane, Dad,” she said. “Where am I going to go?”
Quinn looked at Popeye, who was snoring soundly next to the window. Malleable wax plugs stuffed his ears. “Okay.” He smiled, mussing her hair. “I hear you. But do me a favor and lose the attitude.”
Mattie gave him a thumbs-up to go with her snaggle-toothed grin. “I hear you,” she said.
The seat belt sign came on with another porcelain chime. Captain Rob’s firm voice warned everyone of bumpy air.
Quinn looked up at the attendant, nodding to the light on the console above him. “Shouldn’t I . . . ?”
She gave a slow shake of her head, the kind of shake a doctor uses when he’s telling someone their loved one didn’t make it out of surgery. “The captain knows I need to speak to you.”
Quinn flicked the latch on his seat belt and stood to follow the attendant down the aisle. Rather than stopping to talk when they reached the open area behind the bulkhead lavatories, she kept walking, moving with a purpose toward the galley and lounge area at far end of the aircraft below the curving stairwell that led to the upper deck. Carly didn’t just want to talk. She wanted to show him something.
The Airbus A380 was designed for long voyages of relative luxury, where passengers could get up and move around. As such, the aft section of the plane was furnished as a comfortable lounge, complete with mood lighting, a magazine rack, and leather couches along both sides of the airplane. A row of vending machines with everything from electronics to pe
rfumes was situated at the rear bulkhead—in the event someone couldn’t do without a new iPhone or bottle of eau de toilette before they landed.
Carly turned abruptly when she reached the curved wall at the base of the stairwell. A thick velvet rope, maroon, like those used in theaters and banks, cordoned off the bottom step.
A second flight attendant with silver hair in an elegant updo had parked herself immediately around the corner with her back to the bulkhead. She faced the stairs, blue eyes locked forward, as if on a target. Quinn recognized someone standing guard when he saw her. He gave this new attendant a polite nod, which she returned mechanically, saying nothing.
Carly clasped her hands in front of her, bringing them up to her mouth, as if she meant to pray.
“I need to ask you something.” She spoke around her hands. “Are you a cop? Because you look like a cop, and you handle yourself like a cop. I’ve been doing this job for twelve years, and I think I can tell if someone’s a cop. You have one of those faces, you know?” She finally took a breath.
“I am,” Quinn sighed. “In a manner of speaking.”
“I knew it.” Carly chewed on her knuckle. Opal-pink nails dug into the back of her fists. She glanced at the other attendant. “I told you, didn’t I, Natalie?”
“Yes,” Natalie said, deadpan, eyes still aimed on the stairs. “You said he was a cop.” If she was impressed by Carly’s insight, she didn’t show it.
Before she could get to her point, a stern-eyed woman wearing lumpy black yoga pants that were several sizes too small pushed her way through the curtains at the bulkhead. She had a boy of four or five in tow and they were headed for the stairs.
Natalie perked up at the sound of her approach, turning to intercept her. “I’m sorry. The stairs are closed,” the attendant said. “And the captain has turned on the seat belt sign. I’m going to have to ask you to return—”
“I don’t feel any bumps.” The woman in yoga pants crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “And besides, how can the stairs be closed? It’s not like you can break a flight of stairs.”
“Ma’am,” Natalie said, through a tight smile. “Return to your seat.”
“Well.” The woman gave a sarcastic wag of her head as she spoke. “That is exactly what we are trying to do. My son wanted to look around your fancy airplane. We came this way so he could use the restroom.”
“You’ll have to use the front stairs,” Natalie said.
“I don’t see why—”
“Go the other way,” Quinn said. His voice was barbed with the pointed ambivalence of a man who’d ended people’s lives. He had never hurt a woman just for being rude, but Yoga Pants didn’t know that.
“This is going in my TripAdvisor review!” the woman said. “I can assure you of that.” She drew her son to her like a shield, thankfully, Quinn thought, covering the most offending portions of her yoga pants.
Once the woman had stomped away, Carly turned her attention back to Quinn. “See what I mean,” she said. “You sounded like you would have slammed her on the floor if she’d refused your order.”
“I should have slammed her because of those hideous tights,” Natalie said, still deadpan.
“Okay,” Quinn said. “Before someone else comes back and challenges any authority I don’t actually possess, tell me what is it you need.”
Carly let her hands fall to her sides. “You held that rolled motorcycle magazine like a club when you were boarding. And you handled your idiot seatmate like someone who’s used to tough situations.” Her eyes played up and down, studying him, as if she was still trying to convince herself she’d made the right decision. “And the way you interact with your daughter . . . I told the captain you were a man we could trust.” She lifted a beige handset off the rear bulkhead and extended it toward Quinn. “He wants to speak with you.”
Quinn sighed, taking the phone. This couldn’t be good.
Rob Szymanski’s voice came across the line. He didn’t sound nearly as upbeat as he did over the intercom. “Mr. . . . Hackman, is it?” the captain said, using the name on Quinn’s passport.
“Yes, sir,” Quinn said.
“Carly thinks you’re some kind of police officer. Is she correct?”
“She is,” Quinn said. “Air Force OSI.” There was no point in lying. There was obviously something going on that made the crew think they needed someone with law enforcement experience.
“Very good,” the captain said. “An old ROTC buddy of mine is the OSI detachment commander in New York. Maybe you know him.”
“Dave Fullmer,” Quinn said. “He was one of my instructors at FLETC. He’s a good man.” FLETC was the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center.
“Yes, he is,” the captain said, apparently convinced now that Quinn was actually an OSI agent. “Listen, I’ll just cut to the chase. Carly brought you back there because we’ve had a murder on board.”
Quinn’s breath caught like a stone in his throat. He’d expected that they might want his help with an unruly passenger. “You mean an unattended death?”
“No,” the captain sighed. “Well, yes. SOP says I’m not allowed to open the cockpit door under these circumstances, but from the way they describe it to me, we’re pretty sure it’s a murder, throat cut, the whole nine—”
“Just a minute.” Quinn cut him off. “Do you have the killer in custody?”
“No, I—”
Quinn dropped the handset, letting it fall against its cord without another word. He shouldered his way past a dumbfounded Carly, and ran back up the aisle, scanning for threats as he went.
Mattie was too short to be visible over the back of her seat, but he sensed something was wrong when he was still five rows back. The guy with the Popeye chin was gone. Quinn picked up his pace, shoving aside errant knees and elbows as he rushed down the aisle. He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid as to leave her alone.
He nearly collapsed when he reached their row and saw her kneeling beside her backpack at the foot of her seat. She’d finished one Lemony Snicket book and, being too small to reach her bag, she’d unbuckled her seat belt and climbed down on the floor to get another from her backpack. It had been impossible for Quinn to see her until he was right on top of their row.
He ignored the glares of surrounding passengers when he not only snubbed his own nose at the seat belt sign, but told his daughter to get up and accompany him to the back of the plane.
“Bring your book,” he snapped, a little more harshly than he should have.
Mattie followed without a word.
Though Quinn had been deployed or absent on assignment through fully half of Mattie’s short life, she was smart enough to know when the time for joking was over. She walked obediently behind him, sensing somehow, even at this tender age, that there were things more important than seat belt signs.
Quinn got her situated on the couch along the wall nearest Natalie the guard. Carly was still on the phone with the cockpit. She passed the handset to Quinn.
“What was that all about?” the captain snapped. “I’m in the middle of telling you about a murder and you walk away?”
“Captain . . .” Quinn took a slow breath. “I’m not willing to leave my daughter unattended when there’s a killer free on the plane.”
“Right,” the captain said. “I understand. Look, I have to be honest with you. The FBI will be pretty upset that I’m breaking protocol and having someone else investigate this murder before we get back. But, as you said, I’m not happy about a killer running around on my airplane. If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate a professional pair of eyes on the body. Maybe there’s some clue that will lead us to the killer right away. I’d come out and give it a look myself, but after something like this, I can’t even crack the door until we land.”
“OSI doesn’t pull lead on homicide investigations,” Quinn said. “But I’ll see what I can do.”
“Very well,” Captain Rob said. “I’m not too keen on landing in Russia wi
th a dead body on board. Take a look and get back with me quickly. I’ve got some decisions to make and I got about fifteen minutes to make them.”
“Roger that,” Quinn said. He was at once worried over Mattie’s safety and excited at the prospect of the hunt.
“It . . . I mean he’s around the corner,” Carly said. She nodded at the stairwell that curved upward in a slow arc to the second level. A pool of yellow light washed down the polished teak, spilling onto the maroon Berber carpet of the lounge. “Your daughter can sit right here at the bottom without seeing too much. You should be able to keep an eye on her and still see what you need to see. I’ll help you watch her.”
“Thank you.” Quinn nodded. “That will work.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t think about the danger before,” Carly said. “It was pretty stupid of me to leave her sitting there by herself, considering.”
“No worries,” Quinn said, pausing as Carly moved the rope barrier to one side. “Tell me, what was it really that made you think I was a cop?”
“You remind me of my dad,” she said, holding out her hand to motion him in.
“Your dad was in law enforcement?”
“No,” she laughed. “He was a news correspondent for the wire services. We lived all over the world. Anyway, he had a laminated saying on his computer that was something like: ‘Every man is sometimes tempted to cut throats,’ or something like that.”
Quinn smiled in spite of the dead body ten feet away. “It’s a Mencken quote,” he said. “He was a journalist like your father. ‘Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats.’ ”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” Carly said. “When I first saw you, that’s what came to mind.”
Chapter 48
The White House
President Hartman Drake leaned back in his chair with a phone pressed to one ear. His bowtie was crooked. His face was still flushed from his recent workout, which, McKeon knew, included a certain amount of exertion with Barbara Wong. The attractive Navy ensign was the only female in the room and now stood at the end of the desk with a second handset, acting as interpreter. President Chen spoke excellent English and she was only there in the event the conversation reached a more nuanced level. Both countries, after all, had the means, and lately the will, to see each other reduced to glowing piles of ash.
