by Marc Cameron
Quinn yanked the curtain shut as he dragged his prisoner past the bulkhead that separated the aft section of the aircraft from the view of the rearmost row of seats. The passengers would be able to hear, but that could not be helped. Once at the base of the stairs, he shoved the man in the black jacket on the floor, facedown, and slipped another set of plastic restraints around his ankles. Even metal cuffs were temporary restraints at best. Quinn had escaped from enough of the plastic ones never to trust a single set of any kind.
A quick pat-down revealed a passport with the name Gao Jianguo of the People’s Republic of China. He was clean-shaven, with black hair that was buzzed short. Not a tall man, he had thick muscles, with the scarred hands of someone accustomed to physical labor.
Quinn asked a series of rudimentary questions about where he was from, his destination, and if he had any confederates on board. The twitches of Gao’s face showed he understood the questions. He would not speak a word.
Carly came back with a small set of clippers from the emergency supplies closet. The plastic cutters had hidden blades that weren’t exposed so they were worthless for anything but cutting plastic cuffs.
Mattie stood on the other side of the plane with Natalie, giving her some distance if not actual separation from the events that were unfolding.
Quinn checked the Aquaracer on his wrist. It had been nearly forty-five minutes since the pilot had turned the plane around. Whatever this guy was up to, it would be happening soon.
Free from the restraints, Madonna Foss rubbed her wrists and worked her jaw back and forth.
Quinn noticed her left shoulder drooped like a broken wing.
“Is it bad?”
She shook her head. “Not sure. I hit the armrest pretty hard when you popped me.” She opened and closed her hand, but grimaced when she tried to raise her arm. “Yeah,” she said. “That makes me want to puke. It’s broken, but I’ll be fine until we land.”
“Good to hear,” Quinn said. “Because I’m going to need your help. There is no way this is the only bad guy on board. The killing was random, but so professional it has to be some sort of diversion.”
“Makes sense.” Foss nodded. “A murder on board would make the pilot divert to the nearest US airport that was safe and secure. In this case that means turning around and heading back to Alaska.”
“Keeping us over water,” Quinn said, finishing her thought.
“You think it’s a bomb,” Foss said.
“Good possibility,” Quinn said. “But I’d keep that to myself.”
“No kidding,” Foss said, her air marshal training kicking in. “I need to discuss this with the captain.”
“Phone’s on the wall,” Quinn said. “But I’m about to start questioning this guy. If, as we suspect, he has compatriots on the plane, I need someone to keep eyes on my daughter while I’m otherwise engaged.”
“Look,” Foss said, “I can help with the interrogation, but I’m not a babysitter.”
“You’re hurt,” Quinn said. “But you seem to be good at what you do. I don’t count protecting my daughter as babysitting.”
“I’m not too hurt to help you,” Foss said.
Quinn lowered his voice so Mattie and the others couldn’t hear. “We don’t have much time,” he said. “Who knows how many others there are out there or what they plan to do. I don’t want my daughter out there with some unknown killer—but I can’t have her watching me work either.”
Foss took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said. “But I’m pretty sure you broke my arm so you’d have someone to watch your kid.”
“I wish I could think that far ahead,” Quinn said. He turned to Carly. “I need you and Natalie to go get me the EMK.”
“My arm isn’t that bad,” Foss said. “Certainly nothing in the enhanced medical kit that would do me any good.”
“It’s not for you,” Quinn said. He shot a look at the prisoner.
Carly’s eyes fell on Mattie. Her face suddenly went slack. Quinn felt her tense beside him. “Can I talk to you and your daughter a second?” she said.
“You okay?” Natalie said, noticing her friend’s sudden change in mood.
“I’m fine,” Carly said, still looking down. “I just need to talk to Mr. Hackman about something. Would you mind grabbing the kit?”
Quinn followed her gaze down to the book in Mattie’s lap. It was open to the title page where she’d written her name in beautiful cursive.
Madeline Irene Quinn.
Natalie shrugged and went to retrieve the EMK while Carly followed Quinn to the other side of the plane, away from Foss and Mattie.
Carly looked him straight in the eye. “I can’t handle being lied to right now,” she said. “Any other time and I’d think, oh, you and her mom are divorced, and that’s why her name is different . . . but something awful is happening on this airplane and I need to know who I can trust.”
“You can trust me,” Quinn said—bold words, he thought, for a man living a lie.
Carly folded her arms across her chest and set her jaw. One part I’m-fragile, nine parts don’t-screw-with-me, it was a particular look he’d seen on Kim too many times. “Is her name Mattie Hackman?”
“No.”
“Really?” Carly let her arms drop, looking surprised at his lack of denial. “What is it then?”
“Mattie Quinn.”
“But you are John Hackman?”
“Jericho Quinn,” he said.
“But wha—”
Mattie padded up behind them. She looked back and forth to make sure no one else, including Madonna Foss could hear. “Remember when Mom was in the hospital after she got shot and we were all in her room?” she said.
Quinn nodded, looking at an astonished Carly, and then back at his little girl. He had no idea what she was about to say.
“She told me a secret,” Mattie said. She had tears in her eyes, but was remarkably composed.
“I remember,” Quinn said.
Mattie rolled her lips, rocking back and forth on her heels. She looked so much like Kim. “She said we should give you a break. You’re doing the best that you can.”
“Oh, sweetie,” he said.
She hugged his leg.
Carly closed her eyes. “Are you even a cop?”
“I’m exactly what I said I am,” Quinn said. He ran a hand over the top of Mattie’s hair, and then gathered her up in his arms. She put her arms around his neck and hugged him until she shook. “Just traveling under an assumed name.”
“With your daughter?”
“Long story,” Quinn said.
“When this is all over,” Carly said, “will you tell it to me?”
“Honestly . . .” Quinn gave her a tight smile. “Probably not.” He carried Mattie back over to Foss and buckled her in with her book, giving her another kiss on top of the head.
“I never should have gotten into this,” Carly said when they’d walked back to the other side of the plane.
“Asking me to help?” Quinn said, feeling a twinge of guilt for the lies.
Carly shook her head. “No, being a flight attendant. I’m scared to death of flying.”
“That is a thing,” Quinn said.
“Do you remember the shoe picture?” Carly asked, gazing into space in a thousand-yard stare.
Quinn shook his head. “The what?”
She took a ragged breath, trying to gain control of herself. “From the first time I saw it in training, I’ve had nightmares about the picture of all the shoes from KAL 007.”
Quinn put a hand on her shoulder. Now he knew what she was talking about. He’d been a small boy in 1983 when a Korean Air 747 from New York via Anchorage had mistakenly wandered into prohibited Soviet airspace while en route to Seoul. A Soviet SU 15 “Flagon” fighter was dispatched when the aircraft crossed the Kamchatka Peninsula, shooting it down over the Sea of Japan. All 269 passengers were lost. The Soviets denied involvement at first, but eventually turned over items that were found floati
ng at the crash site. A photograph of dozens of shoes—sneakers, loafers, and pumps of all different sizes, piled on top of a plastic bag—had appeared in LIFE Magazine. Several of the victims’ families recognized them as belonging to their loved ones. Quinn had a distinct memory of his mother holding the magazine and crying—and his father’s angry words at the Russians over the incident.
Carly looked at her feet. “I don’t want my husband to find a photograph of my red Danskos in some magazine.. . .”
“We’re going to get through this,” he said, but wondered if it was just another lie. He couldn’t help himself and looked across at Mattie’s shoes.
Every commercial airliner is required to carry not only a first aid kit containing bandages, aspirin, and other basic supplies, but an enhanced medical kit as well. These EMKs contained the equipment that trained medical personnel from EMTs to thoracic surgeons would be able to use to treat an emergency while at altitude. There was nitroglycerin for heart issues, scopolamine patches and Zofran for acute nausea, epinephrine for shock, and several medications for pain. Quinn opened the soft duffel case and looked through the items inside until he found the diazepam.
It was common knowledge that a physician on American Flight 63 had dosed Richard Reid with a shot of Valium from just such a kit after Reid attempted to ignite a bomb in his shoe on the Paris to Miami flight. His attorneys argued that the drug was what caused him to confess to the FBI when they’d landed in Boston.
Quinn was counting on it. He peeled the backing off two scopolamine patches and stuck them under each of Gao’s ears for good measure, leaving him facedown on the carpet.
“Can you watch him for a minute?” he said to Foss.
“Happy to,” she said, moving to take a position at the prisoner’s head so she’d be able to stop him if the need arose.
Quinn took Mattie aside, and knelt down beside her next to the curtain on the opposite aisle. He was grateful to be on an aircraft large enough to get her away from his interrogation.
“Daddy,” she said. “Have you ever been really scared and really excited at the same time?”
He kissed her on top of the head. “Many, many times, Sweet Pea.”
“That’s how I feel right now,” she said. “I don’t think Mom would like this very much.”
“I expect not,” Quinn said.
“Did he murder the man on the stairs?” Mattie asked.
“It looks that way.”
“Okay.” She nodded, mulling this over. Since she’d been old enough to talk, Mattie had been one to ruminate deeply on things. “I wish I could help you.”
“Someday,” Quinn said, thinking of how Kim would kill him if she knew about this conversation. “You’re a tough kid. I’m going to have you sit with Agent Foss. This is important. Okay?”
Quinn gave his little girl another quick kiss and left her in the care of a woman he’d punched in the face exactly nine minutes before. The only thing that had kept him alive over the last few years was his ability to compartmentalize thoughts about his family when things heated up on a mission. That was going to be doubly difficult with Mattie sitting behind a curtain fifteen feet away. Well-adjusted as she was, it could not be healthy for a seven-year-old to hear her father do what Quinn was about to do.
Quinn drew twenty CCs of Valium into a syringe, and then held it sideways in his teeth while he hauled Gao to his feet and slammed him back on the bottom steps of the stairs. A few feet above, Professor Foulger’s body lay ghostly pale in the pool of drying blood.
Gao groaned in pain as his tailbone impacted the hard wooden step. Quinn used the opportunity to jab the needle into the man’s belly and inject him with all twenty CCs.
“What was that?” Gao said, eyes wide now. It was the first time he’d spoken.
“Something to make you feel a little better,” Quinn said in Mandarin. “Let’s get started.”
“Your Chinese is remarkable,” Gao said, honestly impressed.
“What is your name?” Quinn asked, peering over the top of Gao’s open passport.
“You know my name,” Gao said. His speech began to slur just moments after the injection. The fire of contempt bled from drooping eyes as the powerful sedative took control of his body.
Quinn had used scopolamine combined with other drugs before during interrogations. He wasn’t sure how it would react with Valium in the long term—but the mutilated body of Foulger and the fear in his daughter’s eyes made it hard for him to care.
“To be honest with you,” Quinn said, sitting beside Gao on the stairs, as if they were old friends, “I’m accustomed to hurting people to get information. But I thought we might try something different here.”
Gao’s head lolled. He caught himself, as if startled out of a dream. He gazed at Quinn, trying to focus.
“Who are you?”
Quinn patted him on the knee. “I’m wondering that about you,” he said. “Where are you from, Gao Jianguo?”
“Shanghai,” Gao said, nodding off again.
Quinn gave the tender flesh on the inside of the man’s thigh a sharp pinch to get his attention.
“I am familiar with Shanghai,” Quinn said. “What part?”
Gao glared at him, blinking stupidly. Drool poured from the corner of his mouth.
“You know what I think?” Quinn chuckled like they were compatriots talking over a drink. “I think your accent tells me you’re from the northwest. Xinjiang maybe.”
Gao gave a silly smile, but held his tongue.
“They have good food in Xinjiang,” Quinn said. “Plov, suoman, pamirdin . . . I miss good pamirdin. . . .” His voice trailed off. Pamirdin were baked meat pies with lamb, carrot, and onion—a popular halal dish. “I would walk across the desert to Kashgar if I could get good pamirdin.”
Gao licked his lips. “Pamirdin,” he said.
Quinn rested his hands on his knees, letting his gaze slide over the prisoner.
“So,” he said, “you’re not from Shanghai after all?”
Gao shook his head. “Not really.”
“I notice a little tan line on your forehead,” Quinn said. “Like you might have if you wore a Hui hat. . . .”
“So what if I do?” Gao frowned. “Do you have something against Islam?”
“Not at all,” Quinn said. “There are plenty of Hui Chinese who have contributed much to the world.” He stooped lower to look Gao in the eye. “But you are not one of those Hui.”
“I think you pick on me because I am a Muslim,” he said.
“I’m picking on you because you’re covered in the blood of the man whose throat you cut,” Quinn spat. He softened immediately, keeping the drug-addled man off balance. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” There was no time for a lengthy interrogation—so he guessed. “We have located the bomb. You may go ahead and have a rest.”
“You joke,” Gao said. His eyes shifted to the base of the stairs, trying to lean out so he could see what might be happening. Facial tics, the dilation of his pupils—known as micro expressions—told Quinn he was on to something real. The Valium suppressed his emotions, but it did not yet mask them. Gao chewed on his tongue as if trying to hold back the words. “You have found nothing.”
“Yes,” Quinn said, giving a satisfied nod. “We have. We have your partners who helped you kill the man on the stairs. It is over, my friend.”
“It is my fault we have failed,” Gao sighed. He threw back his head. A tear ran down his cheek. “May Allah forgive my clumsy hands. . . .”
Quinn pinched the man’s thigh again, harder this time, pulling a chunk of skin and giving it a sharp twist before letting it snap back into place. It brought on a yowl of pain, but focused the man a little too much.
He looked up suddenly, regaining what sense he had. “You know nothing.”
“I know you are not from Shanghai.” Quinn shrugged.
The key to a successful interrogation often lay as much in the things that were not said as much as the things that we
re. One moment Gao’s shoulders slumped in defeat, the next they began to shake. Turning his head slowly so he could look Quinn in the eye, he loosed a cackling laugh.
Quinn stood up, thinking through what to do next. He considered administering one of the epinephrine pens to bring Gao out of his stupor and question him under the added anxiety. The truth was there was no time to do this the right way—especially with Mattie sitting so close.
Carly and Natalie appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Carly’s neck was blotchy and red from nerves. Even the normally unflappable Natalie was mussed as if she’d been in a scuffle, her face drawn and stricken as if she’d seen a ghost.
Quinn stepped away just enough to keep an eye on Gao and spare them another sight of the dead body.
“What is it?” Quinn’s first thought was of Mattie’s safety.
“We found something you need to see,” Carly said.
“Does it look like a bomb?” Quinn said, hope rising. If they’d found it, they could try to disarm it—or at least put it in a spot that would do the least damage to the aircraft.
Natalie took a step back at the word. “A bomb?” she said. “No . . . there’s been another murder . . . two more murders.”
“A woman and the attendant from the coffee station,” Carly said. “Somebody killed them both. Juanita found their bodies down in the crew quarters below first class.”
Quinn motioned Carly across the lounge, farther from Mattie. He kept his voice at a whisper. “Describe the woman to me.”
Carly grimaced. “Juanita came up the stairs like she’d seen . . . well, two dead bodies. None of us went down there. We just came to get you.”
Madonna Foss was sweating from the pain in her broken arm, but she was still coherent and looked like she wanted to punch Quinn in the face. That was good. He needed her mad and ready to fight if she was to protect his daughter. “I need to go check up front,” he said. “You all right here for a minute?”
“We’ll be fine.” Foss put on a tight smile. “Mattie will look after me.”
“I’ll stay back too,” Natalie said. “I still have the stun gun if I need it.”
Quinn nodded. It killed him to leave his daughter, but if he didn’t stop whatever was going on up front, it wouldn’t matter who stayed back to watch her.
