by Allen Wyler
“Here’s hoping the Canucks get so bogged down in bureaucracy you’ll sail through before they can stop you. Good luck.”
Fisher didn’t sound like he believed it.
“Mr. Ritter.” The thin Asian flight attendant who had welcomed him aboard hours ago smiled while handing him his black blazer. “Please put your seat in the upright position in preparation for landing.”
Jon accepted the coat, thanked him, complied with the request, stood up, and stepped into the aisle with a brief sensation of déjà vu from the flight over. The stern-faced attendant strapped into a bulkhead jump seat jabbed a finger at his vacated seat. “Sir, you must be seated. We’re on our final approach.”
Jon hurried past him. “Sorry, but if I don’t empty this bladder we’re both going to have a problem.”
After a few seconds in the lavatory, he cracked the folding door and peeked out. The flight attendant remained strapped into the jump seat studying a checklist, paying no attention to him. Jon opened the door and slipped into the narrow aisle, hurried to the stairs to the 747 main deck, and started down. At the bottom he stopped to glance round. First class extended forward to the nose of the craft. Behind him was business class, with the economy section beyond a divider. Next to him, two lavatories and a galley separated business from first class. A seated female flight attendant scowled. “Sir, you must take your seat.”
He nodded agreement and headed down the aisle toward the aft galley and rear toilets, where the economy section appeared only half full. The plane buffeted, throwing him off balance, slamming his right hip into a seat. He grabbed the seat back to steady himself and apologized to the occupant. Most of the passengers sat at the front of this section, so he continued to an empty seat at the rear of the plane, next to the last emergency exit. His ears popped again as he sat down and strapped in. Being back here instead of upstairs in his assigned seat would only prolong the inevitable, but at least it would give him a few additional minutes to think.
Jon waited for the plane to come to a complete stop before standing up and moving to the aisle. By craning his neck and standing on a seat he could see past enough passengers to notice anyone entering the cabin before passengers began to deplane. From the overhead speakers came, “Prepare doors for arrival.” Then, “Will all passengers please remain seated. There will be a short delay before being allowed to deplane.” No one sat down; a grumble rippled through the crowd.
Uh oh, here we go.
Mouth dry, palms sweating, he watched a flight attendant open the cabin hatch. Immediately, two suits and two uniformed Royal Canadian Mounted Police officers entered the cabin. The suits quickly disappeared up the stairs. The Mounties said something to the flight attendant before positioning themselves to each side of the cabin door. The flight attendant picked up microphone and announced over the PA system, “Sorry for the inconvenience, but we have a passenger in need of urgent medical assistance. As soon as this is resolved, you will be able to deplane. For any passengers needing to make connections . . .”
Bullshit.
Jon mopped sweat from his eyes with the back of his sleeve, sidestepped to the emergency exit, thought about what he was going to do, reconsidered, then grabbed the red handle, took one final glance forward. The Mounties each had one foot on the first stair to the upper deck, looking upward, apparently exchanging words with the suits on the upper level. Wait any longer and they’ll search the entire aircraft.
Jon yelled, “Fire. There’s a fire back here! Someone grab an extinguisher.”
Screams erupted. Passengers jammed forward into the narrow aisles. Jon tugged the red emergency handle but it didn’t budge.
He noticed a switch labeled ‘Manual’ and turned it, then threw his weight into the emergency handle, pushing in a downward arc. The door swung open, ejecting a Day-Glo yellow chute from the fuselage. As the distal end dropped to the tarmac the chute inflated into a slide. He called to the passengers jamming into the aisle behind him, “This way! Let’s get out of here!” before jumping feet first onto the slide.
50
JON’S FEET HIT THE asphalt hard, then his butt, the momentum whipping his neck to the left and sending a momentary stinger down his right arm. For a brief moment he was too stunned to do anything but squint into the sun, so he sat still. Then the plastic chute jerked as another passenger jumped onto it. He scrambled to his feet and moved away just as a grinning teenager hit the ground in the spot he just vacated. Jon grabbed the kid’s outstretched hand and pulled him to his feet. “Move away from the chute!”
He glanced around frantically. He was on open tarmac and totally exposed to anyone watching from the plane or the terminal. On the other hand, the terminal contained miles of byzantine halls and potential places to hide. Fifty feet past the 747’s nose wheel were two dented metal-clad baggage doors to the ground level of the terminal.
He started running, burst through the swinging doors, ran a hundred feet before stopping behind a cement pillar to look around. Bare concrete halls led right, left, and dead ahead. Which way? Choose one and get going. He continued straight ahead, picking up pace again for half a block, turned down another hall for another hundred feet to a door marked STAIRS, threw his hip into the horizontal trip bar, and started up a bare concrete stairwell two at a time, shoes slapping metal, the noise echoing off the hard surfaces. Christ, not too subtle.
He stopped at the first switchback, listened, heard nothing but his own heavy breathing and his pounding pulse. Satisfied that no one followed him into the stairwell, he continued up at a normal pace while trying to calm his nerves and tuck in his shirt. He was sweating like crazy.
A half flight took him to the floor immediately above the ground level. He cracked the door, heard someone shout a command from down the hall followed by the sound of boots running on concrete. He shut the door and bolted back down the stairs, hit the ground level and was out the door he’d entered just moments ago. Around the corner off to his right came another voice. It sounded like it was heading his way. On his left, against to the cinderblock wall, was an aluminum storage freight container. He slipped behind it, then used the side handles to pull it as close to the wall as possible, sandwiching him in the narrow space. He stood perfectly still and waited.
Footsteps approached and stopped. A male voice said, “Delta tango niner.”
There was no answer.
The male voice said, “Roger that. Am at sugar whiskey three zero. Negative for target.”
Jon visualized a police officer with a microphone clipped to an epaulet and a curlicue wire to his ear. A moment later he heard the sounds of the police officer continuing his sweep of this area. Then he heard the bark echo off the hard concrete surfaces.
Dogs. Shit. He might be able to hide here from the patrolman, but a dog would sniff him out in a second. Quickly, he slipped off his shoes and then his socks, figuring they’d be a strong enough scent to distract the dog and give him enough time to try the stairs again. He slid open the door to the cargo container, draped his socks on the edge, and then replaced his shoes. Without shutting the container door, he pushed it against the wall, then he was back in the stairwell he’d exited a few minutes ago.
He ran up the stairs to the first landing, paused to catch his breath, then cracked the door and peeked into a deserted hallway. He widened the crack for a better look, saw no one, darted into the hall, letting the door click shut behind him. Pausing for another deep breath and taking another second to calm down, he wiped his face with his hand then dried his hand on his pants. Two more big breaths and he had it together enough to continue. The names and titles on the doors indicated this was an administrative area rather than public but gave no clue as to which way to go, so he chose a direction at random and continued while wracking his brain for a story to spin if he ran into someone. After a series of Immigration and Security offices he came to an exit door at the end of the hall. But where did it go? Stairs back down to the baggage level? Into one of the concourses? Regard
less, he needed to look like he belonged.
He opened the door and, without hesitating, entered a major concourse; travelers and flight attendants flowing past in both directions. Without stopping to look for signage, he melded into a clot of passengers, walked with purpose for another hundred feet before splintering off to stop next to the wall and try to figure out where he was. The ceiling signs told him he was heading toward Concourse B instead of Baggage Claim, so he reversed direction, rounded a corner into the main lobby, and stopped. Mounties patrolled the area, eyeing travelers, while additional Mounties were stationed at the doors to the passenger pick-up zone, paying particular attention to those exiting. He backed around the corner, spotted a metal fire door only ten feet away with a sign AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Well, shit. In for a pound or whatever that expression was.
It opened into a cinderblock stairwell with steel stairs and brown tubular railings heading up to another level or back down to the basement. He walked up to the next landing, cracked the unmarked door far enough to peer into a cavernous lobby of retail shops, fast-food restaurants, travelers, white noise, and ceiling signs to various concourses. The departure level.
Now what? Can’t very well stay in the stairwell.
Again, he entered the lobby and stood by the entrance to the women’s toilet, playing the role of husband waiting for his wife, thinking this would give him an excuse to stand here a few minutes and think about his situation without being too conspicuous.
He figured by now the Mounties must realize the person who escaped the aircraft via the emergency door was him. The question was, how long would they search the airport before turning their attention to other, more pressing matters? No way to know. But common sense dictated that eventually they’d have to turn to other priorities. The longer he stayed hidden, the more likely he’d drop from their immediate radar. Perhaps the best strategy would be to remain hidden in plain sight until they slacked up at the exits. Where? He glanced around with this in mind. Maybe at a retail shop?
In a duty-free shop, he passed a display of soaps, perfumes, and chocolates, and continued to the back wall with a floor-toceiling rack of newspapers and magazines. He knelt behind a rack of gray flannel Vancouver, BC sweatshirts, picked a Road & Track at random from the bottom shelf, and started slowly leafing through it while listening for footsteps and scanning the immediate area in his peripheral vision.
“Sir?”
Startled, he jumped, turned toward the voice, and saw a salesclerk help another customer at the sweatshirt rack. He swallowed hard and returned to thumbing through magazines while his heart continued to pound in his chest.
A minute slowly died. Then two more. After several more minutes he realized that staying here much longer might, in itself, be an attention magnet. Okay, so what now?
He picked out an oversized gray sweatshirt and a Canucks cap, took them to the cashier. With the hat on he felt a bit more secure, and he cut a diagonal across the hall to the men’s room, a rectangle of white tiles, two sinks, two urinals, and, luckily, two empty stalls. He entered and locked the corner stall and sat down to think.
So far so good. He’d made it out of the plane without being arrested. Using Fisher’s logic, by not clearing Immigration, he wasn’t legally in Canada in spite of physically being in the airport. Right now he was in international limbo. With his forged passport now blown, any attempt to use it would be suicide. Yet somehow he had to figure out a way to cross the US border without being caught. He seriously doubted that once he was back in the States, Immigration would kick him out. Besides, at that point he could enlist the help of his new lawyer. Okay, fine, now what?
Think!
Call Fisher again? Yeah, he could do that, but Fisher made it clear there was little he could do to help. Certainly, Fisher couldn’t solve the immediate problem of how to sneak out of the airport. If he could just do that, he was certain it’d be easier to figure a way to cross the border.
Five minutes later he still didn’t have any sort of viable plan.
Have to do something. After making sure his blazer contained nothing to link it back to him, he wadded it into a ball and stuffed it in the trash. Same with his damp shirt. At least with the sweatshirt and ball cap on, he no longer fit his earlier description.
He burnt another two hours in the stall before he figured it was time to venture out again to check security. He opened the stall door. One man stood at a urinal, another at a sink washing his hands. Both appeared to be travelers and not airport officials. For authenticity Jon flushed the toilet and pretended to cinch up his belt. At the sink, he washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face. The man at the other sink left. The one at the urinal zipped up and exited without so much as a second look. Jon decided to go out, maybe find another men’s room, kill some more time. Every minute he wasted in here blunted RCMP attention.
About thirty feet into the hall the greasy smell of hot dogs caught his attention.
Jon dumped the change into a tip jar, carried the small plastic tray with two slices of pepperoni pizza and a medium Diet Coke to a table as far from the hallway as possible. Back here, he wouldn’t appear to be hiding, yet he’d be well away from the flux of people. And if someone did notice him, he was only one table from the rear exit, good positioning if he needed to run.
He ate slowly, like someone with hours to kill between connections, yet watching and listening for the slightest hint of someone recognizing him. What exactly that might be, he wasn’t sure, but figured he’d know if it happened. Within minutes the tempo of his surroundings became routine: repeated warnings to not leave bags unattended, calls to a white courtesy phone, announcements for flight departures, the white noise of hundreds of passing conversations mixed into the rattle of luggage wheels on the floor. Behind the counter an ancient Sony boom box played Bob Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower” in direct competition to Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” from the overhead PA.
He wondered what Yeonhee was doing. He hoped she was alright. And he really didn’t like her boyfriend. Would she really marry Jung-Kyo?
Suddenly, the semiconscious information-processing part of his brain jolted him out of a daydream. Down the hall, to his right, two serious-looking security officers were heading his way, slow walking, scanning people, casting occasional glances in retail shops. Casually, Jon shifted position, turning his side to them, head down, while still tracking them in his peripheral vision. They stopped, turned to watch a male pass, conversed a moment before resuming their meandering patrol in his direction.
Jon picked up a piece of pizza crust and began chewing, cupping his cheek in his hand, elbow on the table, turning further in his chair to where he no longer saw them. And waited.
A few moments later they passed the dining area, still chatting with each other, never casting him a second glance. He relaxed. Maybe, just maybe, he could pull this off. Every minute undetected was a very good minute because soon security would relax enough so maybe he could get out of the airport.
MEAL FINISHED, HE decided it would feel good to really freshen up more than just a face rinse.
On the way to the men’s room he stopped in a small shop and picked up a travel-size deodorant stick, a disposable razor, a small athletic bag, a book, and a few magazines. Again, the clerk paid more attention to making change than to his face.
At the sink, sweatshirt around his waist, Jon rinsed his face before using hand soap for lather, shaved, used a wad of wet paper towels to sponge a layer of dried sweat from his chest and arms, then dried off in a stream of warm air from a wall-mounted blower. He put the sweatshirt back on, finger-combed his hair, replaced the ball cap, and for the first time in hours, felt halfway decent.
Now what? He returned to a toilet stall to kill more time before making a serious attempt to leave the building. Sooner or later the police would assume he’d escaped and give up. For now, he was resigned to being stuck here.
He was turning a page of his book when the clatter of
wheels became obvious, then grew louder, as if something was entering the room. He leaned forward to peer through the gap between the stall door and divider. A maintenance worker was positioning a pushcart with a black Hefty garbage bag on one end and two brooms sticking up from the other. After blocking the entrance with a yellow A-frame Wet Floor sign, he started emptying the trash bins and cleaning up.
“Going to be in there long?” the janitor called.
Jon marked the page with his thumb and leaned forward to peer through the slit again. The guy faced his stall with an annoyed expression.
Jon said, “Yeah, might be. Why?”
“Need to service the stall.”
“Don’t worry, it’s clean.”
“Maybe, but I need to restock the toilet paper holders and make sure the seat cover container’s full.”
Wonderful. An obsessive-compulsive. “Give me a few minutes.” Jon found his place on the page and continued reading, figuring it wouldn’t take long for the guy to get fed up and leave.
He didn’t.
Page finished, Jon tore off a couple lengths of toilet paper for the sound effect, wadded and dumped them in the toilet, stood, used his foot to press the flush lever, and walked to the newly cleaned sink. The janitor watched him wash up and leave.
Back at the gift shop Jon studied the magazine rack until he saw the janitor push the cart back into the hall and collect the yellow A-frame sign. A moment later he was back in the same toilet stall, reading.
“There a problem, sir?”
Surprised, Jon glanced up at the locked door. He hadn’t heard anyone come in.
“Sir?” More emphatic, more demanding this time.
Jon got an uneasy feeling. The voice carried too much authority to be another janitor. “You talking to me?”
“Yes. Is there a problem?”
Jon checked his watch. Thirty minutes since coming back in here. He peeked out the slit. Shit! A Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer stood directly in front of his stall. “Sorry, did you say something?”
