Nate stayed close and did not let go of the man. What would they say? What would they do? Was this man dangerous, or simply confused and misguided? Nate had to know. Already he could feel the plane turn, preparing to line up for the runway.
He and the man both swayed as the wheels descended causing a slight shake and rumbling noise. Nate pretended to lose his balance. He bumped up against the man and quickly felt him for weapons. Nothing. But wait … there was an odd shape in the coat pocket. Nate quickly removed it from the man’s pocket and slipped it into his own. His grip tightened on the man, at the same time as his eyes constantly surveyed the plane for any other disturbances. He did not expect these people to operate alone.
“Sirs, please, take your seats,” pleaded the flight attendant.
“Thank you,” said Nate. “We will sit right here.” He moved the man into the closest seat and hastily sat beside him. Nate buckled the man in and then buckled himself. The runway was in sight, the airplane on approach. It was too late to move the two men.
The captain announced, “Flight attendants, please take your seats.” They lowered the small seats from the wall, for just this purpose and belted themselves in just as the airplane’s wheels touched the runway. Immediately the engines reversed thrust and roared to slow the plane, which bucked like a wild stallion ridden for the first time. Nate braced himself against the g-forces, throwing an arm in front of the man, as if to hold him, while feeling of his chest for hidden devices.
In two minutes the airplane was gliding smoothly down the runway. The second they turned off the runway onto the taxiway, Nate pulled out his cell phone and typed an emergency message to the O’Hare branch of the Air Marshal Service. “Arrest emerging passenger, George F. George, on suspicion. Arriving Terminal 1, Gate C6, United Flight 302. Photo to follow,” and signed it with his badge number.
Nate held up his phone as if to take a selfie, with the camera lens pointed directly at Mr. George. “Look here, George. What do you think this is?” Before he caught himself, George glanced up and then quickly covered his face. In that instant Nate snapped his picture and clicked Send.
George tried to grab the camera. “No, no picture,” he cried.
Nate moved the phone slightly and took his own picture. “See?” he said, showing the picture to George. “It’s only me. No problem.” He slid the phone into his pocket with an innocent looking grin. “Clever gadget, these phones,” he said and continued to gaze at the window, watching G. F. George out the corner of his eye, as they glided up to the terminal.
As soon as they were at the gate, passengers filled the aisle, pulling their belongings from under the seats and out of the overhead bins. Nate sat back and gazed out the window as Mr. George crowded toward the door, wanting to be among the first to depart. Oddly enough, he did not have any luggage with him, not even a small case. Or if he did, he was leaving it behind in his haste to get out of there.
Nate waited until most of the passengers had left. It gave him time to carefully examine each one who passed by. He was interested to see if anyone acted strangely. Nate would capture their picture for later comparison. He was confident that other Federal Air Marshals were right now arresting Mr. George and watching all the other passengers as they disembarked.
It would behoove Nate to behave just like any other Chicago native, coming home. He would disappear in order to protect his identity as Mr. N. Mavis from the suburb of Highland Park. No one except Nate’s immediate superior would know that he had disarmed a passenger and prevented a possible attack.
After the passengers had cleared the aisle, Nate moved back to his original seat to retrieve his carry-on bag from the overhead. He examined seat 14B, underneath and overhead to see if G. F. George had left anything behind. Nothing was there. Nevertheless, Nate pulled opened the literature pocket for a thorough check. Ah … here was a paperback novel someone had left behind. Nate wrapped it in a handkerchief and put it into his back-pack. Shouldering the pack, he wheeled his bag down the aisle and off the plane.
Walking up the ramp, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and donned a pair of colored glasses with striking-looking rims. He removed his jacket, quickly folded it and slipped it into a side pocket of his bag. Underneath he wore a brightly patterned sweater that looked nothing like the drab jacket he wore all during the flight. These changes were small, but could be enough to prevent his being noticed as the one who stood by Mr. George. Stopping off in the men’s room at the concourse he attached some fake facial hair, changed shoes and put on gloves.
Taking his time to walk to the carousel, his bag would have already come down. Thus more than half the passengers had left. Nate did not want to stand around. He could grab his bag and leave. Without stopping he walked quickly to the taxicab stand and entered the first one in line. He knew where he wanted to go, to a classy downtown hotel where he could take in a first-class show. Instead, this time he opted for the good old Holiday Inn Embassy Suites.
First he wanted to pick up dinner. Watching the restaurants go by out the window he chose one on the right. “I’ll pick up some Kentucky Fried Chicken,” he directed the cabbie. “Please take me through the drive-up.” The driver complied, pausing at the ordering station. As Nate slid over and rolled down the back window he asked the cab driver, “Can I order anything for you?”
“I could sure use a grilled chicken sandwich and medium black coffee,” the man replied.
“Will do,” said Nate. He placed the order, adding a regular chicken dinner for himself. “Please put them in separate bags,” he instructed.
“I’ll subtract my order from your tab,” offered the cabbie.
“Not at all. My treat,” said Nate. Normally he would not do this as it would call attention to himself, but, in this case, he could hardly do otherwise. He hoped his largesse would not come back to haunt him. Sometimes one mistake was all it took to seal your doom.
He paid at the takeout window, accepted his change and handed the cabbie his food.
“Gee thanks,” said the cabbie.
“You’re welcome.”
As a precaution, Nate rode slumped down in his seat, making himself invisible from the outside. Five minutes later they drew up to the Inn. Nate quickly paid the driver, gathered his things and entered the front door in less than a minute. This time he handled his own luggage, moved up to the desk and gave the clerk a second identity. He was no longer Mr. N. Mavis.
“Good evening Mr. Sheldon,” said the desk clerk. “We have a king-size suite on the fourth floor available. Will that do?”
“Yes, perfect,” said Nate.
The clerk swiped Nate’s credit card, and handed it back along with a key and a newspaper. “Breakfast is served starting at six. Will that be soon enough for you?”
“Yes, thank you. Good-night,” said Nate as he turned toward the elevator.
Already a mysterious man known only as J.M.—Mr. George’s secret control—was following Nate’s trail. He was determined to discover who this N. Mavis could be who so effectively sabotaged the plan to take down a passenger plane and dump it into Lake Michigan. J.M. suspected he was some kind of federal agent, maybe even military. Mavis was too slick to be a mere cop or bodyguard. J.M. had jumped into the second taxi in line and ordered the driver to follow Nate’s cab. He was able to get the cab number and a good look at Nate’s driver and would question him later. Probably it would require a bribe and a good story to get the cab driver to talk. But, it was essential to hurry and neutralize Mavis before he had a chance to report to authorities.
J.M. had no idea what Mavis knew, but he couldn’t leave any loose ends. He would take care of Mavis before morning, maybe even within the hour.
When Nate’s taxi pulled in at the KFC restaurant, J.M. was confused. He no longer saw the passenger. Did he make a mistake, following the wrong cab? He saw the driver place what appeared to be a take-out coffee mug up to his lips, and then bite down on a sandwich. What the hell was going on? Did Mavis give
him the slip?
J.M. ordered his driver to take him back to the KFC place. “Just pull in and let me out here,” he ordered. J.M. ran into the restaurant and began a hurried search of the entire place, including every stall in the men’s room. For a second he peeked in the women’s room and wondered, should I go in there? Maybe later. For now he ran outside and circled all the way around the parking lot and nearby street and sidewalk.
Just then a city bus pulled away from the curb and entered traffic. Damn, Mavis must have gotten on the bus! J.M. could sprint for short distances. He took off after the bus, hoping to catch up with it at the next stop. Heavy traffic might slow the bus. Too late, the bus slowed at the next corner and kept going. His heart pounding, chest heaving, J.M. had to stop. Mavis may have gotten away this time, but there was still the first cabbie. J.M. waited at the bus stop, hoping to flag down a cab. He had perfected the loudest whistle in the service and he used it now. Two cabs saw him but kept on going. The third one pulled to the curb. J.M. open the back door and got in. “Airport,” he directed, “and hurry.”
He pulled out a large bill and handed it to the driver.
Smiling broadly, the driver grabbed the bill with one hand, wheeled around with the other and headed toward the airport. “Yessiree, Mate. I’ll have you there in a flash.”
Navigating expertly through the labyrinth that is O’Hare’s miles of roadways, the cabbie asked, “Where are you going, mate?”
“Let me off at the United Air baggage claim,” said J.M. Realizing that made little sense, J.M. explained. “I didn’t pick up my bag.” That still made no sense, so he added, “I need to check with the lost baggage people. They seem to have found it.”
The cabbie thought this was a bit strange, but he wasn’t about to say so. Didn’t the guy know that any airlines would deliver his bags to his hotel, home or wherever he was staying? Probably the guy was a foreigner, from the sounds. Being a foreigner himself, that was of little consequence to him.
“Stop right here, please,” said J.M. “behind those cabs is good.”
The driver pulled into the line of taxicabs waiting their turn for a fare and stopped. J.M. jumped out and moved rapidly up the line of cabs, checking each one for its number. Chances were slim to none he would find Mavis’s cabbie this way, but he had to try. It was his only lead. He figured the cabbie would come back here eventually.
A lucky break—halfway up the line he found the identical cab company and numbered cab with the very same driver. He opened the back door and got in.
“Sorry, sir,” said the driver. “I’m not allowed to jump ahead in line. Union rules. You have to take the first cab in line.”
“Rules are made to be broken,” growled J.M. as he held out a large bill. “I just have a few questions and then you can go.”
The driver pulled forward, still in line. “Sorry, sir, I have to take the passenger in my turn or I’ll lose my license.”
“I’ll make this quick. Just tell me where you took the guy before you stopped off at the Kentucky Fried Chicken.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about. Get out of my cab.”
“I think you do,” threatened J.M. as he pressed the cold barrel of a 45 automatic into the cabbie’s neck.
“Hey, wait a minute. What the hell is going on.”
“A simply question, my friend. Where is Mavis?”
“I don’t know no Mavis. You want my money?”
“Mavis was wearing a bright colored sweater and slacks, and had a beard and funny looking colored glasses.”
“O-oh, t-that guy,” said the driver nervously. “Look I don’t want n-no t-trouble. I’ve gotta wife ‘n’ kids.”
J.M. shoved the barrel of the gun harder. “Want to see them again? Answer the question.”
“I took ‘im to the train station,” lied the cabbie, hoping the guy was a stranger in these parts.
“You’re lying. You weren’t gone long enough to drive to the train station. Did he get out at the Kentucky Fried?”
Sweat poured off the cabbie. Hundreds of people walked by. Couldn’t anyone see what was happening?
“No. We just got food there. He wanted food and he bought me a sandwich and coffee.”
“That’s right, very good,” said J.M. jamming the gun again. “Then, where did you drop him off?”
“Okay, I took him to the Holiday Inn. That’s the truth.”
“Which one?”
“The Suites, Holiday Inn Suites.” The cabbie gurgled as the switchblade sliced neatly through his carotid artery. Blood gushed over the front of the cab and his head flopped.
Coolly the passenger wiped the blade, folded it and slipped it back into his jacket pocket along with the gun. He pulled a hat down over his eyes, donned slim leather gloves, slid over to the outside door and slipped out into the traffic. He would not use another cab this night. Instead he would walk forward toward where the hotel vans stop. The Holiday Inn Express shuttle would be by soon.
But, first he needed to look more like a tourist, one with luggage. He ducked into the baggage claim area, away from the areas crowded with incoming passengers and toward darkened areas that had long ago finished disgorging themselves. He walked past one and then another dark and silent carousel until he found just what he needed, an abandoned bag that had been left behind by some careless owner. It sat alone on the carousel, waiting as if it had his name on it. He walked up to the bag and lifted it off, acting pleased as if he had just found his long-lost bag, set it on the floor and began wheeling it off with a smile on his face.
He did not wait long before the Holiday Inn shuttle approached the group of weary traveler’s waiting at the curb. “Holiday Inn Express Suites?” he asked. The driver pointed to the sign. J.M. boarded, along with the others, allowing the driver to lift his bag onto the rack.
Approaching the Inn’s check-in desk, he said, “Would you please ring Mr. Mavis’s room and let him know I’m here?”
“Certainly, sir, and who shall I say is calling?”
“Tell him, it’s the cabbie,” said J.M.
“And your name?”
“Does that matter?” asked J.M. wishing this stupid broad would stop asking so many dumb questions.
“Sir?”
“Just tell him it’s his cab driver. Tell him he left his bag in the cab,” He said gesturing toward the bag.
The clerk was trained to watch for strange requests. This man was obviously no cabbie.
“I’ll check the guest register, sir. Just one moment.”
She clacked away on her keyboard. “I’m sorry, sir, we have no Mavis registered tonight. Did you spell that M-a-v-i-s, or could it be e-s, a-s, o-s, or u-s?” Meanwhile she had pushed a secret button that summoned the manager.
“Yes, I think so, but try them all.”
“Yes, sir.” She typed some more and then looked up. Shaking her head she said, “I’ve tried Mavis with the alternate spellings, Davis, Avis, Travis, Marvis and Mattis. Can you think of any other possibility?”
J.M. was fit to be tied. He wanted to strangle the woman. “Let me see your register,” he leaned over the counter trying to grab something.
“Sir! You can’t come around here.”
“Give me the damned register or else!” he shouted.
“We don’t have registers, sir. Everything is on the computer these days.”
J.M. flew around the counter and roughly shoved the woman away and into the wall. She started screaming and didn’t stop. He stepped up to the computer and started pushing buttons. Just then, the manager came out of the back. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “What are you doing.” He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and pushed the emergency button for 911.
Quickly J.M. pulled a gun and aimed at the manager. “Drop it!” he screamed. The manager backed away intending to run. J.M. shot twice. The manager dropped. The girl tried to escape on her hands and knees. J.M. shot her dead. She collapsed in a pool of blood. J.M. quickly turned to
the computer. The guest list and rooms assignments were still up on the display. J.M. used the up and down buttons to scroll through the names. There were too many, but none starting with M and none that even came close. Sirens sounded in the distance. With only seconds, he tried to read as many names as he could, hoping against hope to see some clue. Time was running out. He looked around frantically for a room key. He would pretend to be a guest. No, that wouldn’t work. He wasn’t signed in and would be trapped in a room.
He had to escape quickly. Leaving his bag and gun behind he raced for the back exit. No, it was better to leave by the side door. Cops would be around back soon. He pushed frantically on the door release and fled into the outdoor pool area as the door clicked closed and locked. He could now hear police cars at the front and back of the hotel. He was right about that. J.M. wasted precious seconds looking for a gate. Seeing none, he had no choice but to scale the fence. He got a running start and jumped as high as he could, catching the top with one hand. It was sharp. He did not notice his hand was bleeding. Grasping with both hands, he pulled himself up and got one leg over, ripping his pant-leg. No time left he barreled over the fence, disregarding his arms, legs and clothes. He fell to the ground and ran for his life away from the noise of the sirens.
A block away, he ducked down a driveway and behind a darkened office building. Leaning against a back wall, panting for breath, he tried to think. He had to stay off the main road out of sight, but get as far away from here as possible. It would take time for the cops to search the hotel, and then organize a search of the area. How many minutes, he could only guess. At some point there might be helicopters out scouring the area. But, maybe not. This was Chicago—Murder City, USA. Numerous shootings every night. This would be just one of many. Spread thin as they were, only a few cops would be assigned to this incident, he hoped.
What he did not know was that this area was not in Chicago, but in an affluent suburb with far less crime and its own police force. Also, he did not know that Mr. Sheldon, nee Mavis, nee Nate Goodrich, Federal Air Marshal, was on the crime scene calling in the Feds at this very moment.
Nate Page 8
