by Fritz Galt
He felt safer taking his original route and avoiding Moscow altogether.
So he continued driving until he reached the far end of the terminal where United Airlines monopolized the gates. He turned off the lights and engine, but left the keys in the ignition. He hoped airport security would get the car back to the girl before the start of school on Monday.
As he stepped out of the car in his soggy shoes, he realized that he was still wearing the costume. He no longer needed it and threw it onto the back seat. Then he grabbed his L.L. Bean bag and slicked back his hair.
He pushed through the airlock door and entered a pleasantly warm departure terminal.
He thought he could breeze onto his United flight, but the long line of passengers told him otherwise.
He had no luggage, so he went to a kiosk to check in electronically.
The first computer gave him a bright welcome message and asked him to place his passport in the slot.
Passport?
He didn’t have his passport. It was back at the house.
There was no time to drive back into the carnage he had left behind and retrieve it. And there was no other way to obtain a passport in the next two hours.
He stared at the dumb computer screen. There was no nice way to do this. He’d have to play the law enforcement card.
The only way to break through the electronic wall that prevented him from accessing the departure gates was to bluff his way through security.
So he spun away from the ticket counter and headed for the gates. A sign for all international gates directed him down an escalator to an underground train that would whisk him to his gate.
The first roadblock he encountered after the escalator was a uniformed TSA agent who held up dozens of passengers as she compared boarding passes with passports.
Although he had never tried it before, he imagined that he could bypass transportation security screening with a simple flash of the badge.
He excused himself and moved passengers aside to get to the front of the line.
When at last he reached it, the woman held out a gloved hand. “Passport and boarding pass, please.”
“I’m sorry. I’m with the FBI and I need to gain access to the departure gates.”
For the first time she looked up, and her expression was disconcerting.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
Okay, so his trousers were drenched, his shoes were muddy, and sweat dripped off his chin.
“I’m on a case,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
She wasn’t buying it.
Oh yes, the badge. He yanked out his wallet and flashed her the FBI badge, then snapped the wallet shut.
“Wait a second,” she said. “Let me see that again.”
He opened the wallet and carefully laid it out on the booth.
It was as if she had never seen an FBI badge and ID card before. But then again, why would she?
“I’ll have to call over my supervisor,” she said.
Jake had hoped to avoid attracting attention, but this last bulwark of democracy was not going to budge.
“Shanice?” she called out.
In her own good time, Shanice came over.
“This man says he’s with the FBI.”
Shanice examined the ID, while Jake checked his watch.
“Are you in a hurry?” Shanice asked, and stared at him.
He didn’t want to admit that he had a flight to catch. “Just FBI business,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
Now both were suspicious of him.
“Show me your boarding pass,” Shanice said.
“That’s the thing. I’m not a passenger. I’m just here on police business.”
“Why are you going through the line for ticketed passengers?” Shanice asked. “Shouldn’t you have gone through the airport’s Security Office?”
It was a good question, except that he didn’t want to advertise his presence. “It didn’t cross my mind,” he said lamely.
“Honey, take down his name and let him through,” Shanice finally said. “I’ll report it.”
Jake didn’t like having his name reported anywhere, considering that the FBI, CIA, and Chinese were either on his case or trying to kill him. But he was in no position to resist.
The TSA agent flexed her gloved fingers and copied his name off his FBI card. She even took down his employee number.
“Can I go now?” he asked, certain that he had taken the wrong approach to the situation.
After all, what was the proper way to get through such a highly secure place as an airport? It felt like he was writing the rules as he went.
Finally the TSA agent handed back his wallet and he zoomed ahead.
Only to reach his next roadblock, a phalanx of agents checking luggage.
“Excuse me.” It was Shanice with Jake’s handwritten information trying to get past him.
All right. He wasn’t going to wait in another line. He needed to exert his authority. And anyway, he hadn’t adhered to rules all day.
“Pardon me, ma’am.” He stepped around a grandmother who was pulling out her electronics, and got a nasty look.
“Excuse me.” He nudged aside a bald young man who looked concerned about making his flight.
“Coming through.” He stepped past a line of South Asian kids who were jumping around impatiently.
“Passport, please.” Now the luggage checker, a woman wearing a headscarf, was comparing boarding passes with passports.
“I’m not a passenger,” he said. “I’m with the FBI.” He flashed his badge, this time making sure she could read and properly appreciate it.
“Okay.” She waved him through.
He headed straight for the metal detector.
“Uh-uh!” the woman said.
What the heck?
“Put your bag through the X-ray machine first.”
Did he have to do this? He dropped his L.L. Bean purchases on the conveyor belt.
“Anything in your pockets?”
He stripped himself of his phone and wallet, belt and shoes. He put them in a plastic bin then headed for the metal detector.
Beep.
“Step this way, please,” a muscular officer said on the other side.
Jake had to place his feet on two yellow outlines and raise his hands.
The pat-down started with his damp armpits, then went on to his heaving chest.
The hands stopped halfway down his ribcage.
“What’s this?”
Oh. He had forgotten the gun.
“I have a concealed carry permit,” Jake said. “My wallet is over there.”
The man looked at the bags piling up after the X-ray machine, then back at Jake.
“Please remain on the painted marks.”
“It’s in the wallet in the little tray after the shopping bag.”
The officer came back holding the wallet with his gloved hand.
Jake peeled it open and showed him his CCP.
“Where are you flying?” he asked Jake.
“I’m not flying anywhere. I’m here on police business.”
“Nobody passes this checkpoint without the proper paperwork and credentials. If you’re carrying, you need permission from the airline.”
“Okay, look.” He dug around for the form from United. It was dogeared and waterlogged. As he tried to unfold it, he tore off one of the corners.
It dripped on his exposed socks while he got the form open and the officer tried to read it.
“He’s with the FBI,” the TSA agent in the headscarf called over.
The wet form was barely legible.
When the whole fiasco at TSA was finally over, Jake collected his personal belongings, put on his belt and shoes, and made for the underground train.
Behind him, the officer muttered, “The FBI just isn’t what it used to be.”
The train took Jake and his fellow passengers underneath the tarmac and out to a distant conc
ourse.
Jostling along in the train car, he had to thank his lucky stars that he had gotten that far. But one more impediment lay ahead.
He had no boarding pass for the United flight. How could he finagle his way onto the plane? Would the gate attendant accept the e-ticket on his phone in lieu of a boarding pass? He checked his watch. Fortunately, he had an hour and a half to work it out.
The departure concourse had the homey feel of a shopping mall, complete with fast food, a book store, duty-free shopping, and souvenirs. The gate areas stretched in two directions as far as the eye could see.
He checked the departure monitor and saw a Moscow flight blinking at the top of the screen. Aeroflot Flight SU 105 was in final boarding and ready to depart from Gate A1. He checked the overhead signs. That was on one end of the terminal. He wasn’t even curious enough to look for it. There was no way he’d ever use a ticket handed to him by a stranger.
Then he found his Tokyo flight on the monitor. It would leave from Gate B79. That would be on the other end of the concourse. So he began the long walk, weighing his food options along the way.
He was looking at hot dogs, pizza, and scones, all familiar sights and smells. For the first time, it struck him that he was leaving all that behind. What sort of dumplings did Matthew Justice’s wife make in Mongolia? As if Jake had a choice.
He took a deep breath. With his winter clothes in hand, it felt like he was heading for the North Pole. He would be happy if homes simply had heating.
He was just counting down the odd numbered gates, “B73…B75…B77” when he spotted trouble ahead.
Several young men and women in business suits sat against the walls of Gate B79. Meanwhile, another young man looked over the gate attendant’s shoulder at her computer.
All other passengers had yet to arrive, as the gate area was otherwise empty.
Jake knew in an instant that he was walking into trouble. So he headed for the nearby men’s room.
He locked himself into a stall, breathing hard. Tokyo would not be an option that day.
He listened for sounds of activity in the otherwise empty restroom. None of the undercover officers or agents appeared to have spotted him. But surely they knew what he looked like.
He peered out of the stall and looked around for loose clothing that he might use to change his profile. Near the entrance was a rolling plastic garbage can parked beside a utility door. With luck, the door would be unlocked.
He waited another few seconds, then crept across the floor. He pushed the garbage aside and tried the door. It opened. Inside was dark. He let himself in and carefully closed the door behind him.
He flipped on the light switch. There was a blue maintenance coat and several mops and buckets.
He slipped on the blue jacket and grabbed a cleaning rag and dry mop.
With his new identity, he could presumably move freely about the terminal. The only thing he lacked was an ID card hanging around his neck.
He stepped out of the small room and threw his shopping bag into the rolling garbage bin.
Without looking around the terminal, he faced a wall of drinking fountains that looked like they needed cleaning.
“Excuse me.”
The deep male voice came from behind.
Jake froze.
The man continued past him into the men’s room.
Jake caught sight of his shoes. The rubber soles gave him away. The man was law enforcement.
Jake gave the handles of the drinking fountains a cursory swipe, then shuffled away from Gate B79.
He stayed clear of passengers, scooting his garbage ahead of him.
He passed the scones, the pizza, the hot dogs.
He briefly contemplated sneaking out the Pet Relief Area, but where would that get him?
Where in the world was he going?
The only thing he knew was that he had to get out of Washington. He started looking at the departure gates. Amsterdam. Reykjavik. Cancun. If he really had a choice, he’d head for the tropics.
But he didn’t have that luxury. He had only one option.
He glanced into his bag. Did he still have that Aeroflot ticket?
A flash of white paper told him that he did.
What was the gate number?
Oh, yes. A1. It was likely the last gate in the concourse.
He was entering traffic where more airport personnel worked. Surely one of them would spot his lack of an ID. He had to change profiles, fast.
He paused to mop up stray litter and tossed it into his garbage. Then he headed for the next men’s room.
Inside was a beehive of activity with nowhere to hide. As he turned the corner into the brightly lit tile room, he left the garbage behind and removed the blue jacket. He approached the sink area and observed himself in the mirror. His hair was a mess. Slight grooming with a wet hand allowed him to smooth the shag rug and turn it into flat, wet fur. That would have to do.
“Last call for Aeroflot SU 105 to Moscow departing from Gate A1A,” a woman said in a heavy accent over the PA.
Minus the blue jacket, Jake grabbed his shopping bag on his way out only to run into a man in a wheelchair. “Need help?”
“I’m going to Gate B43.”
“Let me help you.”
“No, there’s a woman pushing me.”
“I’m taking over.”
Jake leaned over the handles and reduced his height as he quickly wheeled the man in the wrong direction.
“Hey, Gate A13 is that way.”
“Change of gate,” Jake said, and pushed faster.
The group of agents was fanning out around him, and two women shot past him heading toward the Russian flight.
An incoming train dropped off new passengers. He skirted them as they gathered at the monitor to check their flights.
He was in new territory now, breathing hard, checking gate numbers.
“A45…A43…A41.”
He had a long way to go to a flight that was just closing its doors.
How was all this going to end? With luck, the Russians would be waiting for him and accept him without all the necessary documents. If things didn’t go his way, he would be nabbed for trying to flee the country.
Working to his advantage, the agents had to pause at each gate to make sure Jake wasn’t heading to Amsterdam, Reykjavik, or Cancun.
Only he knew where he was going. He just had to get on that Moscow flight.
“Very last call for Aeroflot Flight SU 105 at Gate A1A.”
It sounded like they were holding the plane just for him. It gave him hope, and he started on the final slow, ambling stretch. A19…A17…A15.
The man in the wheelchair was sure that something was wrong. “Let me see that departure monitor.”
“Oh, man.”
There was a team of agents combing the gate ahead.
“Let go of me,” the man insisted.
“Here you are,” Jake said, and shoved him into the crowded gate area of people heading to London.
Jake immersed himself in the throng. He squeezed into an empty seat that was surrounded by carry-on luggage and discarded winter coats.
That gave him an idea. He folded up his airline tickets and shopping bag and tucked them under his belt. Then, when the passenger beside him turned away, Jake stood up wearing the man’s tweed wool cap, his own furry bomber cap inverted over his jaw, and his ultralight winter coat over his shoulders.
Two female agents were scouring the area, examining faces.
Jake noticed that the man had climbed out of his wheelchair and was staggering toward the counter.
Jake flopped into the wheelchair and began to propel himself out of the crowd.
“Pardon me, madam,” he croaked as he ran over the toes of one female agent. “Good evening.”
Gate A1A was several empty loading areas away.
The departure sign read “Moscow.”
There was a single gate attendant at the end of the concourse. She stood anxious
ly in front of her podium with a receiver in hand.
He wheeled faster than a man in his supposed condition could.
“Hold that plane!” he croaked.
“Jake Maguire?” she called to him.
“That’s me,” he said.
She stood back and made room for him to roll past and onto the ramp. He heard the gate door whoosh shut behind him and close with a decisive click.
He instantly jumped out of the chair and stuffed his winter wear into the bag. Ahead, the plane’s passenger door was wide open.
As he trotted toward the plane, he heard the sound of a key locking the gate behind him.
If he ever learned her name, he would write a thank-you note to that gate attendant.
In Russian if he had to.
Jake pivoted into his Business Class seat on the Aeroflot flight to Moscow, sweaty and exhausted.
He was the last passenger to board, and he looked around with relief as the flight attendants shut the cabin door and prepared for takeoff.
He had a window seat facing the terminal. There, the frustrated female agents combed the gate areas.
He discreetly closed his shade.
It felt odd and it made him feel guilty as a duly sworn law enforcement officer of the United States Government to take an airline ticket from a Russian witch and jump on board Russia’s flagship carrier to Moscow. But it made him even more nervous to contemplate what lay in wait.
Before passengers were told to turn off electronic devices, he took one last look at his phone.
There was a message from the NSA. The push notification informed him that Amber was in Mongolia.
He envisioned her turning on her phone and setting off a chain of events that led to the NSA. The signal would have traveled through Mongolia’s cellular network to an international connection, most likely a fiber optic cable, to the United States where the NSA scooped up that information, filtered it out of the digital soup, and automatically sent him the message. The NSA could also provide the content of her calls if he asked for it. But eavesdropping on another American was a basic violation of his sensibility as a fellow citizen. Spying on a journalist was a specific violation of the First Amendment. And wiretapping his roommate violated basic human decency.
But personal concern made him wonder who she was talking to and what they were discussing. What did she hope to accomplish in Mongolia, especially since the FBI had declared Bill Frost dead?
