I hold up a hand, stopping her. I unlatch the door, and look out. No one.
“The place is empty,” I hiss. I close the door and turn on the water in the sink, full blast. “And no way, Keresey. I’m not afraid. Lattimer is watching. You’ll be there. It’s a public place. And, K, you’ll get nailed. You can’t unilaterally change your boss’s plan. You can’t put your career on the line.”
Keresey shakes her head, undeterred. “This operation is snake bit. Raids fail. Our sources are wrong. What if it happens this time? I can’t risk anything happening to you. And I still insist this could blow up because of a chain-of-custody violation. And that’s unacceptable. Trust me on this, Charlie. I need to get that suitcase myself. Then we’ll meet back here as we discussed, and secure the evidence. End of discussion.”
“But Lattimer will-”
“I checked with Lattimer before I came here, when he gave me the radio. He’s seen me in this blue cap. Give me your red one.” She holds out her hand. “And the Hartford bag. And give me that beeper with the claim check number. Now.”
The Boston Globe newspaper someone left on the chair beside me is now positioned in front of my face. The three potted plants are behind me. I’m sitting in a far corner of baggage claim. As instructed, I’m hiding. But I’m worried. I don’t see Keresey yet. She may honestly be protecting me, I suppose. But picking up a suitcase at an airport baggage claim is about as safe as any activity could be. So why did she insist on doing it?
‘I need to get that suitcase myself,’ she’d said. Why? And why did she insist on taking the beeper? She knew the claim check number. Of course, the bad guys will expect me to have it and it might clinch Keresey’s disguise.
What’s haunting me is that the beeper is my only proof of the setup. We should have shot some videotape of it, but we just didn’t think of it. I’d never have predicted someone would take it from me. Even someone I’m pretty sure is on my side. If something happens to the beeper-what, I don’t know, but something-we could never prove any of this happened. I don’t have the order form. I only have a business card Regine gave me at the Baltimore airport. That’s about as weak as evidence gets.
“Passengers on Flight 1017,” the static-slurred announcement blares over the public address system, cutting through the silence, “may claim their luggage at Area A.”
I close my eyes briefly in silent entreaty. Keresey will get the suitcase. Lattimer will never know. Franklin will get the shots. We’ll get our story.
Carefully, slowly, tentatively, I peer out from behind my newspaper. The baggage claim area is filling with slow-moving passengers, dragging carry-on bags, coats slung over their shoulders. I position the newspaper back in front of my face.
I bite my lip, calculating the dangers of revealing my whereabouts versus my unrelenting desire to catch the action as it unfolds. No one will notice me, I convince myself. I risk another look, moving my newspaper barrier, cautiously, to one side.
I don’t see Keresey. There’s an extra-large black wheelie, two huge cardboard boxes and three smaller battered-looking bags still available on the conveyor. My bet is on the big black one. And if I were doing this, I’d have already grabbed whichever suitcase has a claim check with the number that’s on the beeper and headed for the hills.
Now the place is almost empty. Where is she?
A woman in a denim jacket claims two of the small black bags, wheeling them toward the exit. A Harvard sweatshirt takes another. The skycaps heft the cardboard boxes onto a waiting cart, and an elegantly suited businessman hands them some money and pushes the cart away. The skycaps head for the staff-only door, one punching buttons on the lock pad beside it. Only the black bag remains on the conveyor belt, gliding slowly along the wall toward the fluttering black rubber flaps that lead outside. And no one here to claim it.
Keresey will be here any second. She has to be. There’s only one bag left.
And then, a tall man in a dark suit, raincoat over his arm, trots across the claim area, and grabs the bag. He hefts it off the belt and wheels it away. I almost leap from my chair. That’s ours! I want to yell. Did he take our suitcase? Who is he? Does Keresey see him? Do I need to stop him?
Out from behind the rubber flaps that lead outside, another suitcase is added to the line. A massively huge black one. Wheels. A Delleton-Marachelle luggage tag, just like mine, is looped through the handle. And taped beside it, the thin white sticker with the baggage claim number.
And suddenly, I’m looking at myself. Red baseball cap, hoodie, purse casually over one shoulder.
Keresey is alone, walking confidently toward baggage claim. In five seconds, she’ll have the black bag. The last one to come off the plane.
I cover my face again, my heart racing, every muscle clenched, holding my newspaper so tightly the pages are crumpling in my fists. I don’t dare put it down. I don’t dare show my face. If Lattimer sees me, he has to think it’s Keresey. Even Franklin may think I’m Keresey.
I can’t look.
I have to look.
I peer around the corner of the paper. And Keresey is gone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Her purse is on the floor. The bag is still on the conveyor belt. The staff-only door is closed and the skycaps have disappeared.
“Keresey?” I say out loud. Where the hell is she? Why is her purse on the floor? I whirl, looking up to the mezzanine. Over to the exit. Beside the escalator. Where’s Lattimer? Where’s Franklin?
It’s just me.
I race to the conveyor belt and grab Keresey’s purse, slinging it over my shoulder. I’m panicked, my brain on fast forward, trying to understand what’s happened. Nothing makes sense.
“Keresey?” I call out, louder. But I get no answer. And I realize something must be very, very wrong. Where did she go? And why?
The staff-only door. Where the two baggage guys went. I yank on the handle. It’s locked. The only way out is-
I leap onto the conveyor belt, just before the spot where the rubber flaps still flutter, and take one wobbly step until I reach the opening. Grabbing the steel railing above it, I swing my legs through the flaps, and drop down to the other side.
This is where the bags come out. When I got the beeper in Hartford, this is where the mysterious voice came from. I blink, getting my bearings. There’s no one here now.
Two huge-and empty-motorized luggage carts stand on the cement alley that’s the baggage handler’s roadway from the arriving airplanes to baggage claim. There are no walls out here, but a corrugated metal roof runs above me, down the length of the building. It’s a checkerboard of lights-pin spots illuminating some of the path into pools of brightness, other parts left almost impenetrably dark.
What am I supposed to do now? My tote bag with my phone is in Keresey’s trunk. I wasn’t supposed to need it. I struggle to hold down my panic. Should I go back inside and find the police? Where the hell is Lattimer? Every moment that passes, Keresey may be deeper in danger.
I look to my right. Darkness. And a flat expanse that must lead to the tarmac and the runways beyond.
I look to my left. In a patch of light, I see something red. A few quick steps and I’m there. It’s my Hartford bag. Keresey’s gone this way. Or more likely, been taken this way. But why?
I have to find her. We traded places. This is what she would have done for me.
I race down the path, running on tiptoe, hugging the side of the building, my fingers scraping along the bricks. At the end of the covered alleyway is an expanse of asphalt leading to buildings beyond. Two hundred yards ahead, splotchy, eerie light glows from an airplane hangar. Flickering green neon letters spell out General Aviation.
Closer, I see something on the ground. Straining all my senses, I hear nothing. I see no one. I race toward a pool of shadow. It’s a red baseball cap. I look up. And silhouetted in the raw light showing through the opening of the cavernous airplane hangar, I see Keresey’s unmistakable shape. She’s not alone. Two other shapes-who?-are dragging her by the arms across the floor.