Gant told her later that it was her obvious confusion and agitation that had first drawn his attention. In a place packed with people carrying bags and extra coats, she had seemed oddly out of place, clutching only the package and not even a purse.
Gant’s row had been called ten minutes ago, but he had waited to board, another one of his rules he had given her as he told her the story of their meeting from his point of view. The last few passengers of the boarding flight had paid Neeley the most attention, but it had been more a matter of perspective and not the girl's action that had drawn the notice. They were Americans, young soldiers who even in their civilian clothes still bore the trademark short hair and overall healthy fitness of the Army's finest. They had ogled her with relish, their togetherness granting them certain anonymity. Some of the other passengers had turned at the sound of the catcalls, recognizing the blatant intent, if not the language. The soldiers noticed the looks and quieted in unison.
Unspoken among the soldiers and those around them was the knowledge that this was not the time for noticeable behavior by Americans. It had been on the news non-stop: all the world now knew that just two days before the United States had failed in its humanitarian effort in Somalia.
The images from Mogadishu had been horrible and broadcast around the world: helicopters shot down and soldiers dead, the bodies of some dragged through the streets by angry mobs. A pilot captured and the most powerful country in the world trying to negotiate his release from a warlord. It was a tragedy of the first order and a terrible blow to the Clinton Administration that had ordered the mission. As if remembering all that, the newly silenced soldiers joined the end of the line.
Neeley remembered standing alone, not knowing what to do next. That was when she had met Gant, at that time just a strange, tall man who had stopped right in front of her. His eyes had been hidden by dark aviator glasses. He’d smiled at her. She would always remember that first smile.
She’d handed him the package with the first words she ever spoke to him: "It's a bomb."
He didn’t seem at all surprised about the bomb. His attitude implied a familiarity with such incidents that produced an immediate sense of confidence within her. She had been stumbling about with that horrible betrayal for what seemed like hours, but had in reality been only minutes. She had forgotten her knapsack and baggage in her haste to get out of the confining space of the plane's cabin with the bomb.
The passion of the previous night, which Jean-Philippe had spent, reassuring her that he would miss her, had appeared genuine. Even the simple request to deliver the package to a man in Heathrow during her layover there had seemed normal and inconsequential. She had been a courier for him before, transferring the important documents of his trade to various cities around Europe and the Middle East and even to the States on occasion.
When had she known? She would always worry about that simple question in the years to come. When had she finally known that the man she loved had handed her a bomb to carry on board a plane full of people?
She had been sitting in her assigned seat waiting for the plane to take off and get her the hell away from Berlin and all the sleazy people Jean-Philippe knew. She had welcomed the trip, even the idea of seeing her mother in New York was more welcome than the thought of another night in the business house on Oncle Tom Strasse. The package had been in her lap and she shuddered to think how casually she had handled it.
She had been told it was important documents. But when she picked it up, the weight indicated something of more substance than paper.
Jean-Philippe had handed her the plane ticket and given her instructions on the method of delivery during the layover at Heathrow. He would be joining her later, he'd told her. There was business to attend to in Berlin that required his attention. He had just flown back from the Middle East and she had picked up his extreme unease the minute she’d met him. Something had gone wrong with the ‘big deal’ he had been working on for over a year now.
Perhaps it was the overly wrought explanation that had first triggered Hannah's suspicions after she'd boarded the plane and had a chance to think. She and Jean-Philippe were lovers, had been for two years. But they had known each other since childhood and as Jean-Philippe had entered the shadowy world of high level, black market oil trading in Berlin, Neeley had blindly followed. He'd never bothered to explain himself before so why the change?
It came to her as clearly as if the elderly man seated next to her had shouted it in her ear. It was a bomb. Neeley knew it with a certainty that pulsed through her stomach. She had to clench her teeth to prevent herself from screeching out her knowledge.
Many of the people Jean-Philippe was affiliated with had Middle Eastern names and the Arab world was frothing at the mouth to strike at the Americans. And the plane she was sitting on was an American carrier with many American passengers, most of them servicemen. And there had been much talk among Jean-Philippe’s associates of a major deal in the works and the concern that the Americans would mess it up and if that happened, then there had to be payback. Had that just happened in Mogadishu? And was what she held in her hands the payback?
She'd looked up the aisle. The pretty American stewardess was greeting passengers hurrying through the door. Once that closed, there would be no way out.
Neeley stood, carefully holding the package under her arm. She mumbled apologies as she forced her way to the aisle and then to the front of the plane.
"We will be departing shortly," the stewardess said as Neeley approached.
"I don't want to go," Neeley muttered. Her thoughts focused on getting off the plane.
She felt the weight in her hands. Jean-Philippe. His name rolled through her brain with the accent she had acquired from her summers in France. He had betrayed her and she didn't have a clue why.
There was nowhere she could go in the city. The only people she knew were Jean-Philippe's. All she had was the plane ticket. And what could she do about the bomb? It had to be several kilograms of explosive from the weight.
That was when Gant had appeared and changed everything.
Gant had simply reached out and taken the box. Neeley at first couldn't obey his simple command to follow, so frozen were the muscles in her legs. She finally walked empty handed behind the tall American soldier. His face was leathery from exposure to the sun, his eyes bright blue. He wore a black leather coat and carried his bags and the box effortlessly even though his body looked gaunt, the skintight against his cheekbones.
She remembered noting all these details of his appearance while she followed him out of the airport. She also remembered the lack of fear, now that the bomb was in his hands. She asked no questions and, when they arrived next to the battered Volkswagen in the long-term parking, she allowed herself to be tucked into the front passenger seat. She dimly remembered not being surprised as Gant squatted next to the open door and carefully opened the package, confirming her worst fear as he revealed the explosives. Without hesitation he began humming as he defused Jean-Philippe's lethal package.
No one approached them or even seemed to notice the oddly humming man hunched intently over his prize or the young girl rocking slowly to and fro inside the car. She guessed he was finished when he tossed the once again closed carton into the back seat. He was still humming as he walked around and climbed behind the steering wheel.
He reached out one large warm hand and clasped her knee. Neeley knew at once there was nothing sexual in the touch. He just wanted to give her some firm, physical contact, something to snatch her back from the mindless shock. Then he backed out of the parking slot, aimed the car for the American sector and asked if she was hungry.