– Terrorism in the United States
FBI Publications, 1997
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Two hours and fifteen minutes after we’d left the Downtown Manhattan Heliport, we flew over the upstate town of Saranac Lake. A few minutes later, three long runways forming a triangle came into view, surrounded by forest. I thought I saw bears lurking at the edge of the clearing.
As we descended, I could see some snazzy corporate jets parked on the ramp, though only one of them sported a corporate logo on the tail. In the case of corporate jets, it did not pay to advertise, partly for security reasons, and partly because it pissed off the stockholders. Nevertheless, I looked for a jet that was marked GOCO, but didn’t see any identifying markings as we hovered lower.
The pilot spoke to someone on the radio, then put the chopper down on the pavement behind a long, wood-shingled building that looked like an Adirondack lodge. This building seemed a little incongruous for an airport, but I knew from my infrequent trips into these mountains that the locals took their faux rustic stuff seriously, and I was surprised that the hangars didn’t look like log cabins.
Anyway, the pilot shut down the helicopter’s engine, and the noise level dropped dramatically.
The co-pilot jumped out of the cockpit, swung open the door of the cabin, and took Kate’s hand as she jumped down. I followed without taking the fellow’s hand, and said to him over the sound of the slowing rotor blades, “Did you see any bears?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Are you staying?”
“No. We’ll fuel up, then head back to New York.” As he spoke, I spotted a fuel truck coming in our direction, which is quicker service than I get at my gas station. It must have something to do with the FBI markings on the chopper.
I turned and looked around the mostly empty tarmac. The corporate jets were parked in a row on a blacktop ramp in the distance, and beyond them was a scattering of smaller light airplanes. There was no activity to speak of.
It was much colder up here, and I could see my breath, which is not what I wanted to see at 1:30 in the afternoon on a sunny day in early October.
Kate said, “Smell that air.”
“I don’t smell anything.”
“The mountain air, John. And look at those trees, and those mountains.”
“Where the hell are we?”
“In God’s country.”
“Good. I have a few questions to ask him.”
Apparently the Adirondack lodge building was the main passenger terminal, and we walked around to the front entrance, which had a covered veranda surrounded by a rustic railing. There was a picnic table and Pepsi machine on the veranda, and a security guy was sitting there smoking a cigarette. No one would mistake this place for JFK International Airport.
Kate said to me, “I’ll call Tom.”
“Why?”
“Maybe someone is supposed to meet us here.”
“Well, I don’t see how they can miss us.” In fact, there wasn’t another soul around, and there were hardly more than a dozen vehicles in the parking lot, half of which were probably abandoned by people who had one-way tickets out of this godforsaken wilderness.
We entered the terminal, which was much warmer than the frozen alpine valley outside. The terminal interior was small, functional, and quiet.
As small and isolated as this place was, there was a security checkpoint, complete with a walk-through metal detector and a baggage scanner. There were no security people at the checkpoint, and no passengers for that matter, so I assumed there was no imminent departure.
Kate scanned the empty terminal and said, “I don’t see anyone who might be here to meet us.”
“How can you tell in this crowd?”
She ignored that and observed, “There are the car-rental counters… there’s a restaurant, and there are the restrooms. Where do you want to start?”
“Over here.” I turned toward the sole airline ticket counter, whose logo said: CONTINENTAL COMMUTAIR.
Kate asked, “What are you doing?”
“Let’s see what Harry was supposed to find here.”
“That’s not what Tom-”
“Fuck Tom.”
She considered that and agreed, “Yeah, fuck him.”
I approached the small ticket counter, where an imposing middle-aged woman and a young man sat on stools, watching us. They looked like brother and sister, and unfortunately, I think their parents were, too. The lady, whose name tag said BETTY, greeted us. “Good afternoon. How can I help you?”
I replied, “I need a ticket to Paris.”
“Would you like to go through Albany or Boston?”
“How about neither?”
Betty informed me, “Sir, there are no direct flights to anywhere from here, except to Albany and Boston.”
“You’re kidding? How about arriving flights?”
“Same. Albany and Boston. Continental CommutAir. Two flights a day. You just missed the last flight to Boston.” She cocked her thumb at the arrival and departure schedules on the wall behind her and informed us, “We go to Albany at three P.M.”
One airline, two cities, two flights to each city. That made my job a little easier and quicker. I said to her, “I’d like to speak to the manager.”
“You’re speaking to her.”
“I thought you were the ticket agent.”
“I am.”
“I hope you’re not also the pilot.”
Kate seemed impatient with my silliness and pulled out her creds. “FBI, ma’am. I’m Special Agent Mayfield and this is Detective Corey, my assistant. May we speak to you in private?”
Betty looked at us and said, “Oh… you’re the people who just landed in the helicopter.”
I guess big news traveled fast here. “Yes, ma’am. Where can we go to check out passenger manifests?”
She slid off her stool, told her assistant, Randy, to hold down the fort, then said to us, “Follow me.”
We went around the counter and through an open door into a small, empty office with desks, computers, faxes, and other electronic things.
She sat at one of the desks and asked Kate-I don’t think she liked me-“What do you need?”
Kate replied, “I need a list of passengers who arrived here on Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and today. Also, departing passengers for those days, plus tomorrow.”
“Okay…”
I asked her, “Has anyone else been here, or called you in the last few days to ask about passenger manifests?”
She shook her head. “Nope.”
“If someone had called or been here when you weren’t here, would you know about it?”
She nodded. “Sure. Jake, Harriet, or Randy would have told me.”
Maybe Kate was right, and I should do what a lot of my colleagues have done and get a job as chief of police in a small town where everybody knows everybody else’s business. Kate could get a job as a school crossing guard, I’d spend all my time at the local tavern, and she’d have an affair with a forest ranger.
I said to Betty, “Okay, can you print out those passenger lists?”
Betty swiveled around and banged away at the keyboard.
As the printer started grinding out paper, I looked at a few pages and said, “Not too many people on these flights.”
Betty replied as she hit the keys, “These are commuter aircraft. Eighteen passengers maximum.”
That was good news. I asked her, “And these are all the arriving and departing passengers for the days in question?”
“As of right now. I can’t tell you who’s actually going to depart on the three o’clock Albany flight, or any flights tomorrow, but I’m getting you the reservation lists for those flights.”
“Good. Do you have a record of incoming and departing private aircraft?” I asked her.
“No, this is an airline. Private aircraft is general aviation, and the ramp operations office takes care of that.”