The Flight Attendant

by Chris Bohjalian

  “How is Vaughn?”

  “Good. Same old, same old.”

  “What’s he working on these days?” she asked. She had no interest at all in what Vaughn Briscoe did for a living as a consultant, but the question struck her as innocuous and safe. She felt bad not trusting her friend, but just in case, she had to get this conversation as far from Dubai as she could.

  “More government nonsense. He’s in Edgewater, Maryland, again. He’s happier when he’s with private-sector clients, but it makes our life so much easier when he’s working in Maryland or inside the Beltway. When the girls were younger and he was working for that pharmaceutical company in Colorado, childcare was a nightmare. He was always away. Always traveling. Kind of like me. Now he’s home every night, and this fall he’ll be able to pick them up from the ten trillion places they have to be after school when I can’t.”

  “How was Berlin?”

  “It was fine. Are you nervous about this afternoon?”

  “No,” Cassie lied. “How many times and how many ways can they ask me about what Sokolov was like on the flight or whether he said anything of interest?”

  “That’s all they’re asking?”

  “So far. Maybe they’ll have more interesting questions for me this afternoon.”

  “Look, Cassie…”

  “Go on.”

  “Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. I just feel so bad for you. I just—”

  “I’m fine,” Cassie said. She wanted to cut her friend off before she could say something they both might regret. “I need to run. My family’s coming to town from Kentucky this weekend, and I have a thousand things to do. But I really appreciate the offer, and I love hearing your voice. I love it. But I’m okay.”

  “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

  “Yeah. Berlin,” she answered, and she laughed ever so slightly. Her friend, if she needed her, probably would be on another continent and in a time zone six hours distant.

  * * *

  « «

  To try and take her mind off the newspapers and what loomed that afternoon, she finished “The Death of Ivan Ilyich” on the couch, occasionally glancing up at the Empire State Building when her mind wandered from nineteenth-century Russia. She felt neither virtuous for reading Tolstoy nor relieved by Ilyich’s transformation: the way he went from fearing to welcoming that great, ineludible light. Mostly she continued to hope that Alex Sokolov hadn’t woke up when his throat was being cut.

  * * *

  « «

  It was hot and sunny again that Friday, and so Ani directed Cassie to a glass table in a shady spot of the courtyard, and the two of them brought their street falafel there. The city felt quiet to Cassie, even for the start of a weekend in the middle of the summer.

  “This building isn’t precisely a ghost town on August Fridays, but a lot of people clear out—especially the businesses on the other floors. Don’t even try and schedule a meeting after lunch on a Friday in August,” she told Cassie.

  “We’re getting so Parisian in the two-one-two,” Cassie murmured. She was distracted. She hadn’t fallen asleep until, almost in desperation near midnight, she had done a couple shots of vodka, popped a pair of Advil PMs, and swallowed a few tabs of melatonin. Normally she didn’t need melatonin on this side of the Atlantic. But normally she wasn’t meeting with lawyers and then the FBI. She’d been fine—a little fuzzy maybe, but fine—when she had first crawled out of bed and walked to the Rite-Aid for the newspapers.

  Ani smiled at her small joke, but Cassie could see concern in her eyes. “You look tired,” she said.

  “I am.” She stared at the falafel and sauce in its pita. The wrap in its wax paper. She had no appetite today, and tried to decide if she was any less hungry than usual.

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  “I think so.”

  Ani wiped her fingers on her napkin and reached over and took Cassie’s hands. “Try not to worry. You’re not in Dubai. No one is going to prosecute you for committing an act that may lure a person to sin.”

  “That’s a thing in the Emirates?”

  “It is. So is having consensual sex outside of wedlock.”

  She looked down at her hands in Ani’s. Her skin was so pale compared to the lawyer’s. It was August. Why hadn’t she been to the beach? Or a lake? Or even, for God’s sake, a tanning salon and gotten sprayed? She took back her hands, hoping Ani wouldn’t think it was an unfriendly gesture. “We should eat,” she added quickly, trying to give a concrete reason for her discomfort with Ani’s kindness. With her touch.

  “Yes,” the lawyer agreed.

  “I went by Unisphere yesterday. After you and I spoke.”

  “You what?”

  “I wanted to learn more about Alex,” she said, aware of how sheepish she sounded.

  “Had you been drinking?”

  “No! I think I should be a little insulted you even asked that.”

  “God. Tell me precisely what happened,” Ani commanded, and so Cassie did, sharing her exchange with the woman from personnel and the little she’d gleaned from the encounter.

  “They’re going to know it’s you—if they don’t already,” the lawyer said when she’d finished.

  “I suspected as much. But I had to try.”

  “Please promise me that you won’t do that sort of thing again.”

  “I promise,” she agreed. “Did you find out anything more about Alex at your end?” she asked.

  “No. But I called my investigator friend again last night,” Ani said. “Did you read Alex’s obituary?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t know. Doesn’t it scream spy to you?”

  Ani took a small bite of the wrap and seemed to think carefully before answering. “It doesn’t scream that. Maybe it hints at that. I picked up on how brief it was.”

  “And the cities.”

  “Lots of people work in Moscow and Dubai who have nothing to do with espionage.”

  “When will the investigator know something?”

  “Next week,” Ani answered. “Maybe even early next week.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, this afternoon, the case agent—this Frank Hammond—is going to be sneaky. It’s possible you’re going to think he’s a freaking dunce. But he’s not, I assure you. An FBI knife goes in very slowly. FBI agents are trained to get someone to unwittingly tell the truth. Also? I’m sure he knows a lot more than the newspapers do. He knows everything the FBI’s legal attaché in the Emirates knows, and they’re eight hours ahead of us. There were probably developments today that we know absolutely nothing about.”

  “God…”

  “Don’t feel that way. A lot depends on whether the Emirates feels like playing ball with the U.S. They may not. It’s their country. And while they might be worried about some kind of tourism backlash, the rest of the Muslim Middle East is a hell of a lot scarier to most Americans than Dubai. Besides, it’s not like there’s a pattern of violent crime against tourists there. The truth is, there’s really no reason why Dubai will care all that much about the murder of some money manager in their fair city.”

  “Unless they actually want to make it clear that he was killed by another American: a drunk flight attendant from New York.”

  “I guess. But assuming he was just some MBA with Unisphere Asset Management, I really can’t understand why the FBI would give a damn. And yet it’s clear that they do.”

  “Do you believe they’re still looking for an American woman who lives in Dubai?”

  “Nope.”

  “No?” She heard the fear in her voice.

  “I mean, I don’t know that for a fact. But by now they’ve talked
to the people Alex knew or might have known. Everyone who was supposed to be in that meeting, everyone with Unisphere. Everyone at the hotel. They’re working their way backward. By now every American woman he spoke with on that flight from Paris to Dubai—especially the flight attendant—is under suspicion.”

  “I see.”

  Ani put down her wrap and took a breath. “Now, this meeting with the FBI isn’t precisely a situation where you can perjure yourself. This isn’t a sworn deposition. But they will try and catch you in a lie, and it is a federal offense to lie to an FBI agent. You may not even feel the knife going in until they begin to twist it.”

  “I had been planning to lie like crazy when we landed. But they never asked me anything that demanded a lie.”

  “That’s good.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Well, first of all, don’t lie. Just don’t. But you can take the Fifth Amendment. Do you know what that is?”

  “Yes. But then, of course, I sound like a Mafia wife.”

  “That is the problem with the Fifth. The FBI may still be fishing—they might in fact have nothing concrete—and if you take the Fifth, that’s a pretty serious nibble. So, I want you to look at me before you answer any question. If I nod, tell the truth. If I shake my head, take the Fifth.”

  Cassie watched a plane flying silently high overhead. Even now, despite her years at thirty-five thousand feet, the miracle of flight continued to move her. “Won’t you be sitting next me?”

  “Probably. But I don’t care if they see me coaching you. That doesn’t matter. Good God, if necessary, I will jump in for you and say you’re taking the Fifth. The thing is…” Ani’s voice trailed off.

  “Go on.”

  “I wanted to tell you this in person. You may not be extraditable for murder, but you aren’t out of the woods. There are other reasons why you could be prosecuted in the U.S. for Sokolov’s death. Terrorism, for instance.”

  “What?”

  “It’s unlikely. But here’s the chain. The Department of Justice and the OVT: the Office of Justice for Victims of Overseas Terrorism. The OVT reports to National Security. The OVT director meets weekly with the folks in counterterrorism and counterespionage. Alex Sokolov is an American citizen who was murdered abroad, and his death could be handed over to them—especially if he was someone important to the government.”

  “That’s absurd. Once in a while I may drink too much, but I’m not a terrorist.”

  “I get it. I just want to be sure you understand the stakes before we go downtown. Now, you should eat. You really should. If you don’t like falafel, don’t be polite. Tell me. We’ll find you something else. I want to coach you for a few minutes, and I want to be sure you have some sustenance inside you before we meet with the FBI.”

  She nodded and started to eat, and tried to pay attention. Suddenly, she was feeling like a victim herself, and that only made her feel worse. It shamed her to feel that way. After all, she wasn’t the body left behind in the bed.

  * * *

  « «

  Cassie rarely got to Wall Street, but when she did, she was always struck by how narrow the streets were compared to Murray Hill and midtown Manhattan. The FBI was in a skyscraper on Broadway, but Broadway this far downtown, this close to the Brooklyn Bridge, was the slender tip of the funnel. Federal Plaza was a little more squat than the Seagram Building, but what made it feel so different was the Wall Street claustrophobia induced by the combination of tall edifices and thin streets. Outside the building was a small park with three tall, dark columns, a sculpture called the Sentinel, and some trees that she guessed were a kind of willow. On the side streets around the plaza were manned guardhouses and black-and-yellow striped metal barricades that police officers raised or lowered to allow select vehicles in and out of the parking garage. She thought of the Fearless Girl standing tall against the Bull a few blocks to the south. Cassie understood that there was nothing heroic about who she was, nothing courageous about what she was doing; she was here because she drank too much and a decade and a half of bad decisions—especially one night in Dubai—was catching up to her. But she thought of that bronze little girl with a ponytail, her hands on her hips and her chest out, facing off against the much larger bull. Cassie wanted now to be just that plucky and do the right thing.

  Whatever that was.

  “Ready?” Ani asked. They hadn’t spoken since they had gotten out of the cab a minute ago and paused in front of the Sentinel.

  Cassie shook her head. “No. But I really don’t have a choice now, do I?”

  Ani looked her in the eye. “You’ll be fine. Just remember: whatever you do, don’t lie.”

  * * *

  « «

  The room was windowless and Cassie didn’t care. She was struck by the shiny, fake veneer of the rectangular table, and how the chairs were covered in an orange shade of Naugahyde that belonged only on pumpkins. Once again Frank Hammond was interviewing her and James Washburn was taking the notes.

  “Glad you could make it this afternoon,” Hammond said after Cassie had introduced Ani to the two agents and everyone was seated. “I really am grateful. I know it’s an inconvenience, but we want to help the Emirates and put this part of the investigation to bed. We want to move on.”

  “Of course,” she agreed.

  “I just hate to have busywork hanging over my head over the weekend—especially a summer weekend.”

  “It’s fine.”

  He smiled. She was struck once more by how world weary he seemed for a guy who couldn’t have been more than forty or forty-one. Once again she noted Washburn’s unblemished skin and rimless eyeglasses, and wondered if he was ever allowed outside. “When do you fly out again?” he asked.

  “Sunday.”

  “Back to Dubai?”

  “Rome. I have Rome this month.”

  “I love Italy.”

  “I do, too.”

  He shook his head wistfully and she presumed he was recalling a moment in a beautiful piazza in a Tuscan village or a perfect, endless meal in Florence. “Of course, I’ve never been there. But I hope to get there someday,” he said. “So: I guess I really just love the idea of Italy.”

  For a moment she was taken aback, but quickly she gathered herself. “I hope you get there, too,” she said. “It’s beautiful. It lives up to its reputation. It’s one of the prettiest places in the world, I think.”

  “And you’ve seen a lot of the world.”

  “I guess.”

  “Is that why you became a flight attendant? You love to travel?”

  She shrugged, unsure whether this was chatter to wear down her reserve or he needed to know for some reason. Washburn’s gaze was moving between her and the pad on the table in front of him, but he wasn’t writing anything down. “I think so,” she answered simply. She remembered her carefully scripted answer during her job interview with the airline eighteen years ago: I enjoy people. I think customer service is a real art.

  “Ever consider becoming a pilot?”

  “Nope.”

  “How come?”

  “Not really my skill set. I kind of think you don’t want a person like me ever driving a cab or a school bus.” She’d meant it as a joke, but she saw Ani’s eyes grow a little wide and she realized that humor—at least humor that acknowledged her more irresponsible tendencies—was a particularly bad idea.

  “Oh, why is that?”

  “I just meant that I live in the city. I don’t even own a car.”

  Hammond nodded and Washburn started to write.

  “So, we’re just clearing up a few little things as a courtesy to Dubai,” the case agent said. “This shouldn’t take very long at all. You said that you and Alex Sokolov spoke during the food service on that last flight—the one from Paris to Dubai on July twenty-sixth.”

&n
bsp; “That’s correct.”

  “You said he was a flirt.”

  “Kind of.”

  “How? What kinds of things did he say?”

  “He said he liked our uniforms. We actually have three kinds: A pants suit. A skirt and a blouse. And a dress. I usually wear the dress.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the most flattering on me.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I’d wear the one that was most comfortable.”

  “That’s because you’re male.”

  He chuckled and nodded. “Probably true.”

  “But, to be honest, they’re all pretty comfortable.”

  He seemed to think about this. Then: “What else did he say?”

  “Alex Sokolov? I don’t remember. I’ve had”—and Cassie paused to count in her mind—“four flights since then.”

  “The air marshal recalls you two talking a lot.”

  “I don’t know about that. I try to do a good job, and part of that is making passengers feel relaxed and happy on a flight.”

  “He tell you anything about himself?”

  “Not really. He probably didn’t tell me much at all.”

  “You said he told you that he was a money manager. What else?”

  “I can’t think of anything.”

  “You two both talked about living in Manhattan, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Another passenger recalled him telling you that he was an only child. You told him you had a sister. Do you remember that?”

  “Not really.”

  “Some other family stuff, maybe?” he asked. “Someone else said you two talked about Kentucky. How your sister and her family still live there.”

  She glanced at Ani and then at the way that Washburn had suddenly, inconceivably filled almost an entire sheet of paper on the yellow legal pad. “I don’t know. It’s possible.”

  “Did he tell you about why he was in Dubai? His work?”

  “I don’t remember him saying much about that.”