"Sorry," Charley said. "I mistook you for someone else."
"Not at all," the man said. "Not at all."
***
VECTOR AIRLINES FLIGHT #127, FRANKFURT TO ISTANBUL:
The woman was attractive, short and muscular, in a chic black dress and black hose. She leaned forward and tapped Harold on the shoulder.
"Excuse me," she said, smiling. "Could you please say for me this word? I don't know how to pronounce it, or what it means?" She held out a fashion magazine with the word "prodigious" underlined."Prodigious," Harold said. "As in big, very big."
The woman smiled and said, "Thank you so much. My English is not so good."
"No, it's really good," Harold enthused. "Really."
Dyer Shaw looked over and snorted. He went back to his crossword puzzle book.
"Thank you," the woman said. "You are American?"
"Yes."
"What are you doing in Istanbul?"
"I'm, uhh, visiting my brother. He's in the Air Force, stationed there," Harold said.
"I see. My family, my brother and my cousins, they are in the Turkish Air Force. Fighter pilots. And your brother?"
"He's a, umm, logistics officer, doing logistics."
"I see." The woman crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt. "Have you been to Istanbul before?"
"No."
"I thought I heard you and your friend talking about going back to the Sheraton?."
"He's been here before," Harold said quickly. Dyer rolled his eyes and remained silent.
"I see," the woman said thoughtfully. "Perhaps you would like someone to show you around to some places the tourists never get to see?"
"That would be great! How can I get in touch with you?"
"It would be better if I called for you...where are you staying?" she said, taking out a black leather covered notepad.
"The Presidential."
"And your name?"
"Harold D. Blooming. My friends call me HD."
"HD?"
"Like the motorcycle, Harley Davidson. HD."
"Okay...HD. I will call you. How long will you be in Istanbul?"
"Only for...a little while," Harold caught himself.
"Well, then, we will have to make the best of your time," the woman said. She snapped her notebook shut and tucked it back into her Gucci purse.
***
WESTERN AIRLINES FLIGHT #223, FRANKFURT TO ROME:
Ilona and Joan were chatting in the forward galley while Ilona and her assistant unpacked their drink carts. "I think you are very brave," Ilona said. "For doing what you do."
Joan shrugged, embarrassed. Ilona's beauty awed her.
"What is Mr. Don like to work for?" Ilona asked.
Joan thought for awhile before she answered. "He acts like a hard-ass, and he is one, really, but...he's a good person, he's really funny. I think he likes being the center of attention because he's actually lonely."
"Lonely? Mr. Don? He has many women," Ilona said, laughing.
"I don't know," Joan said sheepishly. "He's good to work for. He looks out for us."
"Hmm," Ilona said. "Do you think he could ever have one woman?"
"I wouldn't know," Joan said. "Why?"
"I think he is a beautiful man. I would take him except he has too many women. I would make him give them all up."
Joan laughed. "Good luck."
"We are coming to Rome. Maybe there. I will make him take me to dinner by myself. We'll see."
***
FRANKFURT, GERMANY:
John Bolen and Jed Loveless huddled at a conference room table stacked with bound intelligence printouts. Each binder was overstamped with the SECRET or TOP SECRET/SCI stamp. John brushed aside a stack of surveillance photos of known safe houses. There were several photos taken inside the Frankfurt air terminal with neat black arrows and circles drawn around the surveillance subjects.
"What about running the passenger manifests through the BND computer for a cross check with the terrorist file?" John said. His voice was heavy with fatigue.
"Already done. Negative hits. They're using fresh passports if they're moving at all." Jed shook his head in disgust. "This doesn't feel right. Not at all."
"Jed, they may have just backed off. That's what it looks like. It doesn't make any sense for them to continue the mission if they've been made!" John threw his binder down and stood up. He stretched, and rubbed his back with both hands. "If they're going to continue, they're going to continue on a soft target. I'll bet dollars to donuts that they show up on something like Egypt Air. It makes no sense at all to target a heavily protected flight. Too many resources for too little chance of success. C'mon!"
"Then why work the marshals at all?" Jed retorted. "They don't have to work the teams to find out what flights are covered and aren't."
"If they wanted to kill the marshals, they could kill them on the ground, just like they could go after the Ambassador, the RSO, the DEA attaché or the secretaries. Why take the chance of a long fall from 30,000 with no chutes when they can find themselves a nice soft unprotected target?"
"What if they had enough take that they thought they could take the marshals in the air?" Jed said.
"Oh, bullshit," John replied. "We're not talking Kuwait Air, with two marshals on board. We're talking an augmented team of twelve shooters, some of the best people we've got. It would be a blood bath."
"Stay with me on this," Jed said. "Suppose they had the take. Suppose they had the shooters. Hell, they had fourteen on the Kuwait plane. Think of the headlines if they took that plane."
"That's far-fetched, Jed. There's nothing in the take we have so far, in their past and present doctrine, or in any other way, shape, or form to indicate that they would consider that option."
"You're assuming you know everything you need to know about this."
"No, I'm not!" John snapped. "I'm trying to introduce a reality check into this. We don't have enough assets to deal with your scenario, Jed! If the marshals can't handle that scenario, then what the fuck are they doing flying? You know Nelson and Dey -- are they going to take care of business or what?"
"Yeah," Jed said. "They'll take care of business."
***
DELTA FLIGHT #102, FRANKFURT TO ATHENS:
14D's name was Hafiz Araz, a Syrian. Charley copied the name and passport information from the passenger manifest into his notebook. Once they got into Athens, he'd get the embassy to do a computer run on Araz and use the secure communications system to get the name to Jed Loveless or Al Garber. If there was anything to be had on Hafiz Araz, they'd find it. Araz hadn't moved from his seat since Charley spoke to him. There was something peculiar about the whole incident: Araz's actions seemed out of character. His sudden change of manner when confronted was both unlikely and suspicious.
Charley made a final notation in his notebook and put it away. Karen still looked shook up. The sudden adrenaline dump and the subsequent crash were the stuff of air marshal missions: hours of boredom punctuated by a few brief moments of terror. He gestured for her to join him up front in the galley. The few passengers in First Class were either occupied with one another or reading magazines.
"How you doing," he asked Karen as she stepped into the galley.
"I'm still scared," Karen said. "I thought it was going down."
"Might have," Charley observed. "Were you as ready to deal with it as I thought you were?"
Karen looked at Charley for any sign of condescension or sarcasm. Seeing none, she said, "I think so. I knew what to do."
"Good," Charley said. "That's the problem with this job. There's training, there's operations, and then there's the real thing. It's not like police work, where you get field training under somebody's supervision. Here, it's the real thing, or it's nothing."
Karen watched down the aisle. She nodded, slowly.
"It felt like the real thing," she said.
"You got that right, marshal," Charley said.
***
&nb
sp; ISTANBUL, TURKEY:
The woman in the black dress paused beside HD's seat. Her Gucci handbag and carry-on brushed his arm. The other passengers shifted from foot to foot impatiently, eager to get out the door and into the terminal.
"Why aren't you getting off?" she asked.
"There's someone I want to talk to in coach," Harold replied lamely.
"Oh...I see," the woman said. "Well, I'll be speaking to you." She turned and stepped delicately down the stairs in her heels.
"Hey!" Harold called after her. "I didn't get your name!"
"That's right," she said, smiling demurely. "You didn't. Good bye!"
Harold laughed nervously. Dyer Shaw sneered at him and said, "That bitch isn't going to call you, man. She comes from money."
"Oh, I'll see her again," Harold said. "I'm sure of it."
***
ROME, ITALY:
Don's crew was wedged into the small crew bus with the flight attendants and pilots. Ilona tilted her head mischievously and wiggled in beside Don.
"So, Mr. Don. Where will you take me to dinner in the romantic city of Rome tonight?" she asked.
"Are you asking me out, Ilona?" Don said, amused. The other marshals rolled their eyes, and the flight attendants giggled.
"No, you are taking me out. Just me, tonight, for dinner. I wish to see if you can be a gentleman with one woman tonight."
"This is making me sick," Butch said, shaking his head in disgust.
"Oh, shut up, Butch," Joan said.
Jon sat away from the others, silent and wounded with his arms crossed.
"Well, Mr. Don, we are all waiting for an answer," Ilona went on. She looked at the other flight attendants. "This is a famous time, I think."
"Beautiful Ilona, I would be happy to take you out to dinner at the restaurant of your choice," Don said gallantly.
"An expensive one, I think," Ilona said gaily. "Very expensive, because you air marshals are rich, and I am a poor girl from Budapest."
***
ATHENS, GREECE:
Charley handed the Greek Customs Police officer the stack of passports and declarations for his crew. "Hello, my friend," he said. "How have you been?"
"Very good, thank you, Mr. Dey. Excuse me, but do you have any American cigarettes?"
"Sure," Charley said, handing the man an unopened pack of Marlboros. "Please keep the pack."
"You are too kind," the Customs officer said, quickly stamping the passports without even checking the photos. "Have a nice visit to my country."
The four marshals went up the stairs into the main terminal.
"That's one of the things that Dinkey would put a stop to, Karen," Charley commented. "He'd say that was bribing a foreign official. Or at least that's what he'd call it."
"It doesn't seem to hurt anything."
"It doesn't. It's custom, that's all. That's life on a real mission, instead of behind a desk."
Charley was glad to stretch his legs. Stacy and Steve trailed behind, watching his back and looking around the terminal. "Everybody got enough money changed, or do you need to get some here?" he asked, as they passed the money exchange.
"We're good," Stacy said. Karen nodded.
"Let's go," Charley said, leading the way through the doors into the brilliant sunshine of a spring afternoon in Athens. He waved to two cabs lined up at the cab stand. The cabbies pulled closer and jumped out to open the doors.
"Athens Hilton," he said to the driver, who nodded and shut the door. Karen was pushed back in her seat by the sudden acceleration as the cab driver took off like a fighter pilot. The driver exited the airport at high speed, turning right into a seemingly impenetrable stream of traffic that parted at the last second to let him in. Charley grinned as he watched Karen clutch at her seat. "Welcome to Athens," he said. "If the tangos don't get you, the drivers will."
"Jesus, can't he slow down?"
"It would offend him if you were to ask him to," Charley said.
The driver leaned on his horn and hung his head out the window. "Malaka!" he shouted.
"What does that mean?" Karen asked.
"It's an affectionate greeting," Charley said dryly.
***
"Looks like Charley took care of that Karen thing," Steve said to Stacy as their cab rushed to catch up to Charley's.
"Whatever," Stacy said. "That was some bad shit back there, home boy. I'm glad you were with me. I thought for sure there was going to be some killing."
"That's what it felt like. There was something hinky about that whole episode, though. There was nobody else profiled...and he acted so aggressive until he got a reaction from us. Then it was like he was scared to death. I don't think he ever saw you and me till he came out of the lav."
"So what? That's good. I don't want no fool making me."
Steve looked out the window at the battered hillside of the Acropolis. "It was like he was just looking to make Charley jump, or something."
"It was strange," Stacy agreed. "I want to hear what Charley finds out about that boy. A Syrian passport with a German work permit, flying to Athens?"
Steve changed the subject. ""You ready to eat some lamb? How about the Steps tonight?"
"I'm ready to suck that meat right off the bone." Stacy said. She looked at Steve and laughed. "Why, little Stevey, you're blushing!"
***
ISTANBUL, TURKEY:
The lobby of the Presidential Hotel was crowded with Turks and foreigners. Harold and his marshals stood near the big double glass and brass doors, where people streamed past and into the disco-decor lounge. "Anybody up for making a quick run down to the Covered Bazaar?" Harold asked. "I'm going for some leather jackets."
Ray Rydell was uncomfortable. Everyone seemed so casual about what they were doing; none of it jibed with his recent training. "I thought we weren't supposed to be going down there," he said.
"We're on the ground now, New Guy, and you're off duty now," Dyer said. "I'm up for it," he told Harold.
"Count me out," Shirleen said. "I'm going to stay here."
"Me, too," Ray said.
"Suit yourself," Harold said. "We'll give you a call for dinner." He caught himself. "I might have plans, though."
Dyer laughed. "Fat chance, dreamer."
"I saw her, HD," Shirleen said. "You need to learn to keep your mouth shut and not let your dick lead you around."
"Lighten up, Shirleen," Dyer came to HD's defense.
"Either one of your dicks," Shirleen said. "C'mon, Ray." She turned and walked away.
"She's probably wanting to do the kid," Dyer said.
"Fuck her. Let's go. There's a cab outside, let's get it," HD said. He jogged out the door, waving at the cabby. Dyer followed him out. Neither one noticed the two men lingering near the lounge who watched them leave.
***
Shirleen stretched out on her bed, crossed her arms behind her head, and thought about her baby son. He'd be banging on his crib right about now, getting his daddy up out of bed. She smiled. Her husband Larry had been a marshal once; he'd gotten a medical reassignment after he had blown the ligaments out on his knee during a physical fitness test. He was an air port security inspector now and he had enough seniority to get flexible hours so he could take care of their son when Shirleen's mother couldn't. She heard voices and footsteps out in the hall; the Presidential had paper thin walls and rickety doors, and she heard every creak as well as the whine of the elevator down the hall. A door opened and closed down the hall. She picked up the remote and turned on the TV, and flicked through the stations till she found CNN.
***
Down the hall from Shirleen, the two Turkish men from the lobby entered HD's room with a pass key. They rummaged quickly through his open suitcase and the drawers of the desk, and discovered a leather bound notepad shoved between the mattress and box springs of the bed.
"Here it is," one said. The other came over and began copying seat assignments and flight numbers from the schedule tucked in the fron
t pocket of the notebook. It only took a few minutes. They replaced the notebook, and took another moment to straighten the room.
"It's good," one murmured. He paused at the door and listened before he opened it up. The two men left quickly, shutting the door behind them.
Across the hall, Ray Rydell got up and looked through his door peephole. He saw the men walking past, so he opened the door. The two men looked incuriously at him, nodded, and went to the elevator. Ray looked up and down the hallway. Muddled by jet lag, he didn't know what he was looking for, so he returned to his interrupted nap.
***
ROME, ITALY:
The Sheraton Roma was notorious for its terrible service. The front desk clerks were rude to the point of open hostility, the waiters would as often as not spill soup or water on anyone who insisted on their meals served hot, and the maids would steal anything not locked and/or tied down. Despite that, it had been home base to marshals hubbing out of Rome for years because of its relative proximity to the airport (nothing is conveniently located in Rome) and the city. It did have a dedicated busline which made it easier to get the team back and forth to the airport. Don led the way through the lobby, a smoking cigar in his hand, waving at the porters like a visiting royal. He leaned on the counter and addressed the head reception clerk, a frighteningly ugly woman with the blond hair of the northern Italians.
"Sophia, my darling, you are as frightful as ever. Where are the rooms for me and my crew?" he said.
"You will have to wait. There are no rooms available," Sophia rattled off in rapid-fire English. "Nothing available now."
"But darling, I called and talked to your boss, the good Mr. Giovanni, who told me not only did I have rooms, but that they were available when I called, a mere six hours ago. So check again, dearie, before I burn your nose hairs with this expensive cigar," Don said.
Sophia burst into Italian, waving her arms about. She slammed her hand on the counter and stalked off into the back office. Don smoked his cigar serenely. A plump and well dressed man, his thick black hair carefully styled in a pompadour, came out of the back office.
"Mr. Giovanni, so good to see you again," Don said.
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