by Kim Baldwin
Five hours later, just as the sun was coming up, they’d arrived at Scott Air Force Base and Blayne got to see her lovely new home, a blandly furnished housing unit in an isolated section of the base. Her seclusion was much the same as it had been at the hotel, but with significantly more Spartan accommodations and tighter security. She had three rooms, no view, and plenty of time to think about how fucked up her life was.
She hadn’t been able to sleep properly since.
At nine the morning after her arrival a distinguished looking gentleman in a suit the color of charcoal had arrived at her door and displayed his badge and credentials. His name was Larry Elkins and he was with the U.S. Marshals Service. He was polite, and friendly, and it was immediately apparent that he’d done this many times before.
They settled themselves on a battered couch with a loud avocado-colored print dating from the 1970s and Blayne looked him in the eyes. “I hope you’re going to give me some answers about what’s going on.”
“Yes, I’m here to discuss what’s next for you,” he answered helpfully. “But I’d like to ask you a few questions about the events of the last few days, first, if you don’t mind. I’ve been briefed by Special Agent Topping.”
“You’re with the Marshals Service?” Blayne had heard of it, but mostly in connection with the increase in air security following the 9-11 terrorist attacks. The government was putting more undercover U.S. Marshals aboard aircraft to protect against future attacks. She couldn’t imagine what that had to do with her, and why this man had to hear her story all over again.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m an Inspector with the WITSEC Division.”
He was in his forties, she guessed, by the hint of gray at his temples, though he kept his body in superb condition with regular trips to the gym. Puzzled, she asked, “WITSEC?”
“It stands for Witness Security. You’ve perhaps heard of it as the Witness Protection Program?”
“Oh, right, yes. I’ve heard of that.”
“WITSEC was founded to protect witnesses in major crimes from intimidation before they testify, and also from retaliation after the trial is over,” he explained. “The FBI called us in on your case. Obviously, you are a likely candidate. But before I make any recommendations about bringing you into the program, we need to talk.”
The Witness Protection Program? Holy fucking shit. No fucking way. “Isn’t that where you get a new identity and relocated and all of that?” Blayne asked. “I don’t need that, do I?” The thought that she might have to start all over again somewhere, like she had before….but this time, all alone. It was depressing beyond words.
“That’s what I’m here to determine,” he said. “Clearly, you are at high risk of further attempts on your life. You’d be much safer far away from here until the trials. And regardless of the verdicts, probably safer afterwards if you are elsewhere as well.”
The ensuing three-hour interview had covered not only the events of the recent past but also, it seemed, the entirety of Blayne’s life up to that point, Inspector Elkins said he would recommend quick approval of her acceptance into the WITSEC program. The final determination, he told her, was up to the U.S. Attorney General, but he anticipated no problems with the request, and said it would then be up to her to decide whether to accept the government’s offer of protection.
If she did, she would be taken to a secure WITSEC facility for several days of orientation, and then relocated to a new state with a new identity in exchange for a sworn statement agreeing to testify.
“WITSEC has helped roughly eight thousand witnesses and ten thousand family members relocate under new identities," he said. “And not one participant in the program who has followed our security guidelines has ever been harmed while under our active protection.”
The careful wording of his declaration suggested that those who didn’t follow the program’s rules may have met a different fate, but he volunteered no details.
“The final decision is up to you. It’s not an easy one, because one of the conditions of the program is that you cut all ties with your friends and acquaintances. That’s the hardest part for most of our witnesses. But frankly, Miss Keller, I don’t think you have much choice if you want to stay alive.”
Blayne thought about his words again as she opened the wallet they had bought her, and looked at her new driver’s license, social security card, and the $500 they’d given her for incidentals. Everything else would be handled once she got there—money, a place to live, a new job. Wherever there was.
Cut all ties with friends. She closed her eyes and Claudia’s face returned in a kaleidoscope of memories. Cutting up in college. Getting dressed to the nines for a date. Consoling her heartbreak. Flirting with her at work. Claudia was the only friend who mattered, anyway. Where are you, Claud? I need you. You can’t be dead.
Did it matter whether she stayed or left, without Claudia? Was Inspector Elkins right? Did she have a choice?
Blayne picked up the hideous T-shirt and held it up against her tank top. It was big enough for two of her, and fell to well below her ass.
There was a knock at the door. When she opened it, Special Agents Topping stared at her a long moment, taking in her new persona. He nodded approvingly at the T-shirt in her hands, a wry grin on his face. A few feet away, the new female agent was trying her damnest not to laugh. Yup. Topping had done the shopping.
“I’m not wearing this,” Blayne said, waving the shirt. “Or the pants. I can’t keep them up. I look fucking ridiculous.”
“You look nothing at all like yourself, which is exactly what we’re going for,” Topping said patiently from across the threshold. “We’ll wait. You have five minutes.” He pulled the door shut again before she could protest.
Blayne smoldered a minute, flipping him a finger that he failed to appreciate, before stalking off to change.
I hate this. I hate this. I just fucking hate this, she muttered to herself as she threaded a belt through the oversized pants. She stuck her Fiji fund into one of the many pockets, and her new wallet in another.
Then she donned her new studded military jacket and took another reluctant look in the mirror. A punk raccoon looking for love, wearing an Army tent that once belonged to Liberace. She sighed. She’d always thought she was a pretty plain Jane when you came right down to it. Oh yeah, there were days when she dressed up nice and put on some makeup. That got a few compliments, but all in all, she was average, she’d decided. And right now, this getup was so patently ridiculous she craved average. I can never look in a mirror again.
She went to the door and opened it. The agents were poised just outside.
“Ready to go, Elizabeth?” Topping asked.
She glared at him and bit back a response.
The former Blayne Keller, now Elizabeth Weaver, picked up a duffle bag containing all her earthly possessions, took a deep breath, and stepped into her new life.
Chapter Five
Thirty-six miles west-northwest of Scott Air Force Base, Alexi Nikolos sat leafing through a magazine in the first class lounge at the Lambert-St. Louis International Airport, killing time. She wore a form-fitting red silk blouse under a black leather coat that fell to mid-thigh, and tight black trousers slung low over her narrow hips. The trousers flared to accommodate the leather boots beneath.
Three men and two women had hit on her on the flight from Greece to Chicago, and another man and one very cute flight attendant on the short hop from Chicago to Saint Louis. Shame about that one. She’d been back in the U.S. barely two days, just long enough for her briefing from Theo, done in secrecy at his home. She was still a bit jet-lagged, though she normally functioned quite well on only a few hours of sleep.
She checked her watch. It was just after ten a.m. They should be leaving the base now, and arriving in forty minutes or so. That would give her a half-hour to study Special Agent Skip Topping before they got on the plane.
Theo suspected that it was one of the three D.C.-based FBI Special Agen
ts on loan to Chicago—either Topping, Dombrowski, or O’Rourke—who was behind the leaks to the mob. They were working the case with WITSEC as part of a Joint Task Force on Organized Crime, and had access to the information that had been compromised.
Thirty minutes at the gate and then two and a half hours on the plane should be enough time to gauge something about Topping, she figured. She was also curious about what her observations would tell her about the witness he was protecting, Blayne Keller, a.k.a. Elizabeth Weaver. She had a dossier on the woman and one on Topping, compliments of Theo. Both files were in the leather satchel at her feet, with much of the information already committed to memory.
Topping was supposed to deliver Blayne to the U.S. Marshals Denver District Offices as soon as they landed. If there were any threat to Blayne en route, or any sign that he was the dirty one, Alexi would intercede.
It was time to take up a position at their departure gate. The lounge had been cozy, but she needed to clear her gun with the airline so she could carry it on board with her, and even for a U.S. Marshal, that always took a few minutes these days. Besides, the passengers for Mid-Knight Airlines Flight 23 to Denver would be starting to check in soon and she wanted to study each one as they arrived.
*
Once they reached the Only Ticketed Passengers Beyond This Point security checkpoint, Agent Wright’s replacement left and Blayne was stuck with Topping. The concourse they were in was jammed with people hurrying to their flights, stopping for a bite of lunch, or shopping at one of the vendors for a souvenir St. Louis Gateway Arch or paperback to read on the plane
“There are so many people,” she remarked shakily as they neared their departure gate. “It doesn’t seem safe. Isn’t there a better way to get me there? Less public?”
Topping rarely answered any of her questions, so she was a bit surprised this time when he did.
He stopped walking and faced her but didn’t look down at her. He was constantly scanning the area around them for trouble as he spoke. “Yes, there are other ways, but the Salvatore family knows how we usually operate. That’s why we’re leaving from Saint Louis instead of Chicago, and why we’re going commercial. It’s easier to get lost in a crowd.”
“I see.”
He glanced at her. “Our flight has only 64 ticketed passengers on it. We’ve vetted every one of them, along with the flight crew, cleaning crew, and vendors servicing the plane.”
Blayne breathed easier as they resumed their trek to the gate, but as long as he was in the mood to answer questions, she’d shoot him the one that had popped into her head. “What about late arrivals? People paying to get on at the last minute?”
“None allowed on this flight.” His clipped tone indicated that was all the information she was going to get.
“What happens when we get to Denver?”
He ignored that question completely and kept walking. She dropped her bag and stood her ground.
*
The pair looked to Alexi like a puppy running after its master, the tall agent with the walrus moustache striding purposefully toward the departure gate, used to using the bulk of his body and height to intimidate. Always aware of his charge out of the corner of his eye, he seemed just a hair away from showing his annoyance at her persistent nipping at his heels. Agent Topping, Alexi concluded, was an arrogant asshole, who appeared competent at his job but neglected to include a touch of human compassion.
Yes, he seemed vigilant enough, constantly looking around, as if expecting trouble. His gaze was everywhere, and in a subtle way, not exaggerated, nothing to draw undue attention.
Now the witness—she was another story. Blayne Keller was not at all what Alexi had expected. Her first thought was that the dossier she had on the woman certainly must have gotten her birth date wrong. She looked 20, not 30. Her second thought was poor kid, what the hell have they done with you? I think they went way over the top this time. You look ludicrous.
But she was a feisty thing, despite the crazy get-up. Not the typical lamb of a female witness being taken into the program, though she had to be just as scared and uncertain as the rest of them. Apparently that was not enough to keep her from standing up for herself with Agent Topping.
Alexi watched with interest as Blayne dropped her bag and then waited patiently for Topping to rejoin her, and he did, irritation making his moustache twitch. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but their body language told her that Blayne was questioning Topping and growing increasingly perturbed when he kept brushing her off.
After a rather heated exchange, Topping got his charge started again toward the check-in counter. She looked anything but happy about it.
Topping was anxious to board. Alexi could see that in the way he was pushing the witness along, and in the nervous movements of his hands. Jingling his keys one minute, clenching and unclenching one fist the next.
His growing impatience with the young woman he was guarding was evident, too, in his stern expression and rigid posture as they stood at the counter. She was obviously still trying to get him to talk to her and he was totally shutting her out.
Blayne Keller certainly was persistent, Alexi had to give her that. She wouldn’t stop trying.
The two of them took seats twenty feet away, near enough that Alexi got a good surreptitious view of both over the top of her magazine.
The witness was all jangled nerves and no longer hiding it well. She kept her head down, eyes on her feet, as if afraid of being recognized, and she fidgeted constantly with her clothes, almost telegraphing the fact that they were not her own and that she wasn’t the least bit comfortable in them.
Alexi kept an eye on the uneasy pair while still doing quick assessments of the other passengers now congregating at the gate. Everything looked normal so far, but she never let her guard down.
A Mid-Knight Airlines gate agent, a curvaceous redhead with great legs, opened the door to the gangway that led to their plane, and then announced over the loudspeaker that boarding for first-class passengers and those with special needs would begin momentarily. As soon as she began talking, Topping said something to his charge, and they both got up and headed toward the gangway door. Alexi made no move to immediately follow. She knew where they would be sitting and she wanted them to get settled before she got on board herself.
Flight 23 was aboard an Airbus 340whose eventual destination was Hawaii. It would be pretty full during the final leg of its trip between Denver and Honolulu, but it was nearly empty during this initial hop from Saint Louis to Denver, which was precisely why the FBI had chosen it. Topping and Blayne had seats together in the left rear, near the tail, and there were a number of empty seats all around them in every direction.
Alexi had booked a seat on the aisle in the section just ahead of them, near the wing, and she’d made sure there was no one ticketed right next to her as well.
She waited until the final boarding call was announced before she picked up her satchel and headed toward the gangway.
*
Eduardo Sanchez had awakened that morning to the same problems that had been plaguing him for nearly two years. How to keep from losing his home, his wife, and his kids when he spent most of what he earned as a Mid-Knight Airlines baggage handler on gambling. He was about to take care of all those problems, at least for a long while. He kept telling himself that so he didn’t have to think too hard about the small black valise in his hand, and what might be inside.
The telephone call that morning had been brief and to the point. If he agreed to put a bag on a certain flight, he would receive fifty thousand dollars, half of it up front. It would be difficult with the increased security measures enacted after 9-11, but he had been at his job for more than two decades and knew how to get around them. So it didn’t take him long to agree. But now, with a thick wad of cash safe within his pocket, he began to think he might be making a mistake.
He couldn’t help but wonder what the suitcase held and whether he would ever be able to g
o to confession again if his action lead to the kinds of consequences no one could forgive.
Too late for second thoughts now, he told himself. Just do it. He added the black valise to the luggage in the cargo hold of the Airbus 380 and secured the door.
Chapter Six
By the time Flight 23 was half-way to Denver, Blayne’s jaw hurt from grinding her teeth. She was stressed to the max and supremely frustrated by her unsuccessful efforts to break her escort’s stoic silence. She had stared at his profile so long trying to get him to talk to her that she had every detail memorized. The more he ignored her, the more she wanted to rip that mustache off his face.
There was no one else near enough to talk to and she was too keyed up to read a magazine. She just had to get up, move around, do something, or she’d go mad. That caged-animal feeling was back with a vengeance.
“I need to stretch my legs,” she announced and waited for Topping to stand up so she could get out into the aisle. Despite the countless empty seats in their section, he had insisted on having her sit beside him.
“Not a smart idea,” he answered. “I’d rather you wait until we land. It’ll only be another hour or so.”
“Come on,” she insisted. “I’m just going to walk up to the restroom and back.” She half stood in her seat so she could count the heads rising above the seatbacks between their seats and the lavatories. “There are less than a dozen people back here. I’ll be there and back in two minutes.”
He still made no move to get up, but she could tell from the expression on his face that he was at least considering it.
“I had two cups of coffee this morning before I left, and now two more, and it’s all hitting me at once,” she threatened. “You can come with me if you have to, but I have to go. ”