“I wish,” I answer with a smile. My suitcase, and Franklin’s beside it, is still on the floor in front of me. I read the agent’s name tag. “No, Edgar, no one packed my suitcase for me.”
“Anyone ask you to carry on anything?” One chubby finger is poised over his keyboard.
Again, why would anyone say yes? Because bad guys, when confronted with the insightful and incisive questioning of a ticket agent, are suddenly intimidated into telling the truth? “No,” I reply.
With that, the agent’s no longer interested in me. My luggage claim check whirs out from a slot behind the counter. Then another one.
“Oh, excuse me,” I say. I gesture to the two suitcases in front of me, and point to Franklin, who’s standing behind me. I lift my suitcase onto the scale. “I’m only checking one bag.”
“Sorry,” the agent says. He folds the second claim check, puts it under the counter and slings my bag onto the conveyor belt behind him. “Next.”
I flash Franklin a long-suffering expression that’s supposed to convey “these people have no idea and no wonder so much luggage gets lost” as he takes his place in line. Then I give myself a silent scolding. Agents have a difficult job. They’re attempting the impossible.
I just hate to fly. And no matter how I work to fight it, I lose. Spiders, no problem. Heights, fine. Snakes. Public speaking. All a breeze. Flying is my only fear. I start my “pretend the fear doesn’t exist” exercise.
“We’re delayed,” Franklin says, interrupting my self-help session. He tucks his ticket flap into the pocket of his navy blazer. “The agent just got the word. Another hour.”
“There’s a dilemma. Which is worse, flying now or flying later?” I ask. It’s still difficult to keep the nerves out of my voice. And yet, I admonish myself to remember, I’m not the only one inconvenienced. I shift back into pretend mode. “No problem. Franko. Let’s make the best of it. Let’s see if we can get through to the Great Barrington Police on a Sunday afternoon. And I’ll check our undercover line.”
“You’re a fun travel buddy, Charlotte,” he says. “Laugh a minute. I was thinking, let’s go have a beer and watch baseball. But you’re the boss. I’ll try the cops. And the GBFD.”
We both pull out our cell phones. While Franklin looks up the number for the Great Barrington Fire Department, I dial into the voice mail on our undercover phone line.
“Received, today at 7:42 a.m.,” the mechanical voice says. And then I hear a stranger’s voice. A man? Maybe a woman. It’s difficult to tell. A slow smile spreads across my face as I listen to the new message.
“This is a message for Elsa. You indicated you are interested in making arrangements with us. If you wish to continue, please appear at Baggage Claim area D at the Hartford airport, tonight at 7:00 p.m…”
I listen to the rest of the instructions, then hand my phone to Franklin. “Bingo, bingo, bingo,” I say, doing a little dance move with my hips. “Push 2-2 to listen to this message. I bet I can easily fly to Hartford from Boston and get there in time. And I’ll have my suitcase if I need to stay over.”
Franklin holds the phone to this ear, his eyes widening as the message plays back.
“It’s just after one now,” I say. “We have the stop in Baltimore. If our plane’s not late again we’ll get to Boston by four. If we’re lucky, and we sometimes are, there’ll be a flight out of Boston and I can get to Hartford just in time.” More flying, my favorite. I don’t say that.
Franklin has one hand over his ear and has his eyes closed, blocking me out as he focuses on the message and its instructions.
“Don’t erase it,” I remind him. “This is our ticket to the big story.”
“It’s risky,” Franklin finally says, handing the phone back to me. His face is solemn, downcast. “They could recognize you. I wish we had our hidden camera. Damn. I should go with you, camera or no.”
“They don’t get Boston TV in Hartford,” I remind him. “And even you wouldn’t recognize the counterfeit me. Just go back to the station. Put our tape somewhere safe. See if Katie Harkins e-mails. And call Keresey. See if you can find out about that raid. Anything from the fire department PR guy?”
“No answer on his line. The emergency line says they’ll page him. It’s Sunday. Nobody’s anywhere.” Franklin consults his watch. “And it’s time to go. Look, we can talk about this more on the flight. And remember. Just-call-me-Sally is nowhere to be found, last we heard. We don’t want you to end up nowhere, too.”
Elsa looks back at me from the Hartford airport’s ladies’ room bathroom mirror. Of course, the plane from Boston was late. I made it here in time, but now I’m down to the wire. Moving as fast as I could, knowing I had only minutes to make my rendezvous, I slicked back my hair into a high ponytail. Took out my contacts and put on my glasses. A whirlwind visit to a couple of airport shops provided everything else I needed. Some dangly “what did you bring me” earrings and a pink Red Sox cap courtesy of Airport Gifts. From the Minit-Manicures “Retro-Metro” collection, I grabbed a tube of “Purple Rain Pink” lipstick and BeeGees Blue eye shadow. Luckily for my insta-disguise, I already had on plain black slacks and a Levi jacket.
Franklin gave in on my plan, of course, finally forced to agree this was too good an opportunity to pass up. I had reminded him I’d be in the most public of places. What’s more secure than an airport? Even he couldn’t argue with that.
I check my image again. Goodbye, Charlie. I check my watch. Hello, someone Elsa.
Across the way, I spot a bank of escalators, red arrows above them pointing to ground transportation, rental cars, USO and Baggage Claim C and D. I know my suitcase from Boston will soon be in Claim Area A. A green arrow indicates that’s down the opposite bank of escalators.
Decision. Which way to go? With a wince and a quick prayer to the airport gods, I realize there’s not enough time to retrieve my bag and make it back for my rendezvous. I’ll have to abandon my suitcase until I’m finished.
From my perch at the top of the steep escalator, I scan the area below as I ride down, using the time to get my bearings. A bank of flickering televisions is mounted on the wall, one showing CNN, another the local news, another the weather. Only a few other people are in this part of the airport, lugging bags and clutching water bottles. No one at all is on the escalator going up.
I mentally run through my instructions. I’m carrying a bright red I Heart Hartford tote bag, also from the airport gift shop. Tucked inside, but visibly poking out the unzipped top is a copy of the latest Elle magazine. It’s just seven o’clock, right on time. I know what I’m supposed to do.
At the baggage carousel marked D, only a few straggling bags make their way slowly around the segmented black conveyor belt. They look ignored, like the last of the kids waiting to be chosen for a team. No passengers are waiting to pick them up.
Strips of rubber baffles cover the openings at the beginning and end of the belt. They flap and flutter as the conveyor moves in a sinuous elongated S-shape across the room. I walk to the end of the line, where the belt disappears though more strips of rubber and continues back outside. I’m in the designated place. I wait. I’m alone.
“I can see you.” The disembodied voice comes from through the rubber baffles. Someone is outside, behind the wall, in the baggage distribution area. Which is supposed to be off-limits to everyone but airline and airport employees. And TSA.
“Should I be seeing you?” I lean in closer to the voice. Squinting my eyes, trying to catch a glimpse through the black flaps and into the darkness beyond. “Should I come through to where you are? How?”
“Stand back,” the voice says. A man. “No more questions.”