The taxi dropped him off by the Air France entrance. He proceeded through the revolving doors and stared at the long ticket counter across the wide hall. Cameron counted eight check-in stations, each handling a line of passengers. Each station had two clerks. He smiled when he found what he was looking for: a single customs agent nearly running from station to station stamping passports. Although he knew the fake passport was a work of art, it didn’t have a stamp showing when and where he had entered the country. He had traveled into France using his standard Diplomatic passport, which he’d left at the embassy.
Keeping his head low, he approached the shortest of the eight lines. A middle-aged couple with two young daughters stood in front of him. They were Americans. The mother played with the girls while the father pushed a load of suitcases forward.
Both clerks serving his line became available at once. The family headed for one. Cameron for the other.
“Bon soir, monsieur,” a man well into his fifties said from behind the counter.
“English?”
“Of course, monsieur.”
“Blair, Steve Blair.”
“How may I help you, Monsieur Blair?”
“I need to get back to the States as soon as possible. When is the next available flight?”
“To what destination, monsieur?”
“Washington, D.C.”
The clerk punched several commands on the keyboard, waited a few moments, and punched a few more. He looked at Cameron.
“Were you planning on leaving today, Monsieur Blair?”
“Yep. The sooner the better.”
“Well, I’m afraid that might not be possible. All of our flights out of the country are booked for the next five days. It’s the end of the tourist season, monsieur. Everyone wants to go home.” The clerk pointed to the crowd lined up in front of the ticket counter. “Most of these people made reservations months in advance.”
“Are you absolutely certain of that? It’s very important that I leave today. There must be some flight available.”
“Perhaps with another airline, monsieur, but not with Air France.”
Cameron reached for his wallet, pulled out three one-hundred-dollar bills, folded them twice, placed them on the counter, and put his hand over them. “Hmmm… that’s strange. I could have sworn there was at least one first-class seat available on the next flight. I even remember it being a non-stop flight.” He slid his hand over the counter toward the clerk, who looked in every direction and quickly placed his hand over the table.
Cameron kept his hand on the money. The clerk gave him a puzzled look. “Well, is there such a seat available?”
The clerk inhaled, his eyes trained on Cameron’s hand. “Why don’t I check one more time, monsieur.”
“Yeah, why don’t you?”
The clerk typed more commands and paused several times for the next couple of minutes. He shifted his gaze away from the keyboard and looked at Cameron again.
“It appears that you’re in luck, Monsieur Blair. There just happened to be a last-minute cancellation on Flight 1143 leaving forty minutes from now. You can still make it if you hurry. It’s not direct, though. You will have to change planes at JFK International. Is this acceptable?” His eyes briefly looked at Cameron’s hand once more.
Cameron smiled. “Of course that will be all right. I appreciate your patience.” He lifted his hand off the counter. The clerk quickly slid his over, pulled the money toward him, and continued working on the keyboard. Cameron eyed the family to the right as the father placed two large suitcases on the scale between the counters. He noticed the small tray on the counter with their passports, and also saw the customs agent hastily walking toward them.
Cameron pulled out his passport and quickly flashed the first page to the clerk, who briefly checked the photo, nodded, and pointed to the tray. Cameron tossed it in a few seconds before the customs agent, a short, heavy man with greasy black hair, arrived and grabbed the tray. Cameron could hear the fat man breathing heavily as he quickly checked photos and expiration dates before stamping all five documents in quick succession, throwing them back on the tray and racing as fast as his short legs could carry him for the next station.
Cameron slowly exhaled as he snagged his passport off the tray.
The clerk addressed him. “You’re confirmed for Flight 1143, leaving Paris at 6:40 P.M. and arriving in New York at 9:00 P.M. local time. There the flight changes to 477 leaving New York at 10:30 P.M. and arriving in Washington at 11:46 P.M. The fare for a one-way, first-class ticket will be three thousand one hundred eight dollars, including local taxes.”
Cameron pulled out a stash of bills, counted out the appropriate amount, and handed it to the clerk.
“Merci, monsieur. Your gate number is 22A in the international section. You have exactly forty-one minutes. Do you have any luggage?” He passed the ticket to Cameron.
“And, no. Thanks for your help.” He grabbed the ticket, walked away from the counter, and headed for his gate. As he approached the line for the security checkpoint, Cameron spotted two intense-looking young men staring at him by the TWA counter. The men began to walk toward Cameron. He recognized them as the two rookie operatives who were with Marie at the hospital. Both reached into their dark-gray trench coats.
Instinctively, Cameron began to walk the other way. The CIA men picked up their pace. Cameron did the same to keep them from closing the fifty-foot gap. He walked as fast as he could without calling attention to himself; just another traveler trying to catch a plane at the last minute. Cameron glanced backward. Their hands remained inside their coats.
Forty feet. The men were getting closer. Cameron needed a diversion. Something that would give him enough time to lose them and reach his gate. He checked his watch. He had to hurry. He saw a pair of doors leading to the covered parking garage.
Cameron cut right and disappeared through the doors, instantly breaking into a run for several seconds before crawling underneath a blue sedan.
Just as he’d expected, the double doors swung open and Cameron heard their footsteps getting closer.
“Where the hell did he go?” one voice said.
“Dammit. He’s gotta be here somewhere,” the other responded.
Cameron pushed himself over the oil-stained concrete floor toward the front of the sedan to get a better view of his attackers. He peeked from underneath the front bumper and saw one of them clutching a semiautomatic with a silencer attached to the muzzle. That alone told Cameron plenty about their intentions. Field operatives seldom carried bulky silenced weapons unless they were working on a termination order.
But there was no time for those thoughts now. Where is the second man? he asked himself as he continued to stare at the first man near the double doors. Cameron looked at his watch. Time was running out. He had to act quickly or risk missing his flight.
The first CIA operative began to walk down the twenty-foot-wide aisle between two rows of cars running the length of the garage. Cameron noticed the operative checking in between the cars and also… underneath!
Then he heard a second set of footsteps behind him, and Cameron understood their tactic. One operative was checking the front of the cars while the second checked the rear. They were going to sandwich him!