Fuck. How was he supposed to get into the airport bar behind the main gate? Only ticketed passengers were allowed through. Once you left, you weren’t allowed back in without another ticket.
His return ticket was back in his luggage, in the hotel room. Theresa had ordered them through a discount travel Web site; they’d been printed and mailed to his new apartment. It was the only small spark of kindness he’d seen in her in months. Since everything slipped off the rails. Since she’d hired Donovan fucking Piatt. Friend of Theresa’s mother. They went way back.
Fat lot of good the return ticket was doing him now. How was he going to get into the airport?
“Okay. That’s twenty-six-twenty-five. Flat rate.”
He reached for his wallet, pulled out a twenty, a five, and two ones. He held them through the gap in the Plexiglas partition.
“Oh,” the driver said, looking at the bills.
What did the guy want? A five? There probably should be a law: guy going through a divorce, no need to pay tips. Not in a cab, restaurant, or strip club. If a man’s about to be bled dry, cut him a break on the loose change. One brother to another.
Jack walked into the arrivals terminal. To buy a ticket, he needed to be in departures. There had to be another way. Jack checked his watch. Two till midnight. It had been over two hours since he’d left her at the bar. Chances were, she’d gotten lucky with some other poor idiot.
Wait a second.
Jack approached the Continental customer service kiosk. “Hi. I need to page someone.”
“Sorry, we don’t do that. If you’d like to contact a representative of the airport’s security—”
“It’s really important.”
“We really don’t do that.”
Jack knew there was probably some clever way of convincing this agent—a modelish-looking guy with the name tag BRYON— that it was of utmost importance that this person be paged. That, in fact, it was a matter of national security, or something. Happened in movies all the time. But Jack couldn’t think of anything clever. He was feeling that knot in his stomach again, and his head pounded. His skin felt hot. He was out of charm. Out of goodwill.
Jack walked away, heading in the general direction of baggage claim. Farther up were the rest rooms. He was sure he’d be needing the men’s room again in … oh, six minutes. Then beyond that, the taxi stand. He should hit an ATM machine, take out another forty dollars, catch a ride back to the hotel. Warn the driver in advance: Halfway through this trip, I’ll probably have to lean out of the cab and puke blood. And then return to the room and call Theresa and tell her what had happened and maybe—
“See! There he is! Jack!”
It was a girl’s voice. His girl from the bar.
The blonde.
Jack turned around. She was standing there with a paunchy middle-aged guy who had a black MEMBERS ONLY jacket draped around one shoulder. A green backpack was slung over the other.
The blonde ran up to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. She whispered, “Go along with this or you’ll die.”
Members Only stuck his hand out. “Damn pleased to meet you, Jack. Your sister Kelly is quite a character.”
Kelly—was that really her name?—kept her arms locked around Jack.
“Name’s Ed Hunter. I do tax law. Kelly tells me you’re a newspaperman.”
Kelly pressed her cool palm to his forehead. “You feel hot, baby.”
“I am,” he said in reply to both. He was both feverish and a newspaperman. But how did his blonde—Kelly—know that? He’d said nothing in the bar that would have tipped her off. He’d been careful. Tell someone you’re a journalist in a bar, and then everybody and their grandmother has a story idea. No thanks.
“So you guys ready to enjoy the best martinis you’ve ever had in your life?” Ed asked, draping an arm around Kelly.
“Ed wants to take us to a place called Rouge,” the blonde explained.
“That’s French for red. Owner went bankrupt, lost his entire restaurant empire, but he’s kept this one open. Best martinis you’ll ever have.”
“You look like you could use a drink, Jack,” she said.
“Sure.” He was too stunned to say much else. The trio—thank God, not wrapped up in a bear hug anymore—walked out the sliding doors to the cabstand. Kelly kept her hand on his arm, as if she was afraid he’d slip away. No chance of that. Not until he received his antidote.
If there was an antidote.
If there was a poison.
Ed led the way.
“This one’s on me. Besides, it’s a flat rate. Twenty-six-twenty-five takes you from the airport to anywhere in Center City. That’s what we call our downtown, by the way.”
Again with the flat rate. What, was it printed on the side of the Liberty Bell? Happen to be traveling by cab to the airport? Well, friend, Philadelphia has a helluva a deal for you.
Kelly opened the back door before the driver even had a chance to pop out of his seat. “You first, Jack. Slide over.”
Jack did as he was told. Sliding over to the opposite door wasn’t a problem, either. The knot was tightening, and if he was going to throw up again, he wanted to do it in the privacy of the opposite side of the cab. Kelly might have poisoned him, but Jack was still too proud to vomit blood on her. And there was Ed to consider.
Through the open door, Jack saw Kelly pivot to face Ed. What was going on? He ducked his head to look out the window.
Oh.
Oh Christ, they were French-kissing.
That’s French for red.
It went on for a while. He could hear an audible slurp now and again. The driver looked at Jack, who could only shrug his shoulders. Hey, search me, buddy, he wanted to say. Guess my sister’s a ho.
The knot in his stomach tightened.
11:13 p.m.
Philadelphia International Airport
Good thing Philly International was a one taxi stand kind of joint; Kowalski didn’t have to bounce around a bunch of them. There were only two options: Kelly White was here or she’d left. The bartender in the Terminal C bar remembered a girl fitting her description leaving around 11:30. She left with a man, middle-aged, in a black jacket. Bartender assumed he’d picked her up. “They were real clingy,” she said. Chances were, they were still around.
Okay, so two likely options. They’re somewhere else in the terminal, or they’re going to catch a cab. Headed somewhere else to get friendly.
Once Kowalski checked the terminal a few times to his satisfaction, he decided to flush them out.
He approached a Continental manager, flashed a card identifying himself as an agent of Homeland Security—which was sorta true, only not official. Kowalski’s organization, CI-6, was buried in a blur of funding, obscured by a purposefully murky organizational chart. Even Kowalski didn’t know whom his boss reported to, if anybody. For all he knew, his boss ran the world.
But the card looked legit enough. Even had the new embossed foil with the holographic flying eagles.
One minute later, Kowalski heard the page he’d requested:
Passenger Kelly White, please report to the Continental customer service kiosk. Passenger Kelly White, report to the Continental customer service kiosk.
No way White would go to the kiosk. If she did, the manager was prepared to detain her and page Kowalski. Most likely, she’d shoot for the exits. One set of sliding doors led to the taxi stand. The other led onto the long-term parking lot. Since White wasn’t from Philly and, according to his handler, had only landed recently, a car seemed unlikely. The cab was going to be it.