“I’m thinking,” I typed. “Don’t bother me.” It’s amazing how e-mail as a communication medium removes the rules that make us generally civil to one another. I was trying to think of a way to make sure that if I gave him anything, I got what I needed, too. I wanted to be interesting but not informative. I pulled out my notepad and paged through it. I finally went with the obvious.
“The man in the video is a Ukrainian mobster. I’m trying to keep the video out of the wrong hands. It’s a good story for a reporter. Will be in Paris within the next 24 hours. Would like to meet.” I hit enter. Another long delay. I didn’t know how to interpret the silence. Was he thinking, or had he left the building? I got tired of waiting.
“You have my contact info,” I typed. “Let me know when and if you want to talk.”
I reached down and was about to turn off the computer when his response came back.
“i’m an investigative journalist, not a reporter…are you working with blackthorne?”
Blackthorne? My pulse rate jumped. “Working independently, but have information on Blackthorne.”
The answer came fast. “what information?”
My heart sped up to about two beats for every blink of the cursor. “Will trade for video.”
I waited. This was it. Finally, his answer came. “will meet you in paris”
I used a self-serve kiosk at the Majestic Airlines counter to check in. The security line moved quickly because the Paris flight was the last of the evening. After clearing the checkpoint, I went straight for the gate where the LA trip was boarding. The second the agent opened the door, I handed over my boarding pass, rolled down the bridge, onto the aircraft, and all the way to the aft galley. Dan was waiting with a ramper’s hat and jacket.
“See anybody?”
“No,” I said, slipping the gear on over my jeans. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not back there.”
“Who?”
“Russians…paramilitary storm troopers…FBI.”
“Since when did you get so paranoid?”
“Since this case.” I put on my ramper’s hat. “How do I look?”
“Like I should be reaming your ass for dogging it. Get out of here.”
The cabin services crew was just finishing. I joined in and went down the aft stairs. I walked across the ramp to the Paris-bound B767 and climbed the outside jet-bridge stairs. Using Dan’s key, I unlocked the door and went inside.
Passengers were already boarding, so I stood to the side and waited. Dan arrived moments later, strolling down the jetway with my bag. He traded it for the hat, the coat, and the boarding pass to LA.
“Here.” He put a ticket jacket in my hand. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
Inside, I found a first-class boarding pass to Orly. He had already waived the sixty-day advance purchase requirement on my ticket. I was flying to Paris in style, or at least as much style as airlines provided these days, for the grand total of three hundred dollars. That was damn good news.
“Wow. I didn’t expect this.”
“You don’t deserve it, either. I just didn’t want to hear you bitch and moan.” He turned to help a stooped woman with long gray hair who had caught her rolling bag on the lip of the aircraft door. “Here you go, ma’am. Have a nice flight.”
She thanked him, and so did I.
“Remember the story,” he said. “I don’t want you embarrassing me with my contacts over there.”
“I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”
Dan had told a tiny white lie to get me onto the very tightly controlled guest list for the hostage reunion. I was enhancing the customer-care section of Majestic’s disaster manual, the one that gets pulled out when you have to turn your maintenance hangar into a morgue or make arrangements for your hijacked passengers, or their bodies, to get home. I was to interview passengers about how they had been treated in the wake of the flight 809 hijacking to find out what had worked and what hadn’t, what they had needed and not gotten.
“What do you think you’ll find over there, anyway?”
“Someone who can tell me they’ve seen or heard from Roger lately, or his alter ego, Gilbert Bernays.”
“That reminds me.” He pulled some folded pages from the pocket of his suit jacket. “Take this with you.”
“What is it?”
“It’s the 809 manifest and as much updated contact information as I could find. I was going to throw it away, but I thought you might need it.”
Like Felix, Dan had a way of coming through with all the things I didn’t even know I needed. I gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for the first-class seat.”
“Get your ass onboard. I’m not taking a delay for you.”
19
IF YOU DIDN’T KNOW OTHERWISE, YOU WOULD NEVER guess the people talking and laughing at the Paris Hyatt were former hostages gathered to commemorate their hijacking. Considering the outcome, perhaps gathered to celebrate the fact that they were there at all. Nine of them, plus eight hijackers, hadn’t come back.
I took a few minutes at the door to review the scene. Straight in from the airport, I’d taken time to shower in my room and change my clothes. Then I’d ordered a room-service breakfast and eaten, so I was feeling all right. I’d put some heavy-duty concealer over the cut on my forehead, pulled my bangs down as camouflage, and come down early to the ballroom.
The room was just beginning to fill. People gathered around twelve round tables with white tablecloths set for brunch. Each table had a bright bouquet of spring flowers as a centerpiece, which struck me as optimistic, given the cold and damp early-spring weather outside.
As people filtered in, I spotted the one man who looked to be in charge. I got close enough to read his name tag. He was the contact Dan had set up for me.
“Dr. Wilson.” I offered my hand. “I’m Alex Shanahan from Majestic Airlines.”
“Oh, indeed. You’re the researcher from Boston. We had a call that you were coming. Welcome.”
There wasn’t much on Dr. Wilson’s tall frame except his suit, and his voice was almost as wispy as he was, but there was substance in his eyes. He seemed to be someone you could count on.
“Thank you,” I said. “I feel privileged to be here. I know you don’t let a lot of people in.”
He shifted his drink from one hand to the other and put the free hand in his pocket. It allowed him to lower his head without appearing to be whispering. “This is a smart thing your airline is doing. Salanna did a very poor job in the area of customer support. We were scattered all across Africa with no money, no passports, and only the clothes on our backs. Everything was taken from us. We had no cell phones and very little information. You never realize how important your identity is in this world until you stand without it in a hostile country.”
When I hadn’t been sleeping on the flight over, I had been studying the information I had on the passengers, trying to match names on the manifest to stories in the various articles. I knew Dr. Wilson had diabetes. He had been let off the plane early with a group of women and children. His being from Portugal and considering how the ordeal ended, his disease might have saved his life. “You were one of the hostages?”
“We prefer to be called survivors.” He gestured to his name tag. It said it right there: “Survivor.” Mine said “Guest.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”
“Not at all. How would you like to approach this? Shall I introduce you to some of our group?”
“I know this seems xenophobic,” I said, “but would it be possible for me to start with the Americans, since Majestic is a predominantly domestic carrier? Domestic to us, anyway.” I pulled out a picture of Roger and showed him. “How about this man? I’ve been told that he would be a good one to start with. You know, lots of complaints to air.”
“Ah, Mr. Fratello.”
“Yes, Mr.-” Wait, he wasn’t supposed to know that name. “What did you call him?”