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LAYNIE HAD NO DIFFICULTY arriving at the American Airlines ticket counter by 5:20 a.m. She hadn’t slept all night.
Instead, she had watched the clock tick through the hours without closing her eyes and had gotten out of bed at 3:30. She stood in the shower for a long time, did her hair and makeup, dressed, packed, checked and rechecked her papers, and counted her money—kronor, pounds, and dollars. It was a tidy sum, but . . .
Not nearly enough ready cash in the right currency, she realized. I’ll need more American money the moment I hit New York.
She would have liked to hit a currency exchange at the airport, changing all her money for American dollars before she left London, but the airport exchanges would not open before her early flight departed.
She took the hotel shuttle to the airport, used her French ID to pass through passport control, found her airline, and paid for her ticket.
Since she was an hour early for her flight, Laynie scouted out a shadowed table at the back of a coffee shop that afforded her a view of her gate. While she sipped on a steaming cup of coffee, she watched for Marstead or Russian agents until her flight was called.
Even when passengers began to board, she did not abandon her cover. She waited for the majority of her flight’s passengers to queue up at the gate. She scrutinized each one before they marched onto the boarding bridge. She watched for suspicious or telltale body language.
Laynie had picked up a brochure on the plane’s design and familiarized herself with the details, including seat configuration. The relatively new Boeing 767-400ER had a crew complement of ten—two in the cockpit and eight flight attendants in the cabins—and passenger seating for two hundred and one. Laynie did not relish being crammed into economy class for the simple reason that she required room to maneuver and the ability to deplane quickly, should she need either or both.
The last passengers in line were entering the boarding bridge and the gate would close soon. Grabbing her carry-on, Laynie made for the gate’s nearby ticket counter and presented her ticket.
“Say, I’m booked on Flight 6177. Do you have any open seats in business class? I’m hoping to upgrade.”
“It’s a little late, but let me check.” The agent clicked her way through the system, then nodded to herself.
“You’re in luck. We have one open seat in business class, 8D. It’s in the last row.”
Laynie recalled the layout of the business class cabin—eight rows, five seats across each row. The configuration was two seats, an aisle, one seat, an aisle, the last two seats. The seats were designated ABDKL.
“Isn’t D a single seat?”
“Yes, in the center with aisles on both sides.” She tapped her keyboard again. “The upgrade will cost you £257.”
The cost would be a hit to her cash reserves, but . . . No one immediately behind me except the flight crew. Two aisles open for a quick exit.
“I’ll take it.” Laynie dug in her handbag and withdrew her pocketbook. She counted out all of her British currency, five £50 banknotes. “Shoot. I only have dollars and kronor left.”
She had tossed her rubles away while in Finland, purging all connection to Russia.
“Do you have a credit card?”
Laynie sighed. “No. My husband doesn’t trust them. He insists that we pay cash for everything. Can you believe it? So inconvenient—like now.”
The agent’s brow puckered. “I sympathize. Sometimes I think men still live in the Stone Age, but . . .” She looked at Laynie, “but, I’m sorry. We accept only British currency or credit cards—I’m sure you can understand why. If we accepted other currencies, our cash drawers would be a dodgy mess. And, with the exchange rate fluctuations, we’d soon turn mental.”
Laynie chewed her lip. She wanted to avoid the appearance of desperation, but she also wanted that seat. She swallowed and took a leap.
“Well, I’d really like that upgrade, and I’m shy by just £7, soooo—” she glanced at the agent’s nametag, “so, Betty, how would you like to earn yourself a big tip?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you happen to have £7 on you? If you do, I will trade you the equivalent of £50 in Swedish kronor if you pay the balance of my ticket.”
The woman was tempted. She looked around and whispered, “We’re not supposed to, and the gate is about to close . . .”
Laynie uttered a soft, lighthearted laugh. “Come on, Betty. You’ll be ahead by £43, less the exchange fee. Bet that’s enough to buy your friends a round or two at the pub tonight, am I right?”
Betty smiled back. “I like how you think, Marta.” With another glance around, she dug into a pocket and withdrew some folded bills. “My lunch money,” she confided to Laynie as she completed the ticket sale.
While Betty was printing the ticket, Laynie did the calculations in her head. She counted out kronor to equal £50 and pushed the bills toward the agent—who handed Laynie her ticket and slid the money from the counter. Betty folded the kronor and put them in her pocket, again checking to see if a supervisor were watching.
“Have fun tonight, Betty,” Laynie murmured. She grabbed the ticket and rolled her bag toward the gate.
As she left the ticket counter, the last two men in line were walking onto the boarding bridge.
Looks like I’ll be the last to board, Laynie thought.
Then, just as she was approaching, three late arrivals converged on the gate, apologizing profusely for their tardiness. The men were clean-shaven, dark-skinned and dark-eyed, dressed like other businessmen. Since they appeared harried, Laynie stepped back to let them show their tickets.
However, realizing they had cut her off, one of the men gestured for her to go ahead of them. She nodded her thanks, showed her ticket, and moved on.
Before stepping around the bend in the jet bridge, however, she turned her head and cast a final, wide look around the waiting area behind her, scanning for danger, giving little attention to the men not far behind her . . . until one of them slid his eyes toward her. She happened to catch his surreptitious glance at the same moment. Their gazes locked—and he jerked his head away, breaking eye contact.
Laynie paused, wondering at the frisson of disquiet running down her back. She ran a quick assessment over him and found nothing remarkable to his appearance except that he wore a walking cast on his right leg and his pant leg had been cut off and inexpertly hemmed so that it fell over the top of the cast. Other than that, she observed nothing of concern, so she started down the sloped boarding bridge, anxious to get on the plane—more anxious for the flight to get off the ground.
Farther along, the boarding bridge split in two directions, funneling business class to the left, economy class to the right. Laynie went left and immediately encountered the open cabin door to business class. The two men she’d seen ahead of her a moment ago were boarding. One turned and studied her, raking her up and down with his eyes.
Yes, Britain was a melting pot of citizens, many who had emigrated from former British colonies such as British Bahamas, India, and Pakistan, and yes, cultural norms differed widely from country to country. Still . . .
How rude. I might as well be a prize heifer, the way he’s giving me the once-over, Laynie thought. Guess it takes all kinds.
She stared back, unabashed. In response, his lips curled in sardonic humor. Then he passed through the cabin door.
Laynie was next.
“Good morning,” the steward murmured.
Laynie handed her ticket to him.
“Last row, center seat,” the steward murmured. “Welcome aboard. Please get settled quickly. We are running a little behind schedule and wish to taxi as soon as the last passengers buckle up.”
When Laynie stepped into the cabin, she slowed and gave it a quick appraisal before heading down the first aisle. A partition at the front of the business class cabin. Crew jump seats and hospitality stations forward of the partition. Two restrooms at the back of the cabin—one left, one right. An aft hospitality station centered between the lavatories. Two aisles between the lavatories and hospitality station leading into economy class. Curtains across the aisles, dividing business class from economy.
Only business class passengers allowed forward of the curtains.
Good.
Gratified that she’d upgraded her ticket, she found a place for her bag in an overhead compartment, then eyed her assigned seat. It beckoned to her weary bones. The ample recliner, like all seats in business class, was anchored at an oblique angle to the cabin so that she could lay her seat all the way back into a prone position.
I’m so tired, she realized as she settled into the plush cushions. I hope I can sleep. I’ll need my wits about me when we land eight hours from now.
She looked around to take inventory of her neighboring passengers first.
Two businessmen in the seats to her left, both wearing custom-tailored suits that had probably cost more than everything Laynie owned, were discussing a meeting they needed to attend when they arrived in New York. To her right a couple, in their twenties, were also settling in.
The young man caught a flight attendant’s attention as she passed them. “Excuse me. When you have a minute, would you mind bringing us champagne?”
“We’re on our honeymoon,” the girl gushed. “Got married last night.”
The attendant echoed the girl, loud enough for most of the cabin to hear. “You’re newlyweds? Congratulations! Two champagnes coming right up.”
The girl and her new husband laughed and then kissed as a smattering of applause around them grew. Laynie smiled and joined the clapping.
“Best wishes,” she said, leaning across the aisle.
“Thank you. We’re going to stay at Niagara Falls. We’re so excited! Are you an American? Have you ever seen the falls?”
Here’s my opportunity to knock the rust off my American accent.
“Nope. ’Fraid not, but I hope you have a wonderful time.”
While she was still leaning toward them, the two men who had preceded her into the cabin took seats three rows in front of the newlyweds. Laynie half-expected to see the other group of men join them, but they did not materialize.
I was mistaken. They aren’t traveling together after all.
But she experienced a niggle of something bothersome.
What is it?
Putting the concern “in her back pocket” to think on later, Laynie gave her attention to the flight crew as they began their safety spiel. While they talked, the plane backed away from the gate and lumbered toward the runway.
Shortly after takeoff, the flight attendants served a light breakfast. Laynie was greedy for food and wolfed it down. As soon as the nourishment hit her stomach, she began to drowse.
I can relax all the way to New York, she told herself. She pushed her seat back and allowed sleep to take her.
HOURS LATER, SHE AWOKE, instantly alert. You’re on a plane, on your way to the States. One hurdle remaining before you’re safe, Laynie.
She exhaled and brought her seat up to sitting. Wiped the sleep from her face.
“You’ve been dead to the world since we finished breakfast. I’d say you slept six, seven hours solid.”
Laynie looked left.
One of the businessmen grinned at her. “You even missed ‘second breakfast.’ Never moved a muscle while they were serving.”
Laynie grinned her response. “Tolkien fan, huh? Well, I hope I didn’t snore?”
“Nah. Tell you the truth, I took a nap myself a few hours back. All this travel across time zones totally messes up my body clock.”
“I know what you mean,” Laynie murmured. She looked at her watch. “Another hour or so?”
“Sounds about right.” He added, “I’m Bryan, by the way. My associate here is Todd.”
“I’m Marta.”
The flight attendant arrived. “I’m sorry you missed the food service, Miss Forestier. Coffee?”
“Absolutely,” Laynie answered, “but first, I’d better use the restroom.”
“Behind you, right or left.”
“Thanks.”
Laynie grabbed her purse and stood to stretch the kinks out of her back. While she stretched, her eyes roamed over the cabin, searching for anything out of the ordinary—meaning anyone looking at her. She moved toward the lavatory behind her against the starboard bulkhead. A little red sign read “Occupied,” so she leaned a shoulder against the wall behind the honeymooners. Turned partway toward the cabin, she took advantage of the opportunity to again look over the business class passengers.
The newlyweds were asleep, the bride’s head pillowed on the groom’s shoulder, his head against her hair. The businessmen had their laptops out and were tapping away. Rows in front of the honeymooners, she saw one of the dark-haired men. He sat quiet and still in his seat, his companion’s seat unoccupied.
What is it about these guys?
Just then, the restroom door unlocked. Laynie pushed away from the wall as the missing dark-haired man exited the restroom. He wasn’t expecting to encounter her and startled. Then he stared into her eyes.
Laynie stared back. The intensity of his gaze raised her hackles. She even slapped a moniker on him.
What is it about you, “Abdul”? You’re really getting under my skin.
A smile played about his mouth, and she was surprised when he whispered, “I noticed you back at the gate, perhaps because you are tall for a woman and carry yourself with such confidence. Then I looked you in the face. What a bold woman you are.”
His English was thick and accented—but not British accented—not exactly. Something eastern, she thought.
Laynie cocked her head and feigned puzzlement. “Bold, am I? And is bold a bad thing?”
“In my country, we require our women to be properly demure, to keep their eyes cast down, appropriately respectful and modest. Back home, I would slap a woman who stared at me as you do.”
Laynie’s mouth curved upward. “Huh. I suppose it’s a good thing we’re not in your country.”
He shrugged. “Ah, but if we were somewhere alone right now, you and I? I would delight in showing you how we humble infidel women such as yourself.”
Laynie’s smile thinned. “Would you, now? I suppose you could try, but then I would be obliged to kick the *bleep* out of you.”
He laughed. “You believe you could do that? Truly, you are a bold woman.”
He reached his hand out to caress her bare arm. Laynie grabbed his middle fingers and wrenched them back. He jerked his hand away. His expression turned ugly. Angry.
Why, there you are. I figured the “real” you was hiding in there.
Laynie smiled again and tipped her head toward the restroom. “Let me pass.”
“By all means.” He walked toward his seat, and Laynie’s eyes followed him. Before he sat down, he glanced back. He saw her watching and smirked.
THE PLANE CARRYING Zakhar, two trusted men, and Nicor—a driver with operating experience in America and who was unknown to Linnéa Olander—arrived in New York around 3:00 a.m. The caretaker of a property on Long Island owned by the Russian delegation met them and drove them to the house. The caretaker and housekeeper had orders to provide them with accommodations—and whatever else they requested.
Zakhar’s team did not sleep. They had preparations to make. Zakhar sent Nicor and a member of his team out to find transportation, the caretaker along to guide them. When they returned, Nicor was piloting a sleek black limousine they had “liberated” from its driver—his body reposing in the limo’s trunk.
Inside the garage, the caretaker replaced the limo’s plates. In a city of a thousand taxis and limos, he assured Zakhar, the police would be on the lookout for the stolen limo’s plates, not the plates presently on the limousine—TLC plates that identified the vehicle as being duly registered with the City of New York’s Taxi and Limousine Commission.
“The police will not pull you over,” he promised Zakhar.
The team spent their remaining time studying various routes from the safe house to JFK and back, cleaning their weapons, and planning and preparing for the operation. They were interrupted by a phone call from Zakhar’s source in Paris.
“Zakhar, I have updated information for you. Marta Forestier did not board the flight from Paris to New York.”
Zakhar’s roar rang through the house. “What? You have lost her?”
“No, no. Do not be troubled, Dimitri Ilyich. We have found her. She apparently took the tunnel train from Paris to London and is booked on American Airlines Flight 6177, also due into JFK this morning at 9:55 a.m.”
Seething and only partially appeased, Zakhar thanked the man and returned the receiver to its cradle.
See? You cannot escape your fate, Linnéa Olander. I am waiting for you.
Zakhar’s team left the safe house before 8:00 a.m. Nicor, garbed in a chauffeur’s uniform the caretaker had provided, navigated the limo toward the airport.
The plan was to identify “Marta Forestier” when she deplaned and follow her to the concourse’s arrivals exit, where they anticipated she would hail a cab or a shuttle. Nicor would be parked in the concourse’s limo area and would wait inside the arrivals doors with the other limo drivers, holding a sign that read MS. FARBER.
Zakhar and his two men would keep her in sight and use two-way radios to communicate Linnéa’s position to each other. They would close on her in the crush of passengers exiting the building. Neither of Zakhar’s men were familiar to Olander and both possessed hypodermic syringes containing a fast-acting sedative. The one who got closest to her would stab the needle into her thigh or buttocks, depress the plunger, remove the hypodermic, and melt away into the crowd. Zakhar’s other man would approach her. Zakhar, himself, would not be far behind.
The moment Linnéa began to sway, they would move in to “escort” her to the waiting limo. Nicor would drive them immediately to the private tarmac where their plane awaited them.
Nicor dropped Zakhar and his two men at the American Airline’s concourse departures doors at 8:35 a.m., more than an hour before Marta Forestier’s flight was due to arrive. Zakhar and his men spread out and scouted the flight’s arrival gate, taking differing and meandering routes to reach the American Airline’s gate to avoid being seen together.
They had been in the airport around fifteen minutes when passengers began to gather at the banks of television monitors within the concourse. Zakhar saw that one of his men had stopped to watch the broadcast. The man made a surreptitious gesture toward the television.
Keeping his distance from his teammate and giving no sign of recognition, Zakhar studied the image on the screen. Smoke billowed from one of the two iconic towers of the World Trade Center.
What is this? Zakhar pushed closer.
The crowd grew in size and agitation. The usual pulsing push of passengers within the concourse ground to a nervous standstill.
As the news cameras focused on the smoking tower, a passenger plane appeared on the screen. It floated into view and glided, in seemingly slow motion, directly into the second tower.
Nothing happened—and then the tower erupted into flames.
Zakhar cursed. The crowd around him panicked.
The airport devolved into pandemonium—screaming, shouting, weeping, hysterical chaos. In their panic, passengers dropped their luggage and ran. Other passengers tripped on the abandoned baggage. A suitcase, one of its hard corners striking the floor, popped open, and its contents spilled out. In the melee, an elderly woman slipped on the clothes and fell.
Zakhar signaled his man and they pushed through the crowds to reach a wall and wait there. Zakhar used the two-way to contact Nicor.
He had to shout to be heard. “What is happening?”
“An attack,” Nicor shouted back. “The World Trade Center towers are burning! I can see them! And people are saying another plane hit the US Pentagon in Washington, D.C. Who is doing this, Zakhar?”
“How would I know? I don’t know any more than you do.”
“Well, what are your orders?”
“My orders?” Zakhar stared around at the chaos. “We wait for our target’s plane to land. It must land somewhere, no? They cannot return to London.”
He and his men gathered within eyeshot of each other, waiting and watching, while the concourse fell further into bedlam. From across the way, Zakhar kept his eyes glued on the televisions. The fire within the towers, fed by jet fuel, roared higher, and dense black smoke roiled up the sides of the towering buildings like a living thing.
The buildings cannot survive this, can they? Zakhar thought. The fires burn too hot.
The PA system blared that the airport was closed, shut down until further notice. Passengers rushed the exits to fight over taxis, but Zakhar continued to watch the monitors. He, like many around him, could not look away.
He and his men remained watching until the South Tower collapsed in on itself. The newscasters watching and commentating did not recognize what had happened. Even when reporters on scene repeated several times, “The South Tower has collapsed. The South Tower has collapsed,” the commentators could not grasp their words.
“What are we looking at? You’re saying the South Tower, the side of it has collapsed?”
“No, the entire building has collapsed!”
Zakhar understood what he’d seen before the newscasters did.
Then he saw the leader text crawling across the bottom of the screen.
INTL FIGHTS TO D.C., NYC
DIVERTED TO CANADA
Canada? Canada! What demons had moved against him? What evil forces had aligned to impede him in this way?
Snarling his rage and frustration, he gestured to his men. They pushed through the remaining crowd and exited the concourse. Nicor saw them from where the limo was parked. He honked his horn and waved his sign.
When they reached him, it was obvious that their driver was shaken. His cheek dribbled blood from a cut near his temple. “I had to lock myself inside. The mob! They tried to take the car from me! It was all I could do to get inside and lock the doors. I feared they would break the windows and pull me out, but the police came.”
Zakhar turned his face toward the western skyline. The smoke and ash from the fallen tower and from the fires in nearby and adjacent buildings billowed upward in gray-white plumes. And then he saw it . . . the second tower slowly dropping from view, folding in on itself.
A wail of grief arose around him, but all Zakhar could think was that he would have to call Petroff and deliver the unwelcome news.
“Hand me the sat phone,” he demanded.
Nicor placed the heavy, block-like device in Zakhar’s hand, and Zakhar keyed in Petroff’s number. When Petroff answered, Zakhar had to shout to be heard over the crowd and the cars.
“Vassili Aleksandrovich, have you seen the news? Yes, both towers. The second has just collapsed—everything around us is in an uproar. It must be a terrorist action, da?”
He cupped his hand around the mouthpiece to block out the noise on his end so he could hear Petroff’s answer and instructions.
He answered back, “Nyet, Vassili Aleksandrovich, we cannot stay where we are. I am sorry to tell you that the authorities have closed the airport. All the inbound flights have been diverted to Canada.”
He listened to Petroff’s screamed invectives until the man took a breath. Zakhar was quick to inject a reply. “We will find out where they have sent her plane and follow her there, Vassili Aleksandrovich. Do not worry. I will not fail you.”
He hung up and slid into the rear seat. “Get us out of here.” When Nicor did not respond fast enough, Zakhar cursed him. “Drive, I said, you fool! Take me back to the house.”
He saw nothing on the drive but Linnéa Olander’s face before him. Laughing.
LAYNIE SCANNED THE cabin once more, wondering if anyone had noticed the brief exchange between her and Abdul. She didn’t think so. The passengers in business class were either dozing or occupied with their own interests. They were all facing forward in their seats.
Everyone except one man.
Near the front of the cabin. Second row, aisle seat, left side. He was sitting forward, turned toward the rear of the cabin, watching her—and not making much effort to hide his scrutiny.
Laynie’s eyes passed over him without stopping, swept right, paused, then swept left, again passing over him as though he had not caught her attention.
But she had done her assessment of the watcher. “Seasoned” Caucasian, likely in his mid-forties, dark brown hair, shot with gray, cut short. And a big—no, large—physique. He filled out his seat plus some. Even without seeing him stand, she estimated the guy was around six foot four, two hundred forty pounds or more.
He was still staring at her and making no attempt to hide the fact.
Laynie recognized another professional when she saw one—and this one had fixated on her.
Marstead? More than likely.
If he had IDed her as Linnéa Olander, he would use an Airfone as soon as the flight was in range of land. Additional Marstead agents would be waiting for her in New York.
She pushed into the lavatory and locked the folding door behind her, falling against it as though to barricade herself within.
Trembling all over.
“Herre Gud, hjälp mig!” Oh, dear God, help me!
The words, uttered in Swedish, fell from her lips without forethought. Behind the fear and chaos running rampant in her head—in a little corner of her mind far from her present worries—she marveled. God help me? God? Where did that come from?
She set her purse on the lip of the diminutive sink, ripped open the Velcro seam to the padded enclosure, and pulled out the HK. She stared at the gleaming blue metal barrel shaking in her hand and played out the limited scenarios open to her.
Meanwhile, a battle of logic warred in her mind.
If I shoot while we’re in the air, I chance taking down this plane and killing all these people.
No, not if the round only penetrates the airplane’s skin and misses any vital wiring. The plane’s pressurization system will compensate for the leak. And it’s only a .380. Doesn’t have the punch of a .38 Special or the stopping power of a .45.
It was lethal enough to kill Mahatma Gandhi.
Yeah, well, his assassin shot him three times in the chest, point-blank range.
Okay, but don’t shoot out any windows. That would be a problem.
No kidding.
She envisioned instant cabin depressurization, a sucking hole where the window had been, pulling every loose item in the cabin out into the void beyond.
She drew a shuddering breath. Get yourself together, Laynie.
Her bladder urged her to use the facilities, so she did, tucking the HK into her bra. I’ll keep it handy, she told herself. Maintain my options.
When she had finished her business and washed her hands, she rummaged through her purse, looking for anything else that might give her an edge. An advantage.
When her fingers touched the metal nail file, she grabbed it out of her purse, and pulled it from its leather sheath. It had no slicing edge, but it had a pointed tip, and the blade wasn’t as flimsy as some nail files.
Good for one thrust—in close quarters.
Laynie needed to keep the file handy. She poked the nail file’s pointed tip through the gathers of her blouse’s bodice. She then reached under her blouse, found the file’s point, and poked it back through the fabric, securing it.
“Okay, easy to reach,” she told herself. For a long moment, she stood with her head down, gathering her courage. Then she picked up her handbag, unlocked the bifold door, and pulled it toward her.
A slab of a hand drove her back into the lavatory. The man from Row 2, the one who’d been staring at her, squeezed himself inside the tiny stall. He shoved Laynie hard and shut the folding door behind him—no mean feat given the confined space. He’d pushed her back so unexpectedly that she’d been forced to sit on the toilet while he towered over her, his microwave-sized chest in her face.
“We need to talk.”
