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LAYNIE LEANED AGAINST the door to the cockpit and considered the pile of bodies stacked by the fore bulkhead. She was waiting to view whatever the steward collected from the pockets of the hijackers. As the steward finished with one body, he used a marker to draw a number on its forehead, wrote the same number on the plastic bag where he was putting whatever he pulled from their pockets, as she requested, keeping the evidence separate.
It wasn’t much, all total. Five passports—two Saudi, one Yemeni, two Syrian—wads of cash, two European driver’s licenses, and a folded piece of paper. The paper came from Abdul’s pocket.
Laynie waited until the steward and another attendant covered the bodies with blankets, before she checked on Tobin. The doctor had gotten the bleeding under control, but Tobin was trussed up like a Sunday chicken, his pasty-white complexion as appetizing as cold, day-old, cooked pasta.
He was obviously weak. At least he was lucid. “You did good, Marta.”
“You, too, Marshal, but I wish they’d get this boat on the ground. You need a doctor.”
Tobin pointed his chin to the ob-gyn who had patched up his shoulder. She was sitting in a flight attendant’s jump seat, just inside the crew space. Close enough to tend to Tobin if he needed her.
“I have a doc. She’s a baby doc, so pretty soon we’ll find out if I’m having a boy or a girl.”
Laynie laughed. The effort wore her out.
So tired!
“I’m waiting for that gander of you in your tutu.”
“In your dreams. What’d you get from the hijackers’ pockets?”
“Nothing remarkable except for this.” Laynie unfolded the paper. It was a three-panel section clipped from a folding map—what looked to have been one of those colorful, detailed tourist maps of Manhattan Island. Two locations were circled in pencil, the number 1 was written to the side of one circle, the number 2 beside the second. The map’s details were crowded with tourist sites represented by icons or 2D buildings. She held the paper closer and squinted to decipher the icons.
Mount Sinai Beth Israel Hospital (1)
Empire State Building (2)
“Hey, Tobin?”
“Yeah.”
“Remember the note I passed you? Take a look at this.”
Took him a minute to see what she’d seen, to understand what it meant.
“A hospital! They were going to fly us into a hospital?”
“A Jewish hospital. Alternate target? Empire State Building, say, if they came in too high and overshot the hospital.”
“Thank God we stopped them.”
“Stopped this one.”
They exchanged looks. He lowered his voice.
“How many, you think?”
“Two planes hit the World Trade Center, both towers. Heard something about the Pentagon, too. Could be others. Dunno.”
“Dear Jesus!”
Laynie knew Tobin wasn’t swearing. “Yeah, it’s bad, but . . . not as bad as it might have been.”
“I couldn’t have stopped them without you.”
“I . . .” She shrugged.
“Whatever you say, Marta. But I know this—God himself put you on this plane.”
She tried to smile, but only one side of her mouth worked. Tears, real tears, sprang to her eyes.
I was supposed to have flown from Paris to New York, but then . . . Oh, Kari! How did your God know to intervene? How did he manage to put me on this plane, on this day?
Swiping away the moisture before it overcame her, Laynie nodded, gently touched Tobin’s shoulder, and staggered back to her seat. She was in a stupor as she stumbled down the aisle, hardly noticing how people stared. Stared at her and at the blood on her blouse. At the gun she still gripped in her hand.
They dipped their heads, nodding silent appreciation, some whispering, “Thank you.”
Laynie saw nothing, heard nothing.
When she collapsed into her seat, a flight attendant appeared, her cheeks streaked with smears of mascara. “Marshal? Marshal Forestier? We think you need to eat, Marshal. You . . . you’ve been under a lot of stress and haven’t eaten since you first came aboard.”
Food?
Laynie blinked back the haze. “That would be nice. Thank you.”
Another attendant joined the first. “And . . . if you’ll allow me?”
She pulled Laynie’s tray table down, set a plate of steaming washcloths on it, and started sponging Laynie’s left hand.
Sponging the blood from her hand.
Laynie remembered the gun in her other hand and slid the HK between her hip and the seat. She surrendered to the attendant’s ministrations.
Bryan and Todd watched, waiting for a chance to speak. They restrained themselves until the flight attendant gathered up the soiled cloths. Then Bryan pounced.
“You know what happened, don’t you? Can you tell us?”
Laynie blew out a breath. “You couldn’t hear the man in the next cabin? He said he managed to get through to his daughter who lives in Midtown. Two planes hit the Trade Center towers, like fifteen minutes apart. We don’t know much more than that.”
Todd gaped. “Both towers? But that . . . that can’t be an accident, can it?”
“No, it can’t.”
Brian’s eyes widened. “W-what about the people in the towers? I mean, when I called Grace, I could hear people shouting. Screaming. Was anyone hurt? Did they evacuate everyone?”
“Honestly, Bryan, I have no idea, but I’m pretty sure that’s why we’re parked at ten thousand feet, out to sea and not over land, circling and waiting. Every plane inbound for New York is probably doing the same.”
She didn’t say what she was thinking. Honestly, Bryan, if a passenger jet crashes into anything, of course people die. Obviously! We just don’t know how many. Yet.
The flight attendant returned with a sandwich and a hot cup of coffee.
Laynie drank down the whole cup at one go, scalding her tongue. Nothing had ever tasted so good.
“Another?”
“Right away.”
Laynie picked at the sandwich, then took a tentative bite, in spite of Bryan and Todd ogling her like it was feeding time at the zoo. She reached for the second half of the sandwich and stared at her plate, bewildered. It was bare.
“You ate it, the whole thing,” Todd assured her, “but I can’t say you chewed.”
The attendant placed another cup of coffee on her tray. “Let me know if you want something stiffer, ’k? Captain Sheffield says you and Marshal Tobin get anything you want—with his compliments.” She lowered her voice. “He would be out here thanking you personally for saving our plane, but he and the copilot have locked themselves in the cockpit. As a precaution.”
Laynie imagined ice-cold vodka sliding down her throat, burning into her stomach, melting away the tension in her shoulders and the awful images of three dead men—men she had killed.
Then her survival instincts kicked in. I’m exhausted. Trashed. Alcohol will knock me out. I can’t let down my guard or do anything to compromise my wits. I have to be ready to run the moment they put wheels on the runway.
“Just coffee, thanks.”
THEIR FLIGHT CONTINUED in a holding pattern another few minutes before the captain came over the PA system to break the news Laynie had been expecting. She glanced at her watch. Just past 9:30 a.m.
So much has happened in such a short time . . .
It felt like hours had passed.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please give me your undivided attention.”
The passengers had not heard from Captain Sheffield since prior to the attempted hijacking. At his request, the plane settled into a near-tomblike silence.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have several important announcements, so please remain quiet as I cover each one.” He spoke slowly, articulating each word. “First, we have received word that at approximately 9:25 a.m. this morning, the FAA, by order of the Department of Transportation, has closed US airspace to all civilian flights until further notice.”
He paused to let the information sink in before continuing. “What this means is that, until further notice, the US has been designated a no-fly zone for all air traffic except authorized military aircraft. It means that we will not be landing at JFK.”
Anticipating a tide of reactions from the passengers, the captain raised his voice to compensate.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I must ask you to contain yourself until I have finished. My second announcement is that the Air Traffic Control System Command Center out of Washington Dulles has directed us, this flight, to continue in our present holding pattern—off the Atlantic seaboard of the US—until we can be rerouted to an alternate airport. It should not be a long wait. Since we are an inbound transatlantic flight, we have been placed high on the list to be rerouted. That being said, I want to assure you that, at present, we have sufficient fuel to arrive at our new destination. I repeat, we are not in an emergency fuel situation, and I hope to report our new destination to you soon. I can tell you that we will be landing somewhere in Canada, but that is the extent of my information regarding our destination at this time.”
Canada! Laynie blew out a sigh of relief. She hoped it would be easier for her to leave unnoticed from a busy Canadian airport such as Toronto or Montreal than from JFK. The unplanned destination would even throw off her pursuers.
The captain was not finished. He had saved the worst news for last. “We are all quite understandably concerned and confused about the events today that have triggered an emergency closure of US airspace. We also want to know if the attempted hijacking of this plane is related to the closure. Let me tell you what I have been told.”
Here it comes, Laynie thought.
“At approximately 8:46 this morning, less than an hour ago, persons unknown hijacked a passenger plane out of Boston and flew it into the North Tower of the World Trade Center. Seventeen minutes later, a second plane, also out of Boston, hit the South Tower. New York emergency responders are on scene, assisting in the evacuations of the towers.
“Yes, these were deliberate actions against the City of New York, but more importantly, against our nation. Although we have no definitive proof at present, in my mind there is little doubt that the failed hijacking of this flight was an attempt to hit a third New York target. Therefore, we cannot thank God enough that he placed two US Marshals aboard this flight who recognized the signs of an imminent takeover and foiled the hijackers’ plans.”
Cheers erupted throughout the plane, drowning the captain’s speech. Laynie kept her chin down and her eyes closed, but the tears she had warded off earlier refused, amid the din of cheers, whistles, and shouts of appreciation, to stay where she’d ordered them to stay. They slid down her cheeks and puddled in her lap where they moistened a patch of dried blood on her blouse. Blowback from her first shots.
Dried blood on her blouse.
The observation snapped Laynie out of her maudlin mood.
I need to change clothes before we land—and I’ll likely need to abandon my bag.
Mentally, she sorted through her carry-on, adding to her handbag what she would take, what she would leave.
The captain called for attention again, and the plane quieted. “As you might imagine, I’ve been told that the scene on the ground in New York is chaotic. Phone lines have been overwhelmed. Hospitals are preparing to receive hundreds of injured in the hours ahead, but they need phone service in order to do their jobs.
“Therefore, as captain of this flight, I am terminating in-flight communication with the ground. I am sorry. I know many of you are worried about the safety of your loved ones, and they are worried about yours. Please know that I understand and sympathize with your concerns, but the care of the injured within the attack zone must be our first priority.
“That is all for now.”
Laynie tucked the HK back into her bra and picked up her handbag.
“Bryan?”
“Yes, Marshal?”
Laynie made herself relax back into her role as Marta Forestier. “Would you mind getting my carry-on down from the overhead? I . . .” She let her gaze fall to her blouse. “I should probably put on a clean top.”
“Sure. Where do you want it?”
“How about behind your seat, in front of the lavatory?”
In relative privacy, Laynie unzipped her case and sorted through her clothes. She pulled out the hoodie, two T-shirts—one long-sleeved, the other short-sleeved—jeans, clean underwear, socks, sneakers, hairbrush, elastic hair holders, folded backpack, and billed hat. She laid the hoodie on her seat, picked up everything else she’d selected, and turned toward the lavatory.
“I’ve heated more washcloths for you.” It was the stewardess who had washed her hands. She held out a dish containing the hot, wet cloths.
“Thank you,” Laynie muttered. “You have been very kind to me.”
“Honestly? It is the least I could do to thank you.”
Laynie entered the lavatory, locked the door, and stared at her reflection in the lavatory mirror. She was struggling with the events of the past hour, with what she’d done, the images continuing to play on an endless, repeating reel in her mind.
It wasn’t the first time I’ve killed, but that was twenty-odd years ago. Today, I killed three men.
I killed three men!
The horror was more than the hijackers’ deaths. It was the swift, violent, and coldhearted manner in which she’d acted. Revulsion surfaced, then intensified. The censure intensified. Condemned her.
But other words rang in her heart, words of vindication.
You saved the more than two hundred souls on this plane, Laynie, passengers and crew. You saved a hospital filled with helpless men, women, and children. Hang on to these truths. You were compelled to choose between good and evil. You were brave, not weak. You chose right. You did right.
“Yes, I had to choose. I chose right—no matter how wrong it feels.”
Laynie peeled off her dirty blouse. The blood had soaked through, onto her skin and underclothes. She stripped and washed herself from the waist up, using all but one hot wash cloth. The last one she saved for her face, letting the steam soak into her pores, breathing in the welcomed moisture.
When she had dried, she changed into the clothes she’d taken from her suitcase, layering the long-sleeved T-shirt over the short-sleeved one. After she’d rechecked the CD-ROM and her last passport, both hidden in the flat compartment at the bottom of her handbag, she added the hairbrush, hair holders, backpack, and hat to the bag. When she emerged from the lavatory, she folded her soiled clothes into the carry-on, zipped it, and had Bryan hoist it into the overhead.
“You look a lot better now,” he commented. “Less stressed.”
“Thanks, Bryan.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We have received updated flight instructions. The FAA has directed us to transfer flight control to NAV CANADA. At the direction of NAV CANADA, we have altered course to our new destination, Greater Moncton International Airport, Moncton, New Brunswick. Our estimated time of arrival is 11:54 a.m. Atlantic daylight time—or 10:54 a.m. eastern daylight time, thirty-three minutes from now.”
New Brunswick? Not Toronto or Montreal? Not to a populous city where she could disappear?
Captain Sheffield continued. “The Prime Minister of Canada has very kindly offered his nation’s hospitality to us until the FAA lifts its closure of US airspace and we are allowed to continue on to JFK.”
New Brunswick was on Maine’s northeast border and Moncton was on the easternmost tip of New Brunswick near the crossing to Prince Edward Island.
I cannot stay with the other passengers. I have to leave them as quickly as I can. Canadian law enforcement will, no doubt, be on us the moment we touch down, checking passports and recording passenger accounts of our flight. My role in taking down the terrorists will put me under a microscope. Most of them think I’m a US Marshal, when I’m not. My ID will never hold up.
Laynie ran calculations in her head, routing herself through the three nearest US border crossings. She estimated the distance to be between three and four hours by car, regardless of which route she chose.
The border crossings might be closed. At the least, they will be on high alert. No, I can’t try to cross. I must head northwest, skirt around the top of Maine, and then south and west to Québec or Montreal where I can lose myself in a city.
Laynie was jerked from her thoughts as Captain Sheffield continued speaking, his voice deepening, as though speaking the next words would make them too real.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I am saddened that I must also be the bearer of more unwelcome news. I have received word that, at approximately 9:37 eastern daylight time, a third hijacked plane flew into the Pentagon just outside Washington, D.C.”
Laynie slid her eyes around the cabin as passengers began putting the facts together.
They are just now realizing that we were supposed to be part of the attack, that the hijackers on this plane had intended to fly us into a building, too, as part of a larger, coordinated assault upon America.
Captain Sheffield continued. “Finally, I must report that at 9:59 a.m., the South Tower of the World Trade Center collapsed. We do not yet know the state of the North Tower nor do we have news on evacuations or survivors as of yet. That is all for now.”
Bryan stared forward in shock. Todd sobbed into his hands, joining many others who were weeping.
Laynie walked forward to Tobin’s seat and squatted in the aisle near him. He, too, had tears in his eyes. He tried to smile when he saw her.
“The news is pretty bad, huh?” Laynie whispered.
“Like you said, it could have been a lot worse. We saved hundreds, Marta. Possibly thousands.”
Laynie just nodded. She didn’t trust herself not to choke up.
Tobin added, “Got yourself cleaned up, I see.”
“Yeah. How are you feeling?”
“Okay, except the weakness. Doc says I need a transfusion. Glad we’ll be on the ground soon.”
“Yeah, about that . . .”
Laynie stood up and addressed Tobin’s seatmate. “Hey, excuse me? Would you mind swapping seats with me? Or move back two rows where the, uh, hijackers were sitting? Yes? Thanks.”
She climbed into the seat next to Tobin and leaned her head toward him. “Remember our introduction? When you pushed me back into the lavatory?”
“Abdul shot my shoulder, Marta, not my brain.”
“Keep it down.”
He frowned. “All right.” He leaned closer.
“While we were in the lavatory, you asked me a series of questions, including if I had a badge.”
His probing gaze sharpened. “Okay.”
“I don’t, but one of those three-letter acronyms you tossed at me is a close fit.”
“And?”
“And I can’t be questioned by Canadian law enforcement, Tobin, or by any law enforcement agency. Do you follow? I’ve been deep undercover for years in a country whose name I cannot mention. If, when we land, someone were to photograph me and that photo made the news? Not good.”
She shook her head. “If I want to stay alive, I need to circumvent any publicity or questions. I need to disappear—and I mean the minute our wheels hit the ground.”
Tobin, his eyes locked on hers, sat back, sorting through what she’d said. “A country whose name you can’t mention, huh? And you want me to help you.”
Unflinching, Laynie stared and waited.
He glanced behind them, and her eyes followed. Both passengers appeared to be dozing. Tobin tilted his head toward hers.
Laynie said nothing. She waited while he considered his decision.
A minute later he breathed in her ear, “The doctor tells me I need to go straight to a hospital, probably by ambulance. She’d typically come with me, but I will insist that she rejoin her family—and request that you, a fellow marshal, accompany me. After that, it will be up to you.”
“I don’t want you to lie for me. It would put your career in jeopardy.”
He snorted. “Little late for that—after deputizing a perfect stranger to help me put down five terrorists and all.”
She smiled. “Hey . . . no harm done.” She added, “Yet.”
“Well, Marta, the fact is, I owe you, as does everyone on this plane. I’m willing to take that hit.”
“Thank you, Marshal.”
“You mean Quince, don’t you? Cuz now we’re friends and all.”
Laynie’s smile widened. “Yeah. Quince.”
She returned to her seat and addressed Bryan and Todd. “Hey, guys, I’m going forward to sit with Marshal Tobin the remainder of the flight. They’ll be taking him to the hospital when we land, and I’ll be accompanying him. Would you do me a favor?”
“Anything, Marshal,” Todd exclaimed.
“Thank you. Just take my bag when you deplane? We’ll all end up at the same place, I’m sure. I’ll get it from you then.”
“Happy to help, ma’am.”
Laynie shook her head. “No need to ‘ma’am’ me. Marta is good enough.”
“Thank you for everything, Marta,” Bryan whispered.
Laynie nodded, picked up her handbag and hoodie, and returned to Tobin. He had news.
“The doc had already asked Captain Sheffield to radio ahead for an ambulance. I just now sent her back to her family in economy class. Explained that you’ll be riding in the ambulance with me.”
“Okay. Thanks.” She fidgeted. “Um, one more thing?”
“Yeah?”
Laynie’s face flamed. “Seems that I’m a little long on Swedish kronor and short on American dollars.”
One of Tobin’s brows lifted. “You sayin’ you need a loan?”
“Uh, yeah, well, it’s not like I can pay you back anytime soon, so . . . more like a donation. I . . . I’m sorry.”
“What are friends for? Just don’t make me regret this.”
He glanced behind him again, then forward. The flight attendants were strapped into their jump seats. The two attendants within Tobin and Laynie’s sight had their heads together, talking.
With his eyes on them, Tobin scooched forward and reached his right hand into his hip pocket. Pulled out his wallet. He flipped it open and fumbled, one-handed, to get at the cash.
His hand was so big, it was like watching someone work while wearing a catcher’s mitt.
“Little help here?”
Laynie held the wallet open.
“Take it all. There’s probably a couple hundred in folding money. Take it all, my business card, too. Who knows? You might feel like calling me sometime.”
Laynie emptied his wallet of cash, took a card embossed with the US Marshals Service logo, and flipped the wallet closed. While Tobin slid his wallet back into his pocket, Laynie stuffed the bills and card into her handbag.
“Thank you.”
Tobin acknowledged her thanks with a jerk of his chin and a serious expression. “I’m not kidding, Marta. I owe you. You helped save all these people today—an’ this here country boy’s butt inta th’ bargain. If you ever need me, you call, ya’ll hear me?”
Laynie nodded and turned her face away, afraid she’d start shaking and wouldn’t be able to stop. Afraid her stoic outer shell, already crazed with so many hairline fractures, would shatter, and she’d never be able to pick up all the pieces and put them back where they belonged.
They were silent the remainder of the flight. By the time the plane bumped onto the runway in Moncton, Laynie’s stomach was in knots.
Tobin leaned toward her. His whispered words knocked her sideways.
“Listen, Marta, before the ambulance arrives, I want to pray for you.”
“What?”
“I’ve been sitting here praying for you, and now I want to pray with you. Over you. Okay?”
“I—”
Tobin grabbed for Laynie’s hand—his mitt, the size of a waffle iron, swallowing hers whole.
“Lord Jesus, I hold Marta up to you, asking that you see her safely away from here without discovery. Please, Lord, help her navigate or overcome every obstacle that presents itself and guide her safely to wherever she is headed—without the public exposure she fears.
“Lord, I am calling on you, asking you to have your will and your way in Marta’s life. Whatever her real name may be, you already know her by that name. You know her and you have called her to you. Let her know how very, very much you love her, Lord. I pray this in Jesus’ name. Amen.”
The PA crackled. “Ladies and gentlemen, Captain Sheffield here. Please listen carefully. Because of what occurred on this flight, it is important that you follow all instructions given to you to the letter.
“Do not remove your seatbelts until told to. You will be directed to unbuckle your seatbelts and deplane row by row. Do not stand until you have been directed to. Have your passports at the ready. And before passenger deplaning can begin, Canadian law enforcement needs to remove the bodies of the hijackers while a medical team assists our wounded marshal from the plane. An ambulance is waiting to take him to the nearest hospital, so please be patient and follow instructions.”
On cue, the door forward of business class opened. Two New Brunswick provincial law enforcement officers and a man in plain clothes entered. Armed officers stationed themselves at the head of each aisle. The flight crew pointed toward Tobin, and the man accompanying the officers approached Tobin and Laynie.
He nodded to them. “Good day. I am Lieutenant Paul Moreau, Canada Customs and Revenue Agency. You are Marshal Tobin? Marshal Forestier?”
“I’m Marshal Tobin,” Tobin responded. Laynie said nothing.
“We have emergency personnel on the jet bridge, ready to come aboard and take you out on a gurney.”
“Not likely,” Tobin growled. “I came aboard on my own two feet, and I’ll leave the same way.”
Moreau smiled. “Spoken like a Yank. I anticipated as much.”
Laynie stood and offered her arm. Tobin grabbed ahold of it and launched himself to his feet. He swayed once but quickly got his bearings.
“This way, then,” Moreau murmured.
As Tobin took his first shuffled steps, the cabin behind them broke into applause.
“See how popular you are, Tobin?” Laynie grinned.
“Not me, Marta, we. Without you, I may have kept the plane from being weaponized, but no telling how many people would have died in the process, including me. Don’t forget that God put you on this plane.”
As she had so many times over the past seven years, Laynie heard Kari’s voice. Confident. Joyous. This time, Laynie listened to it.
“All of God’s promises are true, Laynie, because he is true. One way or another, he will work those promises into reality.
“He is God, and he will have his way.”
She blinked back her tears and focused on keeping Tobin on his feet until they reached the ambulance.
