29
Samuel
Boston, MA
Trudi wasn’t answering. He’d called over and over and over. He’d even tried calling Eula, but she hadn’t heard from Trudi other than when she’d told her to stay away from the office. Eula had said Trudi hadn’t seemed particularly stressed, just cautious.
The only reason she wouldn’t answer was if something was wrong. But she would find a way to let me know what was going on. Has something gone that wrong?
He’d managed to ditch Uribe by using the men’s room and then slipping out when she was talking to the waitress. He made it back to his rental car and headed toward the airport.
He was worried about Trudi, and more than ever, he needed to hear her voice. Atif kept popping into his mind—how scared he must be, how terrified he was without his mother to soothe him. Samuel couldn’t stand the idea of his sweet, innocent boy crying himself to sleep every night. He gripped the steering wheel so hard, he thought he might break it.
He’d used up a lot of his calm dealing with Agent Uribe.
And knowing what Uribe’s agenda was, though helpful, set him on edge even more. An FBI agent couldn’t collect a reward for doing her job. She’s out to find the art and get the reward, or rather, sell it on the black market. Which meant the artwork wouldn’t get back to its rightful owner. And if she was dishonest enough to do that, she might be capable of a lot worse.
Samuel parked at the curbside check-in at Logan International Airport and walked inside.
“Sir, you can’t leave your car there. Sir!”
Samuel continued walking. The flags of many nations hung high above his head as he wound his way through a maze of blue rope toward a counter.
“Sir! Your car will be towed if you leave it there.”
Samuel waved his hand toward the man who’d followed him inside. “Tow it.” Then he looked at the woman at the counter. “I need the next available flight to Atlanta.”
After paying a hefty sum, Samuel walked away with a ticket in the name of Michael Casey. He had to wait almost three hours for the flight. He headed toward the terminal, not sure how he was going to pass the time without going insane. His mind kept spinning, always returning to one of two thoughts: I shouldn’t have left Atif or I shouldn’t have gotten Trudi involved. And mixed with those thoughts was his grief for Dalal’s death. While he hadn’t loved her, not like he loved Trudi, she’d been a dear friend and the center of his little boy’s world. One more way he’d failed his son. Then he worried about his handler, if his instincts were right. And Agent Uribe, her obvious desperation. And the Irish mob that was after Dream and had possibly found him. And al-Sadr, who could topple everything if they caught up with Samuel too quickly.
He stopped walking and took a breath. Get your head straight, Samuel. You’re better than this. He usually was, but this time things had gotten personal.
Before continuing, he glanced behind him, casually watching his surroundings, and noticed a man about ten yards back. He’d noticed the man before. The man had stopped as well, apparently to read a sign.
Samuel started forward but glanced back again a few seconds later. The man had also resumed walking, still about ten yards back. Though he was dressed in American clothing, the man was the right ethnicity to be al-Sadr. Could they have gotten into the country faster than anticipated? Then he remembered from where he’d gotten that November 20 time frame: his handler.
Samuel got in line to go through security. If the man was al-Sadr, maybe he’d back off and not risk getting flagged by TSA.
But the man got in line several people behind Samuel. He noticed a woman glance back at the man with that cautious expression that usually angered Samuel. He’d known so many good people from the Middle East who did not deserve to be treated like terrorists just because they had similar skin color and features.
The line moved slowly. Samuel put his shoes, phone, belt, badge, jacket, and wallet into one of the plastic bins. He’d had to leave his sidearm in the rental car.
“How’s it going?” Samuel asked the TSA officer watching the bag scanner.
The officer nodded.
“So, what’s the oddest thing you’ve ever seen in a bag?” Samuel asked.
The officer didn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“That good, huh?” Samuel said.
Samuel laughed. “I’d read that.”
“But it shouldn’t be sold in the airport bookstores.”
“Freak people out too much?”
“Not in a safety way but a who-are-these-people-I’m-sitting-next-to way.” He continued to watch the monitor even while he talked.
“Oh, that’s just too good not to ask.”
The officer smiled. “We take the privacy of the passengers very seriously, sir.”
Samuel laughed.
Then it was his turn to be scanned.
While he took his things from the plastic bin, he chatted with the female TSA officer at that end of the line. This kind of open friendliness tended to set people at ease and make them think he wasn’t paying close attention, and all the while, he saw every detail. He saw every item in every bin—the book of fairy tales and silver martial arts kicker necklace a young mother had, as well as the ratty wallet and $2,500 Brooks Brothers trench coat a middle-aged man had. He saw the amount of care each TSA officer put into their work, and where the weak links were.
The man he’d been watching, who he’d determined was probably of Saudi-Arabian descent, tied his rubber-soled dress shoes and slipped a slim wallet into his front pants pocket. He carried nothing else with him, not even a jacket. Even with so little to retrieve from the bin, he seemed to take longer than most people.
Samuel put his jacket on and headed toward the terminal. So did the other man, maybe two seconds after Samuel.
Instead of following the majority of passengers straight toward Gate B15 and beyond, Samuel turned right down a hallway toward Gates B4 through B14. It would’ve made more sense to have gone through the larger security area closer to those gates.
After reading the signs, the man turned and followed Samuel.
Samuel passed a few shops on his left and continued past the other security area toward several restaurants.
So did the man.
Samuel paused to consider: Starbucks, Asian Too, McDonald’s, Au Bon Pain, or Sbarro.
The man passed him and walked up to the long line of people waiting at Starbucks.
Samuel walked up to the shortest line, which happened to be McDonald’s at the moment, and ordered a small soft drink.
He sipped the sugary drink while walking away. He felt like he did need the sugar and caffeine. He hadn’t gotten to finish his meal at the South Street Diner.
Before ordering a coffee, the man walked away in the same direction as Samuel, down the hall toward the gates.
On the right, Samuel passed the American Airlines Admirals Club and then veered to the other side of the hall and into the men’s room. He went into one of the stalls and waited, watching through the crack in the stall door.
Several seconds passed.
He heard the restroom door open, and then someone came into view—the same Saudi man wearing a plaid dress shirt and no jacket.
Another man was at the sinks washing his hands. Samuel waited for him to finish and leave. By the time he was gone, the Saudi man had finished at the urinal and was washing his hands.
Samuel walked out of the stall and spoke in Arabic. “May I ask who you are and why you’re following me?”