him the old biddy's to be detained on board after landing, and is not to be allowed off without escort. If the Italian authorities want to jail her, so much the better. Then get a signal off to our station manager in Rome. When they arrive it'll be his baby, and I hope he's got more competent people around him than I have."
"Yes, sir," Tanya said.
She started to tell the D.T.M. of the other matter concerning Flight Two---the suspicious-looking man with an attache case whom Customs Inspector Standish had seen going aboard. Before she could finish, the D.T.M. cut her off.
"Forget it! What do the Customs people want us to do---their job? As long as the airline's not involved, I don't give a damn what the guy's carrying. If Customs here want to know what's in his case, let them ask Italian Customs to check, not us. I'll be damned if I'll interrogate, and maybe offend, a fare-paying passenger for something that's none of our business."
Tanya hesitated. Something about the man with the attache case---even though she hadn't actually seen him---bothered her. There were instances she had heard of where... Of course, the idea was absurd...
"I was wondering," she said. "He might not be smuggling at all."
The D.T.M. snapped, "I said forget it."
Tanya left. Back at her desk, she began writing the message to Captain Demerest of Flight Two concerning Mrs. Ada Quonsett.
PART THREE Chapter Two
IN A TAXI en route to the airport from downtown, Cindy Bakersfeld leaned back against the rear seat and closed her eyes. She was neither aware, nor cared, that outside it was still snowing, nor that the taxi was moving slowly in heavy traffic. She was in no hurry. A wave of physical pleasure and contentment (Was the right word euphoria? Cindy wondered) swept over her.
The cause was Derek Eden.
Derek Eden, who had been at the Archidona Relief Fund cocktail party (Cindy still didn't know which Archidona); who had brought her a triple-strength Bourbon, which she hadn't drunk, then had propositioned her in the most unimaginative way. Derek Eden, until today only a slightly known Sun-Times reporter with a second-grade by-line; Derek Eden with the dissolute face, the casual air, the nondescript unpressed clothes; Derek Eden and his beat-up filthy-inside-and-out Chevrolet; Derek Eden, who had caught Cindy in a barriers-down moment, when she needed a man, any man, and she hadn't hoped for much; Derek Eden who had proved to be the finest and most exciting lover she had ever known.
Never, never before had Cindy experienced anyone like him. Oh, God!, she thought; if ever there was sensual, physical perfection, she attained it tonight. More to the point; now that she had known Derek Eden... dear Derek... she wanted him again---often. Fortunately, it was unmistakable that he now felt the same way about her.
Still leaning back in the rear of the taxi, she relived mentally the past two hours.
They had driven, in the awful old Chevrolet, from the Lake Michigan Inn to a smallish hotel near the Merchandise Mart. A doorman accepted the car disdainfully---Derek Eden didn't seem to notice---and inside, in the lobby, the night manager was waiting. Cindy gathered that one of the phone calls which her escort had made was to here. There was no formality of checking in, and the night manager showed them directly to a room on the eleventh floor. After leaving the key, and with a quick "goodnight," he left.
The room was so-so; old fashioned, spartan, and with cigarette burns on the furniture, but clean. It had a double bed. Beside the bed, on a table, was an unopened bottle of Scotch, some mixes and ice. A card on the liquor tray read, "With the manager's compliments"; Derek Eden inspected the card, then put it in his pocket.
When Cindy inquired, later on, Derek explained, "Sometimes a hotel will oblige the press. When they do, we don't make any promises; the paper wouldn't go for it. But maybe sometimes a reporter or a deskman will put the hotel's name in a story if it's an advantage; or if the story's a bad one---like a death; hotels hate that---we might leave it out. As I say, no promises. You do the best you can."
They had a drink, and chatted, then another, and during the second drink he began to kiss her. It was soon after that she became aware of the gentleness of his hands, which he passed through her hair quite a lot to begin with, in a way