Just to be sure, he scribbled it down on the notepad he always kept in his coat pocket.
“Okay,” Clark told the driver. “See that black Ford up there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Follow it.”
“Is this a movie?” the driver asked lightheartedly.
“Yeah, and I’m the star.”
“I’ve done that, you know? Real movies. They pay pretty well for driving a car.”
Clark took the hint, fished out his wallet, and handed the driver a pair of twenties. “Fair enough?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll bet he’s going to Terminal Three.”
“Let’s see,” Clark responded. Now he had eyes on the Crown Vic, which did the usual rigmarole common to airports, whose roadways were doubtless designed by the same soulless idiot who did the architecture for the terminals. Clark had been in enough airports to be fairly certain all the architects went to the same school.
The taxi driver was right. The Crown Vic pulled to a stop at the UNITED AIRLINES sign and angled right to the curb. The driver’s door opened, and the driver climbed out and moved to the passenger door.
“Good call—what’s your name?” Clark asked.
“Tony.”
“Thank you, Tony. You have a good one.” Clark and Jack hopped out. In Jack’s hand was the camera, well concealed but ready for action.
“He smokes,” Clark observed. More to the point, he also posed pretty well. Sometimes luck worked in your favor. “Okay, shoot me,” Clark said, posing. This Jack duly did, and afterward Clark came over to say something innocuous, followed by, “Got him?”
“Dead on. Now what?”
“Now I try to get a ticket to Chicago. You follow him to the gate and call me when you ID the flight.”
“Think you can get a ticket fast enough?”
“Well, if I fail, we’re no worse off than we are now.”
“Gotcha,” Jack agreed. “I got your number.” And he hopped to it, taking position fifty yards from their friend Hadi, who enjoyed every possible puff from his smoke before turning to walk into the terminal. He had a good photo of the mutt, Jack realized, checking the preview screen.
Clark walked toward the United desk, pleased that there wasn’t much of a line to fight through.
Hadi finished his smoke and flipped the butt onto the curb, took one deep breath of non-airliner air, and walked inside. Dominic followed at a discreet distance, holding his secure cell phone in his left hand. Hadi walked directly toward the proper concourse and checked a monitor for the right jetway. He walked out just like any normal person trying to catch a flight. It took under ten minutes, and then he took his seat at D-28. Brian made his call.
“No, but the bird’s pulled up to the jetway, and the posted departure time is in twenty-five minutes. Better get a move on.”
“On my way.” John walked to the desk, had to wait for one business puke to get his ticket, then smiled at the desk clerk. “Flight one-one-zero-eight to Chicago, please. First-class, if possible, but I’ll take coach.” He handed over his gold MasterCard.
“Yes, sir,” the clerk said politely. She proved to be wonderfully efficient, and the computer printer spat out the cardstock ticket in just three minutes.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“To the right.” She pointed in case he didn’t know where right was. John walked evenly. Twenty minutes to make the flight. No problem. That came at the metal detector. It pinged, rather to John’s surprise. Then a uniformed rent-a-cop waved the magic wand over him and it pinged at his coat pocket. John reached in and found that his U.S. marshal’s badge had tripped it. This metal detector was really turned up.
“Oh, okay, sir.”
“I’m not even here on official business,” Clark said, with a shy smile. “Is that it?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Right.” Next time he’d toss it on the conveyor, John thought, and let the whole world think he was a cop. It had not pinged on the pen in his pocket. Wasn’t that interesting, or could be, if he had the Magic Pen. But he didn’t. Too bad.
It was a Boeing 737. Seattle must have sold a lot of them, Clark thought, looking around the uncomfortable lounge. Same architect, same crummy chairs. The same company who did the airliner seats? he wondered. Was that a conflict of interest, maybe?
There was Hadi, sitting in the nonsmoking sitting area. Not trying to call attention to himself? If so, good fieldcraft. Just sitting there reading a magazine, Newsweek, with cursory attention. Ten more minutes and they called