? ?
Cassie rarely got to Wall Street, but when she did, she was always struck by how narrow the streets were compared to Murray Hill and midtown Manhattan. The FBI was in a skyscraper on Broadway, but Broadway this far downtown, this close to the Brooklyn Bridge, was the slender tip of the funnel. Federal Plaza was a little more squat than the Seagram Building, but what made it feel so different was the Wall Street claustrophobia induced by the combination of tall edifices and thin streets. Outside the building was a small park with three tall, dark columns, a sculpture called the Sentinel, and some trees that she guessed were a kind of willow. On the side streets around the plaza were manned guardhouses and black-and-yellow striped metal barricades that police officers raised or lowered to allow select vehicles in and out of the parking garage. She thought of the Fearless Girl standing tall against the Bull a few blocks to the south. Cassie understood that there was nothing heroic about who she was, nothing courageous about what she was doing; she was here because she drank too much and a decade and a half of bad decisions—especially one night in Dubai—was catching up to her. But she thought of that bronze little girl with a ponytail, her hands on her hips and her chest out, facing off against the much larger bull. Cassie wanted now to be just that plucky and do the right thing.
Whatever that was.
“Ready?” Ani asked. They hadn’t spoken since they had gotten out of the cab a minute ago and paused in front of the Sentinel.
Cassie shook her head. “No. But I really don’t have a choice now, do I?”
Ani looked her in the eye. “You’ll be fine. Just remember: whatever you do, don’t lie.”
* * *
? ?
The room was windowless and Cassie didn’t care. She was struck by the shiny, fake veneer of the rectangular table, and how the chairs were covered in an orange shade of Naugahyde that belonged only on pumpkins. Once again Frank Hammond was interviewing her and James Washburn was taking the notes.
“Glad you could make it this afternoon,” Hammond said after Cassie had introduced Ani to the two agents and everyone was seated. “I really am grateful. I know it’s an inconvenience, but we want to help the Emirates and put this part of the investigation to bed. We want to move on.”
“Of course,” she agreed.
“I just hate to have busywork hanging over my head over the weekend—especially a summer weekend.”
“It’s fine.”
He smiled. She was struck once more by how world weary he seemed for a guy who couldn’t have been more than forty or forty-one. Once again she noted Washburn’s unblemished skin and rimless eyeglasses, and wondered if he was ever allowed outside. “When do you fly out again?” he asked.
“Sunday.”
“Back to Dubai?”
“Rome. I have Rome this month.”
“I love Italy.”
“I do, too.”
He shook his head wistfully and she presumed he was recalling a moment in a beautiful piazza in a Tuscan village or a perfect, endless meal in Florence. “Of course, I’ve never been there. But I hope to get there someday,” he said. “So: I guess I really just love the idea of Italy.”
For a moment she was taken aback, but quickly she gathered herself. “I hope you get there, too,” she said. “It’s beautiful. It lives up to its reputation. It’s one of the prettiest places in the world, I think.”
“And you’ve seen a lot of the world.”
“I guess.”
“Is that why you became a flight attendant? You love to travel?”
She shrugged, unsure whether this was chatter to wear down her reserve or he needed to know for some reason. Washburn’s gaze was moving between her and the pad on the table in front of him, but he wasn’t writing anything down. “I think so,” she answered simply. She remembered her carefully scripted answer during her job interview with the airline eighteen years ago: I enjoy people. I think customer service is a real art.
“Ever consider becoming a pilot?”
“Nope.”
“How come?”
“Not really my skill set. I kind of think you don’t want a person like me ever driving a cab or a school bus.” She’d meant it as a joke, but she saw Ani’s eyes grow a little wide and she realized that humor—at least humor that acknowledged her more irresponsible tendencies—was a particularly bad idea.
“Oh, why is that?”
“I just meant that I live in the city. I don’t even own a car.”
Hammond nodded and Washburn started to write.
“So, we’re just clearing up a few little things as a courtesy to Dubai,” the case agent said. “This shouldn’t take very long at all. You said that you and Alex Sokolov spoke during the food service on that last flight—the one from Paris to Dubai on July twenty-sixth.”
“That’s correct.”
“You said he was a flirt.”
“Kind of.”
“How? What kinds of things did he say?”
“He said he liked our uniforms. We actually have three kinds: A pants suit. A skirt and a blouse. And a dress. I usually wear the dress.”
“Why?”
“It’s the most flattering on me.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’d wear the one that was most comfortable.”
“That’s because you’re male.”
He chuckled and nodded. “Probably true.”
“But, to be honest, they’re all pretty comfortable.”
He seemed to think about this. Then: “What else did he say?”
“Alex Sokolov? I don’t remember. I’ve had”—and Cassie paused to count in her mind—“four flights since then.”
“The air marshal recalls you two talking a lot.”
“I don’t know about that. I try to do a good job, and part of that is making passengers feel relaxed and happy on a flight.”
“He tell you anything about himself?”
“Not really. He probably didn’t tell me much at all.”
“You said he told you that he was a money manager. What else?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“You two both talked about living in Manhattan, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Another passenger recalled him telling you that he was an only child. You told him you had a sister. Do you remember that?”
“Not really.”
“Some other family stuff, maybe?” he asked. “Someone else said you two talked about Kentucky. How your sister and her family still live there.”
She glanced at Ani and then at the way that Washburn had suddenly, inconceivably filled almost an entire sheet of paper on the yellow legal pad. “I don’t know. It’s possible.”
“Did he tell you about why he was in Dubai? His work?”
“I don’t remember him saying much about that.”
“Okay. He said he was a money manager. What else?”
“He said he ran a hedge fund.”
“Good. Go on.”
“That’s all. I don’t even know what a hedge fund is precisely,” she admitted.
“What meetings did he mention?”
“I know he had a meeting, but we didn’t discuss it.”
“It was supposed to be the next day?”
“Yes.”
“Who was going to be in it?”
“Investors, I suppose.”
“So these were investors in Dubai?” he asked.
“I’m just speculating.”
“Any names?”
Instantly she recalled Miranda and almost offered that name, but as far as the FBI knew, she hadn’t seen Alex once he exited the jet bridge in Dubai. She considered telling Hammond that he brought the woman up on the plane, but she wasn’t sure she would be able to manage the questions—the fallout—that would emerge from the revelation. And so she answered, “Not that he told me on the plane.”
“Okay. What about friends? Did he say anything about any acquaintances or buddies or women he might have been planning to see while he was in the Emirates?”
“No. He didn’t mention anyone.”