On the other hand, it was an unexpected little gift that Bowden had seen her and attacked her. And then there was the good fortune that some vigilante from Massachusetts had come to her aid. Elena had been ready with her own pepper spray, but she hadn’t needed it. She’d slipped what looked like an elegant Italian fountain pen discreetly back into her purse after Bowden had collapsed to her knees, her hands on her face.
She paused when she caught a whiff of jet fuel as she stood in line outside for a cab. She hated the smell of jet fuel. It nauseated her. But she shook it off because it was sunny and the encounter in baggage was a rather good thing. A rather good thing indeed. She would definitely tell Viktor that. As far as the gaping world was concerned, it was all further proof that the flight attendant was completely unhinged. The cause and effect was clear: Bowden murders Sokolov in Dubai. She is outed by the New York Post. She lunges at a strange woman in Fiumicino. Tomorrow morning when her body was found in Rome, everyone would think it was eminently likely—it was downright predictable—that the flight attendant had killed herself.
Assuming, of course, that she went ahead with the plan. First, however, she wanted to understand precisely what this brother-in-law did at the Blue Grass Army Depot and how much Sokolov could have picked up online. She knew what she herself could learn—easily, one call and then one call back—but she had to know what he could have learned. That was different. She also wanted to dive into onionland and her dark assets online to see if her instincts about Bowden, her brother-in-law Dennis McCauley, and the courier were correct. Then she had to have a consult with her handler. She knew she couldn’t stall very much longer. They knew that, too. She wondered what the next twelve hours would bring. Or, for that matter, the next twenty-four. Either they brought her in or Bowden was dead. It all depended on how badly they wanted to know about Viktor Olenin and his dreams of drones and poison gas.
24
Makayla told Cassie that she was thirty-six while they were seated in the backseat of the small cab into Rome. She and her husband, an ad executive, had a five-year-old daughter who was about to start kindergarten. They lived in Douglaston, Queens, and her in-laws lived nearby, which was a godsend when it came to childcare. She talked and talked, asking almost no questions, which was perfect, because the cab was stifling in the midday August heat and Cassie wanted only to listen. She might even have fallen asleep if, once they were inside the Rome traffic ring, the cab hadn’t been stopping and starting with unpredictable (and incessant) violence. But Makayla’s voice was low and kind, and Cassie imagined that voice reading aloud to her daughter those nights when she wasn’t flying to Frankfurt or Rome.
God, Cassie thought, what must it be like to have a daughter? To have children? One time she saw a quote written in blue and yellow chalk on a blackboard outside a clothing shop in the West Village: “Remember that person you wanted to be? There’s still time.” She wanted to believe that; she wanted to believe it almost desperately. She wanted to be different from what she was—to be anything but what she was. But every day that grew less and less likely. Life, it seemed to her in the back of the cab, was nothing but a narrowing of opportunities. It was a funnel.
“Here’s our hotel,” Makayla was saying, and before Cassie could reach for her wallet inside her purse, the other flight attendant had paid for the ride.
“Please, let me pay you back,” she said. She knew they were staying at the same hotel where the airline had booked them last week, but it still caused her to sigh in frustration when she looked up at the entrance. She thought instantly of how she would have to avoid Enrico. He would see the other crew members in their iconic black and blue and red uniforms and speculate that she was in the hotel, too.
“Not a big deal,” said Makayla. “You can buy me a drink tonight. How’s that?”
Cassie smiled at the suggestion. The fact that for Makayla alcohol was nothing more than a shorthand for friendship and camaraderie wasn’t lost on her. It was for so much of the world. “Okay,” she said and hoped that if they did have that drink, the gods would be kind to her and today would be Enrico’s day off. The driver lifted their two suitcases from the back of the cab. “Thank you,” she said to Makayla. “I mean that. Thank you for everything.”
“You’re welcome—though I really didn’t do anything. Now, you should go get some sleep. I can certainly use a nap.”
Cassie nodded and watched a bellman carry her suitcase up half a dozen marble steps and then roll it to the reception desk. She would sleep. But first she would call her lawyer back in New York. It was almost seven a.m. on the East Coast. Ani would most likely be up.
* * *
? ?
“You saw her?” It was a question, but Cassie could hear the shock and incredulity in Ani’s voice over the phone.
“Maybe,” Cassie said. “I’m torn. I thought I did. I was sure at the time I did. But the more I think back on the moment, the more it seems possible I was mistaken. Maybe this is just one more example of the way I’m losing my mind. It’s just getting harder and harder to keep it together. That may scare me as much as anything right now.” She was perched in the desk chair in her hotel room, one leg underneath her. She feared that if she sat on the bed, she would lie down and fall asleep midconversation. Maybe she’d never get up. She was on a different floor from last week but on the same side of the building, and once more she could see the towers of the Trinità dei Monti outside her window.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” Ani demanded, and so Cassie did, including her interview with Fiumicino’s airport security.
“Did you just yawn?” Ani asked when she had finished.
“I’m exhausted.”
“I get it. But you must realize that going after some poor woman in baggage is exactly the sort of thing that gives the airline a reason to put you on a leave of absence. Today’s New York Post? Nah. They won’t ground the Cart Tart Killer—that’s just alleged craziness—but they will ground a flight attendant who is demonstrably unstable in baggage at a major international airport.”
The magnitude of that sentence caused Cassie to nod, even though she was alone in the room. “That has crossed my mind,” she admitted.
“And obviously you have given the prosecution, when they get around to you, a little more fodder. This is a thousand times worse than calling Sokolov’s family in Virginia on Saturday night.”
“I know.”
“And yet you went up to this lady in the airport just because she had the same duffel bag as the person you saw in line? What did you think, she’d put on a disguise?”
“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. I was just so frustrated that the woman I thought was Miranda was suddenly gone.”
“God. I really am worried about you. You are completely out of control.”
“I know. I’m a little scared, Ani. I’m scared I’m not thinking straight anymore, even when I’m sober. I mean, I thought I was being followed in New York.”
“What?”
“Twice I saw a guy with a black ball cap on the street behind me. He was wearing sunglasses. Another time I was sure he was there.”
“But you didn’t see him?”
“Not the third time. That’s my point. I think I’m losing it.”
“Maybe you are. But maybe not. I wouldn’t be surprised if the FBI has someone watching you.”
“So I’m not crazy?”
“Oh, you are crazy, Cassie. You’re an absolute mess. But that doesn’t mean you’re not being followed. Please view the pepper spray as a wake-up call. A warning. I’m sorry it happened. I really am because I hate to think of your discomfort. But I’m also a little grateful that someone dialed you down before you did something absolutely insane.”
“I would never have hurt her. I’m not violent.” At least I’m not yet, she thought. “Grabbing her was a reflex.”
“Are you still in pain? Uncomfortable?”
Cassie had been careful to avoid the large mirror in the hotel room. She didn’t want to see how blotchy her face most likely was. She feared her eyes were still vampire red. The nurse told her she would look much better by dinner. She hoped so. “Not really. But I’m wondering if you or your private investigator can do something for me.”