suspect. It’s going to get confusing, so stay alert; team leaders will brief you on your assignments.” He looked them over and reminded, “At the troop level, the Bureau’s people are just doing their jobs. We don’t begrudge them that. If any of you are put into a position to put your life on the line, you can trust that their agents will be there to back us up. Likewise for us. Copy that? This woman is the only bad guy out there. Questions? No? Good.” His voice cracked as he said, “There are children counting on us.” It took him a moment to collect himself.
He looked over at Sheila Hill, who cleared her throat and said loudly, “Let’s go.”
Gary Flemming used his considerable clout to delay American Airlines flight #199, buying his surveillance team twenty-seven minutes. By that hour, Flemming had over two dozen FBI field operatives stationed at key locations inside Sea-Tac airport’s concourse B. Eleven of these agents-an elite FBI Hostage Rescue Unit-had been flown up from Sacramento that same evening, accounting for Flemming’s delay of the aircraft.
Eleven minutes before the delayed flight 199 was scheduled to touch down, Boldt and a woman named Teibold from Special Ops met with Peter Kramer, a former SPD sergeant who had retired and taken an executive security post with Field Security Corporation, which held the contract for Sea-Tac. Kramer had survived a triple bypass ten months earlier, and had the fresh look of a man in full appreciation of life. He had lost nearly forty pounds since the operation, with another twenty to go. The cigarettes that had forever been a fixture in his jovial face were nowhere to be seen.
By agreement, the three met in the recovered baggage office of concourse C.
Boldt introduced Teibold. She wore blue jeans and a cream-colored T-shirt and carried a large handbag. She had brown hair down to her shoulders. Inside the handbag was a multicolored scarf and a pair of large sunglasses. “We need Teibold in the jetway for American one-nine-nine as the plane lands,” Boldt stated.
“One-nine-nine?”
“Gate 11. B concourse.”
“I know the concourse. But there’s the small problem of an FBI team working this same flight.”
Boldt explained, “Task force is crumbling, Krames. We’re here to protect SPD’s interests.”
“Special Agent in Charge is the name of Flemming.”
“That’s the guy.”
Kramer winced. “How’d I end up on the wrong side of this? He’s in our control room hooked up to a mobile command unit parked outside. You know what you’re up against?”
Boldt checked his watch. Nine minutes. “We need to get Teibold in that jetway.”
“
“Can’t use the concourse,” Boldt explained. “Flemming’s people will be all over it.” He asked, “Have they put any of their people field side?” He checked his watch again.
“One on each field gate. Nothing near the jetways. I got one of my people at the bottom of the jetway stairs. And you’re right about the concourse. It’s sewn up like a gnat’s ass. How many people in your show?”
Avoiding an answer, avoiding any chance that Flemming might get the information, Boldt told the man, “We need to hurry, Krames. Let’s get Teibold into the jetway from the field side. All she’s going to do is exit the jetway with the other passengers.”
“Unarmed?”
“Unarmed, you bet,” Boldt answered.
“What the hell are you up to, Boldt?” the man asked, eyeing Teibold in the process. “What kind of angle you working?”
“We’ve only got seven minutes, Krames.”
“Seven ’til they land. At least another five on the ramp. Okay,” he said, glaring at Boldt for not answering his question. Addressing Teibold, he instructed her, “You come with me. We’ll cross over to B, field side, beneath the restaurant.” Anticipating Boldt’s objection, he added, “There are no field side cameras in that location. Flemming is monitoring the cameras. It’s the best way.” Handing a business card to Boldt, he said, “My pager and cellular are on there. You guys on radios or cellulars?”
Boldt gave him his cellular number and Kramer wrote it down onto his greasy palm. “What I’ll do,” Kramer told him, “is monitor what the hell they’re up to and try to keep you posted. You know they’re working with some serious radios.”
“Yes, we do.”
“They’re scanning cellular frequencies as well.”
“We are expecting that.”
“They’ve got the pay phones covered.”
“We know.”
“You using any kind of radio code?” Kramer asked.
“The suspect is ‘the truck.’ Tiebold here is ‘the Toyota.’ Direction is by compass, with east as baggage claim. Inside, ‘one mile’ is a hundred feet. Outside, a mile is a mile.”
“They’ll think they’re picking up some vehicular surveillance that Special Ops is running. Pretty damn clever.”
Boldt tapped his watch. “Krames.”
Kramer grinned. Opening the door he confided in Teibold, “He hasn’t changed one bit, has he?”
For Boldt, Sarah’s safety demanded he sabotage both attempts at surveillance. At the same time
“The bird is down,” Boldt heard through his earpiece. A flesh-colored wire ran into his coat to the walkie- talkie strapped to his side. SPD’s Special Ops communication center, a black panel truck crowded with video surveillance and radio equipment-SOCC-EYE-was parked downstream from baggage claim outside concourse D. Boldt wore a Mariners’ baseball cap pulled down tightly to shield him from airport surveillance cameras, no tie, his blue blazer and badly wrinkled khakis. The concourse teemed with travelers, family and friends.
Boldt reached for a paperback book in the newsstand rack. He spoke into a tiny microphone clipped inside his coat sleeve. “Report.” His full duplex radio was the property of Special Ops and did not require him to trip a transmission button, although a transmission button did exist; when depressed it sent an ID slug to command.
A flurry of clicks filled his ear-other SPD operatives checking in sequentially.
“That’s a great read,” a woman’s voice said. She stood alongside Boldt dressed in a dark blue business suit and carrying a leather briefcase. “I’ve read everything by her.”
Boldt grimaced and returned the novel. He didn’t need a chatty-Cathy.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” the woman fired off quickly, as Boldt returned the novel to the rack.
“No, no.” Boldt glanced around looking for a way out. The newsstand’s layout floor plan trapped him. A suit by the newsstand caught his eye, one of Flemming’s?
“This is a good read as well,” she said, indicating a legal thriller.
“Is it?” Boldt said, trying to sound as uninterested as possible. The suit at the front of the store spent a little too much time studying the pedestrians. Flemming had his people checking for SPD operatives. A chess game.
In his ear he heard, “Two minutes.”
Again, a series of clicks filled his head as operatives acknowledged. Two minutes until the plane reached the gate and the jetway beyond where Teibold waited at the bottom of the steps. Like Boldt’s, each handheld radio transmitted a digital identification slug. Logged by computer in the command vehicle, the Incident Command Officer-Mulwright-could immediately identify who was transmitting and speaking without any name or code ever being uttered. The computer also kept a running count for the ICO, who, on that night, expected twenty hits for each acknowledgment.
“LA,” the woman next to Boldt said, unprovoked. “Just for the night. Business. How about you?”
“Actually, I’m meeting someone,” Boldt said.
“Lucky her.” She added, “Is it a her?”
He didn’t want any small talk, and yet perhaps it made him less conspicuous. He glanced over her head into a convex mirror that produced a distorted, fish-eye view of the newsstand, keeping his eye on the man out front and willing him to go away. His woman friend chose that moment to tussle her hair. In the process she exposed a tiny
