Airport

time to buy flight insurance before the flight took off. But it would involve the one thing he desperately wanted to avoid: drawing attention to himself, in the same way that he had drawn attention already — and for the stupidest omission he could possibly have made.

He had failed to bring any baggage, other than the small, slim attache case in which he was carrying the dynamite bomb.

At the check-in counter downtown the ticket agent had asked, “Is that your baggage, sir?” He pointed to a large pile of suitcases belonging to a man in line behind.

“No.” D. O. Guerrero hesitated, then held up the small attache-briefcase. “I … er … don’t have anything except this.”

The agent’s eyebrows went up. “No baggage for a trip to Rome, sir? You really are traveling light.” He motioned to the attache case. “Do you wish to check that?”

“No, thank you.” All D. O. Guerrero wanted at that moment was his airline ticket, and to get away from the counter, and secure an inconspicuous seat on the airport bus. But the agent glanced curiously at him a second time, and Guerrero knew that, from this moment onward, he would be remembered. He had stamped himself indelibly on the ticket agent’s memory — all because he forgot to bring a suitcase, which he could so easily have done. Of course, the reason he had not done so was instinctive. D. O. Guerrero knew — as others did not — that Flight Two would never reach its destination; therefore no baggage was necessary. But he ought to have had baggage, as a cover. Now, at the inquiry which would inevitably follow the flight’s loss, the fact that one passenger — himself — had boarded without baggage, would be remembered and commented on. It would underscore whatever other suspicions about D. O. Guerrero investigators might, by that time, have.

But if there were no wreckage , he reminded himself,what could they prove ?

Nothing! The flight insurance people would have to pay.

Would the bus never get to the airport?

The children from the Italian family were running noisily up and down the aisle of the bus. A few seats back, the mother was still jabbering in Italian to the husband; she held a baby which was crying lustily. Neither the woman nor the man seemed aware of the baby’s crying.

Guerrero’s nerves were stretched and raw. He wanted to seize the baby and throttle it; to shout to the others,Shut up! Shut up!

Couldn’t they sense? … Didn’t the fools know that this was no time for stupid chattering? … No time, when Guerrero’s whole future — at least, his family’s future … the success of the plan so painstakingly worked out … everything,everything , was predicated on getting to the airport with time to spare.

One of the running children — a boy of five or six, with an attractive, intelligent face — stumbled in the aisle and fell sideways into the empty seat beside D. O. Guerrero. In regaining his balance, the boy’s hand went out, striking the attache case still on Guerrero’s lap. The case slipped sideways and Guerrero grabbed it. He managed to stop it before it fell, then turned to the child, his face contorted to a snarl, his hand raised to strike.

Wide-eyed, the boy regarded him. He said softly, “Scusi .”

With an effort, Guerrero controlled himself. Others in the bus might be watching. If he were not careful, he would draw attention to himself again. Groping for some of the words he had picked up from Italians who had worked for him on construction projects, he said awkwardly,“E troppo rumorosa.”

The child nodded gravely.“Si.” He stood where he was.

“All right,” Guerrero said. “That’s all. Get lost!Se ne vada!”

“Si,” the boy said again. His eyes were uncomfortably direct, and for a moment Guerrero was reminded that this child, and others, would be aboard Flight Two. Well, it made no difference. There was no point in becoming sentimental; nothing would change his intentions now. Besides, when it happened, when he pulled the string of the attache case and the airplane ripped apart, everything would be over quickly, before anyone — especially the children — had time to know.

The boy turned away, and went back in the bus to his mother.

At last! — the bus was moving faster … now it was speeding up! Ahead, through the windshield, D. O. Guerrero could see that the traffic had thinned, other lights in front were moving quickly. They might … just might … arrive at the airport in time for him to buy flight insurance without any need to arouse attention. But it was going to be close. He hoped the insurance booth would not be busy.

He noticed that the children from the Italian family had returned to their seats, and he congratulated himself about not attracting attention a moment ago. If he had struck the child — as he almost had — people would have made a fuss. At least he had avoided that. It was still a pity that he had got himself noticed when checking in, though when he thought about it, he supposed that no irreparable harm had been done.

Or had it?

A new worry nagged him.

Supposing the ticket agent who had been curious about the absence of any baggage remembered the incident again, after the bus had gone. Guerrero knew he had appeared nervous at the time; supposing the agent had noticed, had later become suspicious. The agent would talk to someone else, a supervisor perhaps, who might already have telephoned the airport. Even at this moment, someone — the police? — might be waiting for the bus to arrive; to interrogate D. O. Guerrero; to open and inspect his single, small attache case with the damning evidence inside. For the first time Guerrero wondered what would happen if he were caught. It would mean arrest, imprisonment. Then he thought: before he would allow that to happen … if he were accosted, if exposure seemed imminent … he would pull the loop of string on the outside of the case and blow himself, along with everyone nearby, to pieces. His hand went out. Beneath the attache case handle he touched the loop of string and held it. It was reassuring … Now, for the moment, he would try to think of something else.

He wondered if Inez had yet found his note.

She had.

Inez Guerrero came tiredly into the miserable 51st Street apartment, and slipped off her shoes, which had been hurting, and her coat and kerchief, which were soaked from melted snow. She was aware of a cold coming, and an all-engulfing weariness. Her work as a waitress had been harder than usual today, the customers meaner, the tips smaller. Besides, she was not yet accustomed to it, which took a greater toll.

Two years ago, when the Guerreros lived comfortably in a congenial home in the suburbs, Inez, though never beautiful, had been a pleasant-appearing, well-preserved woman. Since then, ravages of time and circumstance had come swiftly to her face, so that where once she seemed younger than she was, now she looked considerably older. Tonight, if Inez had been in a house of her own, she would have sought the solace of a hot bath, which always seemed to relax her in times of trouble — of which there had been plenty in the Guerreros’ married life. Although there was a bathroom of sorts down the hall, which three apartments shared, it was unheated and drafty, with old paint peeling, and a gas water heater which had to be appeased with quarters. The thought of it defeated her. She decided she would sit still for a while in the shabby living room, then go to bed. She had no idea where her husband was.

It was some time before she noticed the note on the living-room table.

I won’t be home for a few days. I’m going away. I expect to have some good news soon which will surprise you.

Few things surprised Inez where her husband was concerned; he had always been unpredictable and, more recently, irrational. Good news would certainly be a surprise, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe that there would be any. Inez had watched too many of her husband’s ambitious schemes totter and collapse to believe in the likelihood of one more possibility succeeding.

But the first part of the note puzzled her. Where was D.O. going “for a few days”? Equally mystifying: What did he intend to use for money? The night before last the Guerreros pooled the last of the money they had in the world. The total was twenty-two dollars and some cents. Besides the money, they had only one thing left worth pawning; it belonged to Inez — her mother’s ring, and so far she had resisted parting with it. It might have to go soon.

Of the twenty-two dollars-odd, Inez had taken fourteen, to use for food and as a token payment toward the rent. She had seen the desperation in D.O.’s face as he pocketed the remaining eight dollars and small change.