“Right.”
I turned on my cell phone and waited for five minutes, but there was no beep, and I shut it off. I asked Jill, “How are you doing?”
“Fine. How are
“Pretty good. Do you understand what’s going on?”
“Somewhat. I assume
“Pretty much.” I glanced at her and said, “You should understand that you’re on the right side of this now-the side of truth and justice, and of the victims of TWA 800, their families, and the American people.”
“Then who’s after us?”
“Maybe no one. Or maybe a few bad eggs.”
“Then why can’t we call the police?”
“Well, maybe more than a few bad eggs, and I’m not sure yet who’s bad and who’s good.”
“What are we going to do while you’re trying to figure it out?”
“Do you have a hotel in the city that you usually stay at?”
“The Waldorf or the Union League Club.”
“Then let’s avoid those. Let’s pick someplace around Midtown.”
She thought a moment, then replied, “The Plaza.”
“Call them now and make a reservation. You need two adjoining rooms.”
“Are you staying with me?”
“Yes. Please use your credit card to hold the rooms, and I’ll see that you’re reimbursed.”
She got on her cell phone, called the Plaza Hotel, and reserved a two-bedroom suite.
I said to her, “I’d like you to turn off your cell phone.”
“Why?”
I explained, “You can be located by cell phone tower triangulation.”
She didn’t ask for any further explanation and shut off her cell phone.
We crossed the Nassau County line into the borough of Queens. We should be at the Plaza Hotel within half an hour.
Jill asked me, “How long will I have to stay at the hotel?”
“About two days.”
“Then what?”
“Then you change hotels. Or I find you a safe house. I need maybe forty-eight hours to line up the army of angels. After that, you’ll be safe.”
“Do I need to call my attorney?”
“If you’d like. But if you could wait a few days, that would be better.”
She nodded.
We continued on the Expressway through Queens, and she asked me, “When will you see Bud?”
“I, or someone else, will see him within the next forty-eight hours.” I added, “Please don’t call him.”
“I have no intention of calling him.” She poked my arm and said, “Why don’t you arrest him? I want to visit him in jail.”
I stifled a laugh, but then she laughed, and I laughed, too. I said, “I think we need his cooperation.”
“Do I need to see him again?”
“Maybe. But we try to keep witnesses separated.”
“Good.” She asked me, “Where do you live?”
“In Manhattan.”
“I lived in Manhattan after college, and before I got married.” She paused. “I married too young. How about you?”
“I’m on my second marriage. You’re going to meet my wife. She’s an FBI agent, currently overseas. Due home tomorrow, if all goes well.”
“What’s her name?”
“Kate. Kate Mayfield.”
“She kept her maiden name?”
“Not all to herself. She offered to let me share it.”
Jill smiled, then asked, “Is that how you met? On the job?”
“Yes.”
“Do you lead interesting lives?”
“At the moment, yes.”
“Is there a lot of danger?”
“There’s a distinct danger of dying from boredom.”
“I think you’re being modest, and understated. Are you bored now?”
“No.”
“How long has she been gone?”
“About a month and a half,” I said.
“And you were in Yemen?”
“I was.”
“What’s boring about that?”
“Go to Yemen and find out.”
“Where was she?”
“Tanzania. Africa.”
“I know where Tanzania is. What was she doing there?”
“You can ask her when you meet her.”
I had the impression that Mrs. Winslow didn’t meet that many interesting people at the club or at lunches or dinners. I had the impression, too, that she thought she’d missed the boat somewhere after college, and she saw this major catastrophe in her life as more of an opportunity than a problem. That was the right attitude, and I hoped it turned out well for her.
The Midtown Tunnel was about a mile ahead. I glanced at Jill Winslow, sitting next to me. She seemed pretty cool and composed, a product maybe of her breeding, or maybe she didn’t fully appreciate the immediate danger we were in. Or maybe she did, but she thought that danger was preferable to boredom. I agreed with that when I was bored, but when I was in danger, boredom looked good. I said to her, “I think you’ll like Kate. She and I will take care of you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can. But you’ll need some help for a while.”
We approached the tollbooths of the Midtown Tunnel, and I reached up and removed Jill’s E-ZPass, which would record her license plate number, location, and time, none of which I wanted recorded. I paid cash at the booth and entered the long tunnel under the East River.
Jill asked me, “What should I do about Mark?”
“Call him later from your cell phone.”
“And say what?”
“Say you’re well and that you need some time by yourself. I’ll brief you later.”
“Good. I’ve never been briefed.”
I smiled.
She said, “Eventually, I want to tell him everything.”
“You should… before he finds out. You understand that this is all going to become public.”
She stayed silent awhile, and we watched the grimy white tiles zip by. She said to me, “There were so many nights… when we were sitting in the family room, him on the phone, or reading a paper, or telling me what I had to do the next day, when I wanted to pop that tape in…” She laughed and asked me, “Do you think he would have noticed?”
“I’m sure he would have.”
We emerged from the tunnel, and I was back in Manhattan, which I’d thought about a lot in Yemen, though not under these circumstances. I sniffed the exhaust fumes, marveled at the billions of tons of concrete and
