Dead or Alive

customer or he’s as pure as the driven snow. Take your pick.”

“Looks kinda Jewish,” Jack said.

“There’s an old joke in Israel. If he looks Jewish, and he’s selling bagels, he’s an Arab. Not always true, but good enough for a joke.”

“Except for the hair, I can see him in a cowboy hat and long black coat, on Forty-seventh Street in New York, handling diamonds. Not a bad disguise. But he’s about as Jewish as I am.”

Past the magazine stands, past the beer bar, past the one-way exit by the metal detectors, out to the main concourse. Not down the escalator to baggage recovery, but he’d already done that, of course. Toward the main door in the glass wall, and out into the cool air of a Canadian autumn. Past the taxi traffic for arrivals, across the street to the parking lots. Whoever the greeter was, he’d parked in the hourly lot, not the daylong-or-later lot. Okay, this was a scheduled pickup, all right. And not one called ahead for from the plane phone. Into the lot, and then Clark had to slow his tailing routine… and right to a parked car.

“Camera,” Clark said sharply, hoping that Jack knew how to flash a photo covertly.

Actually, he did it pretty well, with the lens telescoped out to 2- or 3X zoom. It was a new-model black Ford Crown Victoria, of the sort used by a low-end car service. Everything was nominal to profile, Clark thought, as they started to close the gap.

Here’s your ticket from Chicago west,” the driver said, handing the ticket folder back over the bench seat.

Hadi opened the folder and studied the ticket. He was surprised to see the destination. He checked his watch. The timing was almost perfect. It had helped that first-class passengers were quicker to get to immigration.

“How long to the other terminal?”

“Just a couple of minutes,” the driver answered.

“Good.” And Hadi lit a cigarette.

The car pulled out. Clark noted this but kept walking. Until the car was a hundred yards away, then he doubled back to the arrival traffic and hailed a cab.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

“I’ll tell you in a minute. Jack: Eyeballs?”

“Got it,” Jack assured him. The Crown Vic had pulled into a line to pay the parking toll. He took two more shots to catch the tag number, which he already had memorized. Just to be sure, he scribbled it down on the notepad he always kept in his coat pocket.

“Okay,” Clark told the driver. “See that black Ford up there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Follow it.”

“Is this a movie?” the driver asked lightheartedly.

“Yeah, and I’m the star.”

“I’ve done that, you know? Real movies. They pay pretty well for driving a car.”

Clark took the hint, fished out his wallet, and handed the driver a pair of twenties. “Fair enough?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll bet he’s going to Terminal Three.”

“Let’s see,” Clark responded. Now he had eyes on the Crown Vic, which did the usual rigmarole common to airports, whose roadways were doubtless designed by the same soulless idiot who did the architecture for the terminals. Clark had been in enough airports to be fairly certain all the architects went to the same school.

The taxi driver was right. The Crown Vic pulled to a stop at the UNITED AIRLINES sign and angled right to the curb. The driver’s door opened, and the driver climbed out and moved to the passenger door.

“Good call-what’s your name?” Clark asked.

“Tony.”

“Thank you, Tony. You have a good one.” Clark and Jack hopped out. In Jack’s hand was the camera, well concealed but ready for action.

“He smokes,” Clark observed. More to the point, he also posed pretty well. Sometimes luck worked in your favor. “Okay, shoot me,” Clark said, posing. This Jack duly did, and afterward Clark came over to say something innocuous, followed by, “Got him?”

“Dead on. Now what?”

“Now I try to get a ticket to Chicago. You follow him to the gate and call me when you ID the flight.”

“Think you can get a ticket fast enough?”

“Well, if I fail, we’re no worse off than we are now.”

“Gotcha,” Jack agreed. “I got your number.” And he hopped to it, taking position fifty yards from their friend Hadi, who enjoyed every possible puff from his smoke before turning to walk into the terminal. He had a good photo of the mutt, Jack realized, checking the preview screen.

Clark walked toward the United desk, pleased that there wasn’t much of a line to fight through.

Hadi finished his smoke and flipped the butt onto the curb, took one deep breath of non-airliner air, and walked inside. Dominic followed at a discreet distance, holding his secure cell phone in his left hand. Hadi walked directly toward the proper concourse and checked a monitor for the right jetway. He walked out just like any normal person trying to catch a flight. It took under ten minutes, and then he took his seat at D-28. Brian made his call.

“Clark,” the voice said on the other end.

“Jack here. Gate D-Twenty-eight, flight one-one-zero-eight.”

“Got it. Does it look crowded?”

“No, but the bird’s pulled up to the jetway, and the posted departure time is in twenty-five minutes. Better get a move on.”

“On my way.” John walked to the desk, had to wait for one business puke to get his ticket, then smiled at the desk clerk. “Flight one-one-zero-eight to Chicago, please. First-class, if possible, but I’ll take coach.” He handed over his gold MasterCard.

“Yes, sir,” the clerk said politely. She proved to be wonderfully efficient, and the computer printer spat out the cardstock ticket in just three minutes.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“To the right.” She pointed in case he didn’t know where right was. John walked evenly. Twenty minutes to make the flight. No problem. That came at the metal detector. It pinged, rather to John’s surprise. Then a uniformed rent-a-cop waved the magic wand over him and it pinged at his coat pocket. John reached in and found that his U.S. marshal’s badge had tripped it. This metal detector was really turned up.

“Oh, okay, sir.”

“I’m not even here on official business,” Clark said, with a shy smile. “Is that it?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“Right.” Next time he’d toss it on the conveyor, John thought, and let the whole world think he was a cop. It had not pinged on the pen in his pocket. Wasn’t that interesting, or could be, if he had the Magic Pen. But he didn’t. Too bad.

It was a Boeing 737. Seattle must have sold a lot of them, Clark thought, looking around the uncomfortable lounge. Same architect, same crummy chairs. The same company who did the airliner seats? he wondered. Was that a conflict of interest, maybe?

There was Hadi, sitting in the nonsmoking sitting area. Not trying to call attention to himself? If so, good fieldcraft. Just sitting there reading a magazine, Newsweek, with cursory attention. Ten more minutes and they called the flight. Clark had lucked out and gotten a first-class seat, 4C. On the aisle, which was useful. He thought back to a recent commercial flight, but he’d had a pistol back then, unbeknownst to the British Airways cabin crew; would have alarmed them about as much as a carry-on bag full of dynamite sticks. Well, flight attendants were pretty girls for the most part, and it wouldn’t do to annoy them in any way. They worked hard for their lowly salaries. Hadi walked aboard with three people ahead of him, John saw, and ended up in 1A, the most forward window seat on the left side, maybe fifteen feet ahead of Clark and to the left. Three steps and he could snap the guy’s neck like a twig. He hadn’t done that, exactly, since Vietnam, where the men often had