False Dawn

15

But I don’t like Washington in the summer…” I said.

Robert Foley didn’t seem to care.

“… or the rest of the year, for that matter.”

He sat on the vinyl sofa, reading a newspaper, ignoring me. His tie was at half mast, and his white shirt wrinkled. His creased face was pale and drawn. Maybe baby-sitting for me was a tiring job. Around us, a potpourri of government agents went about their tasks. There were customs inspectors in uniform, DEA agents in plainclothes, one with a German shepherd, and a variety of federal employees wearing photo ID badges and toiling at various secretive tasks in that governmental tempo that is somewhere between slow motion and a dead halt. In the center of the room, a dozen cubicles each contained eight miniature television monitors. Bleary-eyed women scanned the screens, occasionally whispering into their headsets. We were deep in the bowels of the airport in a restricted federal area. The sign on the door said simply, SPECIAL SERVICES.

I was watching the inside of the door when Foley said, “You don’t have to go with me. Leave now if you want. I’ll get you a cab.”

“Uh-huh. Only the cab driver has a different kind of license, right?”

“What?”

“A license to kill.”

“Lassiter, you see too many movies. We haven’t done that sort of thing in years. At least not domestically.”

On the wall was a panel with numbers one through fifty. Four or five numbers were blinking at once. Another lighted panel showed arriving and departing international flights with a matching number from one to fifty.

“Okay, I think I’ll leave now,” I told him. “I need to put some ice on this knee.”

Foley went back to his newspaper.

I stood, straightened my bum leg, and said, “Well, I guess this is good-bye. Next time you’re in Miami, do me a favor. Don’t call me.”

“Oh, you’ll be seeing me at the trial.”

“What trial?”

Foley put down the newspaper, creasing the folds as if it were the flag at Arlington. “Yours, pal. For the murder of Francisco Crespo.”

The board showed a flight arriving from Bogota. Three numbers started blinking. Had I heard him right? He couldn’t have said what I thought he said.

“Your prints are all over that trailer, Lassiter. You tell us a cock-and-bull story about a man dressed in brown running away. There were a hundred people in that park, and nobody saw your mystery man.”

“A hundred people from south of the border, but not one green card in the bunch. Of course nobody saw anything.”

Foley beamed. He looked genuinely happy. “Oh, I wouldn’t put it that way. Three witnesses saw you go into Crespo’s trailer and heard two muffled popping sounds maybe a minute later.”

“Bullshit! It was the other way around. I went in after-”

“That’s not what the witnesses say.”

I sunk back into the sofa. My knee throbbed. “I take it back. There’ll be three green cards in that park by next week.”

“Sorry, Lassiter, but you’ll be indicted for second-degree murder. As the English say, a nasty bit of business.”

“You prick! You bastard! You scum-sucking pig!”

Around us, various civil servants stopped to watch. Or did they just slow their tempo another nanosecond? The German shepherd padded over and sniffed my leg for contraband, or maybe just to see if I was edible.

“Why would I shoot Crespo?”

“Ah, yes, motive. Hard to get a conviction without one, but why should I tell you your business? Some dispute over fee splitting. Crespo wanted a bigger cut of the cases he sent your way. You brushed him off. He threatened you with exposure and disbarment. You warned him once. He persisted. You offed him.”

“You bullshit artist! I never split a fee with Crespo or anybody else.”

“Then how do you explain the letter written in your own hand?”

“What letter?”

He opened a thin briefcase and removed a one-page photocopy. “Exhibit A,” he announced.

I grabbed it. My handwriting all right. A curt little note telling Crespo to lay off or he’d regret it. And my signature at the bottom, a forgery so good even I couldn’t tell it wasn’t real.

I balled up the note and tossed it back at Foley. “That’s why you had me write out a statement, you fuckhead.”

He took an identical copy from his briefcase and admired it. There seemed to be half a dozen copies. “The exemplar was quite useful, I admit.”

“Who’s going to believe this? What kind of asshole would write a letter like that?”

He smiled and put the letter back into the briefcase. “I believe that’s what you lawyers call a jury question.”

“I ought to kick your ass.”

“Go ahead. Assaulting a federal officer is pretty tame stuff compared to the trouble you’re in.” He smiled again and leaned toward me. “Of course, I could help you out. I could see to it that Socolow never gets this letter and those wetback witnesses all end up working in the Post Office in Corpus Christi.”

“Who do I have to kill?”

“Don’t be so melodramatic. All you have to do is sign a confidentiality agreement. Not a word about Operation Riptide to anybody, ever.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“Why not have your handwriting guy just sign it for me, save the trouble?”

“Not for this one. We’ll go to the Farm at Langley, videotape the signing, have you state for the record you’re not being coerced, that sort of thing.”

“What makes me think you’ve got the statement all typed up and neatly bound in blue-backed paper inside your government-issue briefcase?”

He opened the case and beamed. “Because you recognize efficiency and grudgingly admire it.”

He handed me a three-page document, which, by golly, was stapled to a blue backing with a gold government seal. I skimmed it. “You prick, Foley. This isn’t a confidentiality agreement. It’s a confession to the murder of Francisco Crespo.”

“Best confidentiality agreement I know. It goes in the safe in Langley. It’ll never see the light of day as long as you keep your mouth shut. You talk, or do anything contrary to our interests, the confession will be in Socolow’s hands quicker than shit through a goose.”

“Or the next Socolow, or the one after that. There’s no statute of limitations on murder. You guys would have something over me for the rest of my life.”

“Hey, nobody promised you a rose garden. I’m just trying to help you out here. So think about it.” He looked at his watch. “Flight leaves in ninety minutes.”

I asked Foley if I could use the phone to call my secretary. He grunted an okay and told me I was free to call the Prince of Wales if I wanted. I used an unmanned desk out of Foley’s earshot and caught Cindy at home.

“What is it, boss? I’m late for ladies’ night at the Crazy Horse.”

“Sorry to make you miss the Chippendales.”

“Nah, it’s the lifeguards from Daytona Beach, all those tan lines.” The line buzzed with faraway static as she paused. “Whadaya mean, miss…?”

“You remember how to write a writ?”

“Now?”

“C’mon, Cindy. I need a writ of prejudgment attachment under Chapter Seventy-six, and I need it quick.”

“Courthouse is closed, el jefe.”

“Call Judge Boulton at home. Prepare a short complaint, emergency motion, and affidavit. You swear to it. If you’re indicted for perjury, I’ll get you a good lawyer. The property to be attached is a one-page document belonging to me. At least, it seems to have my signature on it. An original and some copies, I don’t know how many, so plead it broadly. The document is a letter with no monetary value, so we don’t need to post a bond. The tortfeasor, one Robert T. Foley, is about to flee the jurisdiction, which gives us the statutory basis for prejudgment relief. Unless we secure the property now, the normal process of the court will be for naught, blah, blah, blah. Get it?”

“Yeah. The usual bullcrap boilerplate.”

“Good. Get the writ signed by the judge and hustle it to Concourse F, gate eleven at the airport, and I mean quick. Better bring the biggest process server you can find. Maybe one of the guys who used to repo Harleys from that Broward biker gang.”

I hung up and walked back to Foley, who sat placidly, hands in his lap, watching me. “Well?”

“I’m yours,” I told him.

“Good. I’ll file a report. Then we’ll head to the gate.”

He moved to one of the empty desks, worked quietly on a computer for half an hour, printed out a multipage document, and used an intercom to ask a young woman to fax it to Langley. Then he came back to where I was sitting. “Let’s go, counselor.”

An elevator took us to Concourse F for the Delta flight to Dulles. I was still limping as we passed through the X-ray machine and then the neutron explosive detector. It scans for gamma rays, an indicator of high-density nitrogen. We didn’t ring any bells, so I assumed Foley was neither armed with his Beretta nor carrying TNT in his Jockey shorts.

We sat at the gate until a loudspeaker announced that cattle with coach tickets were now being herded to the rear of the aircraft. Anyone within flushing distance of the aft lavatory should begin boarding. So should expense account first-class types, if they so desired. Foley stirred and stood up. I didn’t move.

“I need a drink,” I told him.

“What?”

“Always have one before a flight. Sometimes two. Calms my nerves.”

“You can get a drink on the-”

“No, need it now. It’s a ritual.”

The bar was twenty paces away. Airports may be big and noisy, sterile and dehumanizing, but the best ones use every spare inch for taverns with cushioned barstools and televisions tuned to the sports channel.

“Okay,” Foley said, “but make it quick.”

I ordered a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, changed it to a double, and made myself comfortable on a high stool. Foley stood next to me, pulled a pack of Camels from his coat pocket, and lighted one. They called the flight a second time. Passengers in the middle rows who would get trapped by the food carts should begin boarding. I sipped at my drink, and Foley crushed his half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray. “C’mon, Lassiter.”

I drained the drink and motioned the bartender for another. “Lots of time,” I said. “They probably haven’t gotten the pilot out of the detox center yet.”

When the second drink arrived, I swirled the glass, watching the auburn liquid crash into the ice cubes like waves against a rocky shore. I usually stay away from hard liquor, and now I already felt a spreading warmth that moved from my stomach to my chest and, if given half a chance, would spread to my toes.

“Final boarding call for Flight three-seventy-six to Washington-Dulles,” a voice announced. They used to just say “Dulles,” but a lot of passengers headed to Dallas ended up on the wrong plane.

“C’mon!” Foley ordered. “We’re on our way.”

I stood, stretched, reached into my wallet, and found a fifty. “Gotta get my change,” I said, sliding the bill across the bar. We waited for the bartender to put the fifty under what could have been an electron microscope. Next he dribbled some blue chemical on the bill and showed it to the manager, who seemed to memorize the serial number before autographing it. Finally, I had my change. Deliberately, I calculated a tip, peeled off five dollar bills as slowly as possible-counting them three times-thanked the bartender for his outstanding service, and finally wished him a good day in English, Spanish, and Serbo-Croatian. Then I joined an impatient Robert Foley for a short walk to the gate. As I did, I took a peek up the concourse toward the terminal.

No Cindy.

No bullnecked process server with a writ.

Lots of harried tourists with bulging shopping bags and salesmen with briefcases and career women with hanging bags and go-to-hell looks. And one sawed-off, bandy-legged bearded guy in a suit that hadn’t been out of the closet since Ike was in the White House. He hustled past a sunburned family carrying boxes of duty-free liquor from the islands.

“Mr. Foley,” he called out. “ Sistere! Stop!”

Foley turned and scowled. It took him a moment. “You’re that retired canoe maker, aren’t you? What the fuck do you want?”

Doc Charlie Riggs was out of breath. “The documents in your briefcase,” he said, puffing, “the ones bearing Mr. Lassiter’s signature.” Politely, Charlie handed Foley certified copies of the complaint, motion, affidavit, and writ. It was pretty impressive, if legal jargon impresses you. “You are under court order to forthwith deliver to the plaintiff-” Charlie cleared his throat, ah-chem, “-Mr. Lassiter here, the original document described herein and all copies, pending a subsequent hearing to be duly noticed by the court.”

Foley’s reply was not learned in Civil Procedure I. “Go shit in your hat.”

“Dear me,” Charlie said. “Judge Boulton would not appreciate that. Indeed, once I report to her that you were served with process just as you were about to leave the jurisdiction, in flagrante delicto, while the crime was blazing, and that you ignored a duly issued court order, she’ll-”

“Tel! her to go fuck a duck.”

From behind Charlie, two uniformed airport policemen appeared. “This him?” one asked.

Charlie turned and nodded.

“If he’s giving you any trouble, Officer Riggs, we can take him in,” the other said.

“ Officer Riggs!” Foley was turning pink. “This old fart’s a quack, a retired sawbones. What the fuck’s going on here?”

“We know exactly who the gentleman is,” said one of the cops, a trim black man with perfect posture. “When the Eastern L-1011 went down in the Glades, Doc Riggs was on the scene within fifteen minutes. He happens to be an honorary police officer, and we give him all due respect.” The policeman’s eyes narrowed. “On the other hand, we don’t know you from a lump of gator shit. Now, if there’s a problem complying with a court order, we can go downtown…”

“That won’t be necessary, officer,” Foley replied through clenched teeth, opening his briefcase and pulling out a sheaf of documents. He wheeled toward me. “We’ve still got the witnesses, Lassiter.”

“Fine. When they crumble on cross-examination, maybe some folks will want to know why government agents are suborning perjury.”

Foley thrust the documents at me. “You can run, but you can’t hide, Lassiter. This isn’t over.”

“No. Not for you and not for me. But for Francisco Crespo, it is.”

I hobbled off, my arm around Charlie Riggs, who was muttering something about missing one of the better episodes of Quincy in order to run this errand. In the main terminal, we took the elevator to the bar in the airport hotel. It has a fine view of planes taking off and landing.

I ordered a beer to chase away the bourbon, and a bowl of conch chowder because I was hungry. The chowder was tomato-based the way I like it, heavy on the conch, light on the vegetables. I poured a few drops of sherry into it and munched some saltines while we talked.

“What now?” Charlie asked.

“A Russian named Kharchenko is coming to Miami tomorrow. He’s bringing a stolen painting with him, another Matisse. Plus there’s a freighter that left Helsinki loaded with stolen art.”

“Freighter?” Charlie’s bushy eyebrows arched toward the mirrored ceiling.

“That’s what Foley said, and just that way, when Yagamata told him. Like, ‘holy cow.’”

Charlie whistled. “They’re getting greedy. Even a valise filled with precious objects could be worth millions.” He was quiet a moment, his forehead furrowed in thought. “Did you say Helsinki?”

“Yeah.”

Charlie scratched his beard, then his head, warming up those brain cells. “Makes sense, geographically. Take a look.” He pulled out a pen, grabbed a cocktail napkin and began drawing what I took to be a map of Russia’s western border. “Here’s St. Petersburg,” he said. “It was Russia’s Window to the West during the time of Peter the Great, and it still is. Helsinki can’t be more than what, two hundred to three hundred miles due west across the Gulf of Finland, right here at the sixtieth parallel.” Charlie made a horizontal line connecting the two cities. “When Yagamata’s people get the art out of Russia, they’ve got to take it somewhere, a storage and distribution point, preferably in a Western country with a free flow of tourists and easy border crossings.”

That reminded me of something. “Severo Soto told me that Smorodinsky and his brother used Finland as an intermediate point.”

Outside the windows, a 747 was lumbering off toward a runway. Charlie nodded. “Russia is Finland’s largest trading partner. It wouldn’t be unusual to ship goods in that direction. Then the art could be hidden in shipments from Finland to the States. I’ll wager that the manifest shows glassware and wood products. There’s a great deal of trade going on with items about the right size for hiding contraband. There shouldn’t be much trouble with U.S. Customs. It’s not like getting goods from Colombia or Peru. Nobody expects anything illegal from Scandinavia.”

“So what do I look for?”

“ In cauda venenum, the poison is in the tail.”

“What?”

“Watch out for the part you can’t see. Whoever shot Francisco Crespo was part of something much bigger than some art thefts, no matter how much money is involved.” Charlie dipped a spoon in my chowder, took a sip, looked appreciative, and ordered a bowl of his own. “There’ll likely be an interlocking network of Russian and Finnish nationals, a real international cast of characters if they’re using other countries for shipping.” Too hungry to wait for his chowder, Charlie slid my bowl toward himself and spooned out meaty chunks of conch. Between slurps, he said, “What else is there, Jake? What else do you know?”

“There’s a woman picking him up. Sue Molaynen, or something like that.”

After a moment Charlie said, “ Suomalainen? ”

“Yeah, you know her?”

“Jake, a suomalainen is a citizen of Suomi, or what we call Finland.”

Oh. Where does he learn this stuff? I felt like I was being sent into a game, and I didn’t know the plays. It was starting to overwhelm me.

“Look, Charlie, if anything happens to me, you know that graphite spinning rod of mine you’ve been admiring for a long-”

“Hush! Quaere verum. Seek the truth and do what you have to do. When this is over, Jake, we’ll go fishing together.”

I could have gone home. Charlie would have given me a ride, or I could have taken a cab. But I didn’t go. I said good-bye to Charlie, took the elevator back to the terminal, ducked out an “Airline Personnel Only” door, and limped across the tarmac, weaving between a 727 about to taxi out, and a DC-9 easing up to the jetway. A guy with two flashlights and protective eargear gave me a dirty look, but I kept going. The door was open at the foot of Concourse E, and I went up the stairs.

I put some coins into a machine and bought the local newspaper. I sat down at a departure gate and buried my head in the sports section. Baseball and golf. What a lousy time of year. The pro football draft was history, but the league’s summer camps hadn’t opened yet. Not a word about the Dolphins. Sports was so boring this time of year, I might be forced to read the business section. Why not? I had lots of time.

The airport is a sort of high-tech prison with air-conditioning and souvenir stands. It has its amenities, a decent raw bar in the terminal, countless taverns and ice cream stands, rest rooms and telephones. You can buy T-shirts with funny slogans as gag gifts or battery-operated toys that will never work at home. The airport is designed to make agonizing waits, if not pleasant, at least tolerable, while relieving you of the contents of your wallet. It is a modern way station between anywhere and home.

I wasn’t leaving town, and I wasn’t going home. The egress road from the airport is one-way headed east. A mile from the terminal, you can swing south onto LeJeune and head into Coral Gables, or take the expressway to Miami Beach. Go west, and you’re aiming for the Everglades. Take LeJeune north, and you’ll hit Hialeah. But it would only require one police car at the ramp to stop every car leaving the airport. I wasn’t leaving, not for a while. I wasn’t giving Foley a chance to come up with another stunt to get me out of the way.

Even if I made it out of here and buried myself somewhere, I’d have to come back to the airport tomorrow, anyway. As in Edgar Allan Poe’s “Purloined Letter,” maybe the best hiding spot is the most visible one.

Over the loudspeaker, a man named Milligan was being paged, and it gave me an idea. I had all night to think about it. So I settled back into the molded plastic chair by a Delta Air Lines gate and let my mind drift. I closed my eyes and wondered, first, what a man named Kharchenko was up to, and second, what the son of a bitch looked like.

T he gun was pointed at my chest. A little gun that could punch little holes straight through my chest and out my back. Blood dripped onto the butt from the big man’s torn thumb. Silver, luminous smoke drifted toward the ceiling.

No one said a word. Not the beefy, beered-up lout with the gun. Not the open-mouthed patrons who drifted in a semicircle around us, eyes glistening with excitement. Not the young woman whose honor I defended and who now backed away, her shoes scraping the floor.

And not me. Jake Lassiter, reserve linebacker and second-string dragonslayer, was too scared to talk. Big Mouth was sneering, baring his teeth, daring me to make a move.

I didn’t.

Petrified. Each foot weighed a ton. My breathing was labored, my chest constricted. On the jukebox, the Doobie Brothers were singing, but no one was listening.

Finally, Big Mouth said something, the sounds dense and ponderous like a tape recording played a speed too slow. I strained to hear, the words echoing. “Who… who’s… gonna help you now, asshole?”

I tried to answer but was mute. I tried to move but was frozen. Then I saw him, silent as a shadow, moving toward the big man. Was he real or did I conjure him up? I hadn’t seen him in the crowded bar, but he’d seen me, and now, there he was, a guardian angel without wings or halo.

But with a knife.

Francisco Crespo.

For a second I lost sight of him, but then he materialized again a step behind and just to the left of Big Mouth. As the man’s fat thumb pulled back the hammer of his gun, I heard the cl-ick, and simultaneously, Crespo flicked his wrist, and a six-inch steel blade flashed out of a black onyx handle. Big Mouth heard the blade whipping into place, and his eyes widening, he wheeled to his left, the gun swiveling toward Crespo.

Crespo drove his hand forward, straight and hard, with no wasted motion. The blade struck between the sixth and seventh ribs and plunged straight into the man’s heart. His mouth opened, a startled look, and his eyes shifted from Crespo, to me, to the blade jammed in his chest. Crespo pulled out the knife with a wet, sucking plop, then watched the man crumple to the floor.

No longer an apparition, Crespo was a small, wiry agent of doom, his face devoid of expression. He leaned over, wiped the knife on the man’s shirt, straightened, folded the blade into its handle, nodded to me, and walked out. The bar patrons scattered as he left.

Then I saw it again, just as always, this time at dreamscape speed, the gun pointing at me, Crespo appearing in the crowd, and I heard the sounds again, the man’s raspy voice, the wailing jukebox, the cl-ick of the hammer, the snap of the blade, and the plop of punctured tissue. Over and over, slower and slower, until I chased the foggy ribbons out of my head and shook myself awake, realizing where I was and how long ago it had been.

Now I checked my watch. Three-thirty A.M. I stood and stretched. My shirt was clammy, my back stiff. I curled up again in the molded plastic chair created by a noted designer who was a distant cousin of the Marquis de Sade. As I groped for sleep that eluded me, the rest of it emerged from deeply etched memory.

Two patrolmen were there in seven minutes, the homicide detective in another twenty. Everyone in the bar suffered from either myopia or amnesia. Except me, and the best I could do was recollect a six-foot-five, husky Anglo with a knife, a guy with short red hair and a flag tattoo. Looked like a marine, I told the cops.

T he day began with the roar of floor polishers moving down the deserted concourse. My head was filled with sand and my back needed half a dozen spinal twists to work out the crinks and knots. I bought a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a ninety-five-cent razor in the sundries shop, rinsed my face with cold water, and went to a counter to borrow the Official Airline Guide, international edition. Sure enough, a Finnair flight would arrive at JFK nonstop from Helsinki just after noon. I switched books to the national edition and tried to figure the connecting flight.

Easy. American Airlines had a two o’clock nonstop, JFK to Miami. Enough time to clear customs in New York and climb aboard. The clincher. Finnair and American shared terminal space. No need to hop the bus and go round the horn from terminal to terminal.

I had the day to kill, so I bought a couple magazines, a Travis McGee paperback, and a bag of jelly beans. When a Metro policeman eyed me at midday, I sat still until he passed, then changed concourses.

The American flight from JFK was an hour late. The plane was supposed to do a turnaround, and the gate area was crowded with angry folks who couldn’t board because the aircraft wasn’t here yet. Some businessmen in suits, ties loosened, already dreading yet another delay. Tourists with bawling children going home, carry-ons stuffed with presents and mementos. A blond boy of about seven was playing with one of those remote-control cars, zooming it across the tile, banging into walls, getting the hang of the steering. Nearby, a few tourists lingered at the magazine stand. A young couple shared one chair. Newlyweds, probably, or maybe they always groped each other at airport gates.

I tried to blend in with the crowd. Finally, a scratchy public address system announced the arrival of the flight, and a few minutes later a 727 pulled up to the jetway. I walked across the corridor to a pay phone that had clear line of sight to the arrival gate and dialed the airline’s number. After a “Please hold,” and “I’ll transfer you now,” and then a repeat of both messages, I told the clerk my problem and asked for a teensy-weensy favor. Then I hung up and waited, watching the counter.

Passengers were already disembarking, but nothing happened. The counter clerk, a young man with a frizzy mustache, seemed preoccupied with a family of six who must not have liked their seat assignments. More passengers streamed out, a mix of tourists and businessmen. I watched a middle-aged gray-haired man in a blue suit. Did he look Russian? A body-builder type in blue jeans and a leather jacket walked out. Was that Kharchenko? A round-shouldered man in wire-rimmed glasses could have been an art expert. No one was carrying a cardboard tube, but it might have been in the luggage. Then again, maybe this was the wrong flight. I looked down the concourse at a mass of humanity, realizing the difficulty of my task.

A moment later, the counter clerk lifted the microphone, pushed the button, and solemnly announced, “Arriving passenger, Mr. Kharchenko. Please report to the counter and pick up the red courtesy telephone.”

I waited some more, aware I was staring, catching a few curious glances back from the passengers. I picked up the pay phone again and pretended to talk to my Granny, complaining loudly about the sorry state of bass fishing in Lake Okeechobee.

The plane must have been nearly empty by now. Again, the clerk picked up the microphone. “Arriving passenger, Mr. Kharchenko…”

The man stopped dead, but just for a second, his head swiveling left and right. Then he resumed walking. A thick-necked, burly man in a brown suit, beige shirt, and brown knit tie. He carried a soft leather bag that could have held a cardboard tube. He was one of those toe walkers, not bouncing along, but gliding, his heels never touching the floor. The man had graying short hair and was close to six feet, and though the suit was baggy, I could see the outline of broad shoulders.

“… Please report to the front counter and pick up the red courtesy phone, Mr. Kharchenko.”

He never stopped. He walked right by the counter. Just as he did, the little blond boy’s race car turned a corner and headed right for the man. When it was nearly at his feet, he skipped over it.

It was an odd sight, the sturdy man giving a little hoppity-hop over the car, without breaking stride, landing on his toes. It took a second for me to figure it out, why it seemed so peculiar. He hadn’t been looking down. He had been scanning the gate area and the concourse and the bank of phones where I stood pretending to talk to my Granny. He’d been watching everything around him, his eyes fixing on me momentarily as he covered the expanse of the concourse, the magazine stand, the duty-free shop, the soft-pretzel stand, the candy wagon. He gave the impression that his every sense was primed and alert. He was cautious and agile and strong, and as I laughed at some imaginary joke, I knew it was him.

He didn’t answer the page because he had been trained not to. His ticket probably was not in the name of Kharchenko. No one would call him here, at least no one he wanted to speak to. But I had found him just the same, and as he turned the corner and headed toward the terminal, I was busy congratulating myself. Falling in behind him, staring at his broad back, I realized that I had seen him before. I had never seen his face, or if I had, it hadn’t registered. But I had seen him. I had chased him through a trail of lawn chairs and hibachis. I had watched him duck low and scramble effortlessly under a clothesline.

Sure, Kharchenko, I know you. I just missed seeing you kill Francisco Crespo.