Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 38

They left the Connaught in a limousine, in plenty of time for their flight. Traffic was lighter than Sandy had expected, and the drive to the airport was shorter than usual. At the airport, they went through security, then were checked into first class, and Sandy never stopped looking around the terminal.

They settled into a corner of the first-class lounge, since they were early for their flight, and nibbled on sandwiches. Sandy arranged himself facing the door. If they were going to run into Peter Martindale, he wanted to see him first.

Their flight was called on time, and they took the short walk to the gate. Aboard the aircraft, Sandy put their carry-on luggage into an overhead bin and chose two seats that allowed them to view the other passengers in the compartment. First class was underpopulated on that day, he thought; only four other passengers shared the compartment with them. Sandy ordered Buck's Fizzes, and they sipped the drinks while the business and tourist classes boarded. To Sandy's relief, no other passengers entered the first-class compartment.

Exactly on time, the aircraft pushed back from the boarding chute and began to taxi toward the runway. Then, abruptly, the big jet made a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and started back the way it had come.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice said. "This is your captain speaking. We've been directed to return to the boarding gate to pick up a passenger. We anticipate only a short delay, and we should be in the air inside half an hour. We apologize for any inconvenience."

Sandy stiffened. He thought they'd gotten away clean, but now they were headed back. He had no doubt, somehow, who the new passenger would be. The aircraft trundled along the tarmac for a while, then came to rest at a boarding gate. The engines were never turned off. The usual noises of the boarding chute being attached came through the hull of the airplane, then receded.

Sandy braced himself. Then, to his surprise, not one but half a dozen passengers entered first class, and none of them was Peter Martindale. Instead, they were six Arabic-looking men in an odd assortment of suits, a couple of them cheap and ill-fitting, others sharply tailored. Sandy thought he recognized one of them, a balding, heavyset man with a thick moustache, but he could not place the face. The men took their seats, the airplane was pushed back again, and soon, as the captain had promised, they were in the air, flying west.

The stewardess was handing out menus and entertainment programs when Sandy turned to Cara. "Does the man in the front row look familiar to you? The one with the moustache?"

Cara shook her head. "Probably some Middle Eastern politician. With our luck, there's probably a bomb on board, too."

Sandy laughed. "With our luck," he echoed.

"You know," Cara said, perusing the program in her hand, "I've never seen Strangers on a Train. In the circumstances, maybe I should."

"Thank God we have individual screens," Sandy said, rolling his eyes. "I'm watching Singin' in the Rain." He placed his film order, adjusted his headset, and reclined his seat to a comfortable angle. Somewhere during the Hollywood party scene, he fell sound asleep.

When he awoke, lunch was being served, and the Arab party was making a good deal of noise, talking loudly and drinking a lot of champagne. So much for Muslim rules against alcohol, Sandy thought.

When they had finished lunch, Cara got her briefcase down from the overhead storage compartment and set it on her table.

"This seems like a good time to do a little business," she said. "It's long overdue, in fact."

"What's up?" Sandy asked.

"You haven't seen the sketches for your apartment." One by one, she showed him nicely executed drawings of her designs for each room of his home.

"I love them," he said. "I love them all. Don't change a thing, unless there's something extra you want. After all, I want you to feel as much at home there as I do."

She smiled at him. "I'm glad you like them. In fact, I think I unconsciously projected my own tastes into these designs. I wonder why?" She showed him photographs of upholstered furniture she was recommending, and he approved them all. "I didn't bring fabric samples," she said. "We can go over those when we get home."

Sandy shook his head. "Don't bother showing them to me. Choose the fabrics you like and order the furniture."

"All my clients should be as easy as you," she said.

"Nobody is as easy as I am," he replied, "and you don't have any other clients. That's the way I want to keep it, too."

The pilot made up lost time, and they arrived at Kennedy on schedule. Their luggage came up quickly, and they were soon through customs, but not quite as quickly as the party of Arabs from first class, who had apparently received VIP treatment from the officials. Sandy, pushing a luggage cart and with Cara on his arm, emerged into the arrivals area just behind the group of men, and he was unprepared for the reception that met them. Flashbulbs were going off, and ahead of the Arab party he could see a phalanx of newsmen standing impatiently behind a rope held by a pair of policemen, shouting questions at the Arabs.

The next part of their reception seemed to happen in slow motion. A dark-skinned man among the reporters, wearing a trench coat and carrying a camera, suddenly dropped the camera and produced some sort of automatic weapon from under his coat. By the purest chance, Sandy happened to be looking directly at him as this occurred, and he knew immediately what would happen next. He let go of the luggage cart, turned toward Cara and knocked her down with his body, falling on top of her.

As they fell, gunfire erupted in the terminal, followed immediately by loud screams and general chaos. Sandy did not look around him; he kept his head down and Cara's face in his chest. No more than ten seconds later, the firing stopped, but not the yelling. Sandy waited another ten seconds before raising his head.

The first thing he noticed was that his left forearm was covered in blood, and after a second's thought, he decided it was not his. Many people were on the floor, and only a few were beginning to get up. The two uniformed policemen, pistols drawn, were standing over a huddled figure, kicking him and screaming at him. The armed photographer, Sandy assumed. Other policemen were running into the terminal from outside.

Sandy got to his knees and looked down at Cara. "Are you all right?" he asked..

"I nearly smothered, I think, but I'm all right. What happened?" She got up onto an elbow and looked at the Arab party. "Oh, dear God," she half-whispered.

Sandy helped her to her feet and put his arms around her.

"Sandy! You're hurt!" Cara yelled. "Your arm!"

"It's not my blood," he said. "I'm all right." He looked down and saw whose blood it was. The familiar-looking Arab from first class lay at his feet, his chest a mass of blood, part of his head shot away.

Suddenly, a man in civilian clothes flashing a badge was in their faces, shouting, "You two! Over there! Into that office, now!"

Sandy hustled Cara toward the room, grateful to get away from all the screaming and blood.