Dead End Deal (32 page)

Dogs
. Shit. He might be able to hide here from the patrolman, but a dog would sniff him out in a second. Quickly, he slipped off his shoes and then his socks, figuring they’d be a strong enough scent to distract the dog and give him enough time to try the stairs again. He slid open the door to the cargo container, draped his socks on the edge, and then replaced his shoes. Without shutting the container door, he pushed it against the wall, then he was back in the stairwell he’d exited a few minutes ago.

He ran up the stairs to the first landing, paused to catch his breath, then cracked the door and peeked into a deserted hallway. He widened the crack for a better look, saw no one, darted into the hall, letting the door click shut behind him. Pausing for another deep breath and taking another second to calm down, he wiped his face with his hand then dried his hand on his pants. Two more big breaths and he had it together enough to continue. The names and titles on the doors indicated this was an administrative area rather than public but gave no clue as to which way to go, so he chose a direction at random and continued while wracking his brain for a story to spin if he ran into someone. After a series of Immigration and Security offices he came to an exit door at the end of the hall. But where did it go? Stairs back down to the baggage level? Into one of the concourses? Regardless, he needed to look like he belonged.

He opened the door and, without hesitating, entered a major concourse; travelers and flight attendants flowing past in both directions. Without stopping to look for signage, he melded into a clot of passengers, walked with purpose for another hundred feet before splintering off to stop next to the wall and try to figure out where he was. The ceiling signs told him he was heading toward Concourse B instead of Baggage Claim, so he reversed direction, rounded a corner into the main lobby, and stopped. Mounties patrolled the area, eyeing travelers, while additional Mounties were stationed at the doors to the passenger pick-up zone, paying particular attention to those exiting. He backed around the corner, spotted a metal fire door only ten feet away with a sign AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Well, shit. In for a pound or whatever that expression was.

It opened into a cinderblock stairwell with steel stairs and brown tubular railings heading up to another level or back down to the basement. He walked up to the next landing, cracked the unmarked door far enough to peer into a cavernous lobby of retail shops, fast-food restaurants, travelers, white noise, and ceiling signs to various concourses. The departure level.

Now what? Can’t very well stay in the stairwell
.

Again, he entered the lobby and stood by the entrance to the women’s toilet, playing the role of husband waiting for his wife, thinking this would give him an excuse to stand here a few minutes and think about his situation without being too conspicuous.

He figured by now the Mounties must realize the person who escaped the aircraft via the emergency door was him. The question was, how long would they search the airport before turning their attention to other, more pressing matters? No way to know. But common sense dictated that eventually they’d have to turn to other priorities. The longer he stayed hidden, the more likely he’d drop from their immediate radar. Perhaps the best strategy would be to remain hidden in plain sight until they slacked up at the exits. Where? He glanced around with this in mind. Maybe at a retail shop?

In a duty-free shop, he passed a display of soaps, perfumes, and chocolates, and continued to the back wall with a floor-toceiling rack of newspapers and magazines. He knelt behind a rack of gray flannel Vancouver, BC sweatshirts, picked a
Road & Track
at random from the bottom shelf, and started slowly leafing through it while listening for footsteps and scanning the immediate area in his peripheral vision.

“Sir?”

Startled, he jumped, turned toward the voice, and saw a salesclerk help another customer at the sweatshirt rack. He swallowed hard and returned to thumbing through magazines while his heart continued to pound in his chest.

A minute slowly died. Then two more. After several more minutes he realized that staying here much longer might, in itself, be an attention magnet. Okay, so what now?

He picked out an oversized gray sweatshirt and a Canucks cap, took them to the cashier. With the hat on he felt a bit more secure, and he cut a diagonal across the hall to the men’s room, a rectangle of white tiles, two sinks, two urinals, and, luckily, two empty stalls. He entered and locked the corner stall and sat down to think.

So far so good. He’d made it out of the plane without being arrested. Using Fisher’s logic, by not clearing Immigration, he wasn’t legally in Canada in spite of physically being in the airport. Right now he was in international limbo. With his forged passport now blown, any attempt to use it would be suicide. Yet somehow he had to figure out a way to cross the US border without being caught. He seriously doubted that once he was back in the States, Immigration would kick him out. Besides, at that point he could enlist the help of his new lawyer. Okay, fine, now what?

Think!

Call Fisher again? Yeah, he could do that, but Fisher made it clear there was little he could do to help. Certainly, Fisher couldn’t solve the immediate problem of how to sneak out of the airport. If he could just do that, he was certain it’d be easier to figure a way to cross the border.

Five minutes later he still didn’t have any sort of viable plan.

Have to do something
. After making sure his blazer contained nothing to link it back to him, he wadded it into a ball and stuffed it in the trash. Same with his damp shirt. At least with the sweatshirt and ball cap on, he no longer fit his earlier description.

He burnt another two hours in the stall before he figured it was time to venture out again to check security. He opened the stall door. One man stood at a urinal, another at a sink washing his hands. Both appeared to be travelers and not airport officials. For authenticity Jon flushed the toilet and pretended to cinch up his belt. At the sink, he washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face. The man at the other sink left. The one at the urinal zipped up and exited without so much as a second look. Jon decided to go out, maybe find another men’s room, kill some more time. Every minute he wasted in here blunted RCMP attention.

About thirty feet into the hall the greasy smell of hot dogs caught his attention.

Jon dumped the change into a tip jar, carried the small plastic tray with two slices of pepperoni pizza and a medium Diet Coke to a table as far from the hallway as possible. Back here, he wouldn’t appear to be hiding, yet he’d be well away from the flux of people. And if someone did notice him, he was only one table from the rear exit, good positioning if he needed to run.

He ate slowly, like someone with hours to kill between connections, yet watching and listening for the slightest hint of someone recognizing him. What exactly that might be, he wasn’t sure, but figured he’d know if it happened. Within minutes the tempo of his surroundings became routine: repeated warnings to not leave bags unattended, calls to a white courtesy phone, announcements for flight departures, the white noise of hundreds of passing conversations mixed into the rattle of luggage wheels on the floor. Behind the counter an ancient Sony boom box played Bob Dylan’s “All Along the Watchtower” in direct competition to Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” from the overhead PA.

He wondered what Yeonhee was doing. He hoped she was alright. And he really didn’t like her boyfriend. Would she really marry Jung-Kyo?

Suddenly, the semiconscious information-processing part of his brain jolted him out of a daydream. Down the hall, to his right, two serious-looking security officers were heading his way, slow walking, scanning people, casting occasional glances in retail shops. Casually, Jon shifted position, turning his side to them, head down, while still tracking them in his peripheral vision. They stopped, turned to watch a male pass, conversed a moment before resuming their meandering patrol in his direction.

Jon picked up a piece of pizza crust and began chewing, cupping his cheek in his hand, elbow on the table, turning further in his chair to where he no longer saw them. And waited.

A few moments later they passed the dining area, still chatting with each other, never casting him a second glance. He relaxed. Maybe, just maybe, he could pull this off. Every minute undetected was a very good minute because soon security would relax enough so maybe he could get out of the airport.

M
EAL FINISHED, HE
decided it would feel good to really freshen up more than just a face rinse.

On the way to the men’s room he stopped in a small shop and picked up a travel-size deodorant stick, a disposable razor, a small athletic bag, a book, and a few magazines. Again, the clerk paid more attention to making change than to his face.

At the sink, sweatshirt around his waist, Jon rinsed his face before using hand soap for lather, shaved, used a wad of wet paper towels to sponge a layer of dried sweat from his chest and arms, then dried off in a stream of warm air from a wall-mounted blower. He put the sweatshirt back on, finger-combed his hair, replaced the ball cap, and for the first time in hours, felt halfway decent.

Now what? He returned to a toilet stall to kill more time before making a serious attempt to leave the building. Sooner or later the police would assume he’d escaped and give up. For now, he was resigned to being stuck here.

He was turning a page of his book when the clatter of wheels became obvious, then grew louder, as if something was entering the room. He leaned forward to peer through the gap between the stall door and divider. A maintenance worker was positioning a pushcart with a black Hefty garbage bag on one end and two brooms sticking up from the other. After blocking the entrance with a yellow A-frame Wet Floor sign, he started emptying the trash bins and cleaning up.

“Going to be in there long?” the janitor called.

Jon marked the page with his thumb and leaned forward to peer through the slit again. The guy faced his stall with an annoyed expression.

Jon said, “Yeah, might be. Why?”

“Need to service the stall.”

“Don’t worry, it’s clean.”

“Maybe, but I need to restock the toilet paper holders and make sure the seat cover container’s full.”

Wonderful
.
An obsessive-compulsive
. “Give me a few minutes.” Jon found his place on the page and continued reading, figuring it wouldn’t take long for the guy to get fed up and leave.

He didn’t.

Page finished, Jon tore off a couple lengths of toilet paper for the sound effect, wadded and dumped them in the toilet, stood, used his foot to press the flush lever, and walked to the newly cleaned sink. The janitor watched him wash up and leave.

Back at the gift shop Jon studied the magazine rack until he saw the janitor push the cart back into the hall and collect the yellow A-frame sign. A moment later he was back in the same toilet stall, reading.

“There a problem, sir?”

Surprised, Jon glanced up at the locked door. He hadn’t heard anyone come in.

“Sir?” More emphatic, more demanding this time.

Jon got an uneasy feeling. The voice carried too much authority to be another janitor. “You talking to me?”

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

Jon checked his watch. Thirty minutes since coming back in here. He peeked out the slit.
Shit!
A Royal Canadian Mounted Police officer stood directly in front of his stall. “Sorry, did you say something?”

The cop leaned closer to the door. “There a problem?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Cause you been in here twice in the last hour.”

Mind racing, he started sorting through likely excuses, searching for something at least halfway reasonable. What?
Travel . . . something to do with travel
.

“A problem? Yes. Nothing major though. Must’ve picked up a bug in Mexico. Touch of diarrhea . . . nothing serious.”
Shut up
.
Don’t overdo it
.

The Mountie put his hands on his hips. “That why you’ve been hanging around?”

Jon figured someone must’ve noticed him on a security video. The airport was full of ceiling-mounted CCTV cameras. But so what? Travelers not infrequently endured lengthy delays between flights.

“Is that a problem?” Jon rattled the toilet paper dispenser for effect.

“Matter of fact, it is. For security purposes we don’t like travelers to loiter. Same reason we don’t allow people to park in front of the passenger loading bays.”

He didn’t want to leave the stall and come face-to-face with the officer. Would he give him a few minutes? “Okay. I’ll leave soon as I finish here.”

“I’ll wait.”

Shit!
Jon flushed the toilet, stood, rattled his belt buckle, opened the stall door. The RCMP officer looked him over. “Waiting for a flight?”

Jon moved past him to the sink to wash his hands. Anything to keep him from looking directly at his face. “Not exactly.” Mind racing again, searching for a dovetailing lie. “I was scheduled for a stop in Vancouver. A business trip. But my boss asked me to go over to Victoria first. My luggage didn’t come off the flight, so I’ve been waiting to collect it before catching the Victoria flight.” He ripped off a paper towel, thought,
hey, that didn’t sound too bad
.

“Sorry, but I can’t allow you to loiter here. Either wait in town for your luggage or catch a flight, but you can’t wait here in the terminal. While we’re on the subject, I want to see some identification.”

Oh man, here we go
. “Not a problem.” Jon handed over the forged passport.

51

T
HE RCMP OFFICER
flipped through the passport, inspecting some pages, ignoring others. “Travel a lot, I see.”

Jon’s legs felt rubbery, ready to collapse, so he put a hand against the wall for support, hoping the officer wouldn’t notice his nervousness. “I do. Business . . . a lot of business travel.”