tactical protocol, ingrained from years in the field, demanded it.
Janson sprang to his feet. He had to change his location: that rule was basic.
It’s urgent that we meet at once, the caller had said; if so, they would meet on
his terms. Now he started to make his way out of the VIP lounge, grabbing a
paper cup from a water cooler he passed. He approached the greeting counter with
the paper cup held in front of him, as if it were full. Then he yawned,
squeezing his eyes shut, and walked straight into the heavyset FAA inspector,
who staggered back a few feet.
“I am so sorry,” Janson blurted, looking mortified. “Oh, Christ, I didn’t spill
anything on you, did I?” Janson’s hands moved rapidly over the man’s blazer.
“Did I get you wet? God, I’m really, really sorry.”
“No harm done,” he replied with a trace of impatience. “Just, you know, watch
where you’re going, OK? There’s lots of people in this airport.”
“It’s one thing not to know what time zone you’re in, but—Jesus, I just don’t
know what’s wrong with me,” Janson said, the very picture of a flustered and
jet-lagged passenger. “I’m a wreck.”
As Janson made his way out of the VIP lounge and down the pedestrian corridor
that led toward Concourse B, his cell phone buzzed again, as he knew it would.
“I don’t think you quite understand the urgency,” the caller began.
“That’s correct,” Janson snapped. “I don’t. Why don’t you let me know what this
is about?” In an angled stretch of the pedestrian corridor, he saw a recessed
area, about three feet deep, and then the expected steel door to a room that was
off-limits to travelers. unauthorized personnel keep out was emblazoned on a
plaque above it.
“I can’t,” the caller said after a beat. “Not over the phone, I’m afraid. But
I’m in the airport and could meet you—”
“In that case, call me back in one minute,” Janson interjected, ending the
conversation. Now he hit the door’s horizontal push bar with the heel of his
hand and made his way inside. It turned out to be a narrow room that was lined
with electrical panels; LCD displays measured outputs from the airport’s heat
and refrigeration plant, which was just to the east of the terminal. A rack of
pegs held caps and windbreakers for outdoor work.
Three airline employees in navy-blue twill uniforms were seated around a small
steel-and-Formica table, drinking coffee. He had obviously interrupted their
conversation.
“What do you think you’re doing?” one of them yelled at Janson as the door
banged closed behind him. “You can’t be here.”
“This ain’t the fucking John,” another one said under his breath.
Janson smiled without warmth. “You’re going to hate me, boys. But guess what?”
He pulled out an FAA badge, the item he had lifted from the heavyset man in the
lounge. “Another drug-abatement initiative. Random testing for a drug-free
air-transport workforce—to quote the administrator’s latest memorandum on the
subject. Time to fill those cups. Sorry for the inconvenience, but that’s why
you make the big bucks, right?”
“This is bullshit!” the third man yowled in disgust. He was nearly bald, save
for a graying fringe around the back, and he kept a short pencil behind an ear.
“Haul ass, guys,” Janson barked. “We’re following a whole new procedure this
time. My team’s assembled over at gate two in Concourse A. Don’t make them wait.
When they get impatient, sometimes they make mistakes with the samples, if you
get my drift.”
“This is bullshit,” the bald man repeated.
“Want me to file a report saying that an Air Transport Association member
protested and/or sought to evade the drug audit? Your test comes in positive,
better start combing the want ads.” Janson folded his arms on his chest. “Get
the hell out of here, now.”
“I’m going,” the bald man grumbled, sounding less sure of himself. “I’m there.”
With expressions of exasperation and disgruntlement, all three men hastened out
of the room, leaving clipboards and coffee cups behind. It would take them a
good ten minutes before they reached Concourse A, Janson knew. He glanced at his
watch and counted the few remaining seconds until his cell phone buzzed; the
caller had waited one minute exactly.
“There’s a food court near the ticketing pavilion,” Janson said. “I’ll meet you
there. The table on the far left, all the way to the back. See you in a few.” He
removed his jacket, put on a dark blue windbreaker and cap, and waited in the
recessed area. Thirty seconds later, he saw the white-haired woman walking past.
“Hey, honey!” he called out as, in one continuous movement, he reached an arm
around her waist, clamped a hand over her mouth, and hustled her into the
now-abandoned service room. There was, Janson had verified, nobody around to see
the three-second maneuver; if there had been, his actions, coupled with his
words, would have been taken for a romantic embrace.
The woman was startled, and rigid with fear, but she did not even try to scream,
displaying a measure of professional composure that Janson found not the least
reassuring. Once the door had closed behind them, Janson brusquely gestured her
to take a seat at the Formica table. “Take a load off,” he said.
The woman, looking incongruously elegant in the utilitarian space, sat down on
one of the metal folding chairs. Janson remained standing.
“You’re not exactly the way I’d pictured you,” she said. “You don’t look like a
… ” Conscious of his frankly hostile stare, she decided against finishing the
sentence. “Mr. Janson, we really don’t have time for this.”
“I don’t look like a what?” he said, biting off the words. “I don’t know who the
hell you think you are, but I’m not even going to list the infractions of
protocol here. I’m not going to ask how you got my cell phone number or how you
learned whatever you think you’ve learned. But by the time we’re finished here,
I’d better know everything I want to know.” Even if she were a private citizen
legitimately seeking his services, the public nature of the contact was
completely inappropriate. And the use of a field legend of his, albeit a
long-disused one, was a cardinal violation.
“You’ve made your point, Mr. Janson,” she said. “My approach was, let’s agree,
ill advised. You’ll have to forgive me—”
“I will? That’s a presumption.” He inhaled, detected a faint fragrance about
her: Penhaligon’s Jubilee. Their eyes met, and Janson’s anger diminished
somewhat when he saw her expression, mouth drawn with anxiety, gray-green eyes
filled with grim determination.
“As I say, we have very little time.”
“I have all the time in the world.”
“Peter Novak doesn’t.”
Peter Novak.
The name delivered a jolt, as it was meant to. A legendary Hungarian financier
and philanthropist, Novak had received a Nobel Peace Prize the previous year for
his role in conflict resolution around the world. Novak was the founder and
director of the Liberty Foundation, which was devoted to “directed
democracy”—Novak’s great passion—and had offices in regional capitals through
Eastern Europe and other parts of the less developed world. But then Janson had
reasons of his own to remember Peter Novak. And those reasons constituted a debt
to the man so immense that Janson had occasionally experienced his gratitude as
a burden.
“Who are you?” Janson demanded.
The woman’s gray-green eyes bore into him. “My name is Marta Lang, and I work
for Peter Novak. I could show you a business card, if you thought that would be
helpful.”
Janson shook his head slowly. Her business card would provide a meaningless
title, identifying her as some sort of high-ranking employee of the Liberty
Foundation. I work for Peter Novak, she had said, and simply from the way she
spoke the words, Janson recognized her type. She was the factotum, the point
person, the lieutenant; every great man had one. People like her preferred the
shadows yet wielded great, if derivative, power. From her name and the barest
trace of an accent, it was evident she was Hungarian, like her employer.
“What are you trying to tell me?” Janson said. His eyes narrowed.
“Only that he needs help. As you once did. In Baaqlina.” Marta Lang pronounced
the name of that dusty town as if it were a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter.
For Janson, it was.
“I haven’t forgotten,” he said quietly.
“Then all you have to know right now is that Peter Novak requires your
assistance.”
She had spoken few words, but they were the right ones. Janson held her gaze for
a long moment.
“Where to?”
“You can throw out your boarding card. Our jet is on the runway, cleared for
immediate departure.” She stood, her desperation somehow giving her strength and
a sense of command. “We must go now. At the risk of repeating myself, there’s no
time.”