Chương 7
The message timestamp was one hour and twelve minutes before boarding.
I read it without touching the phone.
Got your upgrade handled.
2A will be clear.
Victoria watched my face.
“I thought he meant an unsold seat.”
“Did you ask?”
“No.”
“Why would he arrange that for you?”
“He does favors.”
“For cash?”
Her chin lifted.
“Sometimes I tip him.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“Today.”
She looked away.
“Five hundred.”
Marisol whispered something under her breath.
Victoria snapped, “Don’t.”
Marisol stepped closer.
“You bribed an employee to move a passenger.”
“I tipped him.”
“You handed him five hundred dollars after he stole her seat.”
“I didn’t know he stole it.”
“You didn’t care enough to ask.”
“Marisol,” I said.
She stopped.
Her face was flushed.
Victoria stared at the floor.
Then she scrolled upward.
“There’s another message.”
“Read it.”
She did.
Her face slowly emptied.
“What?”
She held the phone toward me.
The message had arrived the previous night.
Need you on 421 tomorrow.
Take 2A.
Don’t change flights even if Richard asks.
For several seconds, none of us spoke.
Victoria read it again.
“I thought he was flirting.”
“Does Chad normally tell you what flights to take?”
“No.”
“Did Richard ask you to change flights?”
Her fingers began trembling harder.
“This morning.”
“What did he say?”
“He wanted me on the six o’clock.”
“Why?”
“He said this one was going to have a maintenance delay.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
“Did you tell Chad?”
“No.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“No.”
She looked at me with open fear now.
“I swear.”
I believed that she believed herself.
That was not the same as believing the statement.
I sent Daniel a concise message from my secured device.
Victoria Sterling has relevant preflight messages from Chad.
Preserve via counsel.
Do not contact her directly until federal liaison advises.
His response arrived almost instantly.
Do not let her delete, alter, or surrender device to anyone except identified federal agent.
I showed Victoria only the final instruction.
Her face tightened.
“So now I’m evidence.”
“Your phone may be.”
“And me?”
“I don’t know yet.”
She hugged the device against her chest.
“What happens when we land?”
“People will ask questions.”
“Federal people?”
“Probably.”
“Am I being arrested?”
“I don’t know.”
She laughed once, without humor.
“That’s becoming your favorite answer.”
“It’s accurate.”
She looked toward Seat 2A.
“I don’t want to sit there anymore.”
“You should remain in your assigned cabin until the crew tells you otherwise.”
“My assigned cabin.”
She closed her eyes.
“I suppose that’s funny.”
“No.”
“I think it is.”
She walked back to the seat and sat carefully, as though occupying it had finally become uncomfortable.
I returned to row thirty-eight.
Harold handed me the laptop with visible relief.
“Nothing happened.”
“Thank you.”
“I did have to tell the kid not to touch it.”
Owen looked offended.
“I asked what encryption it used.”
“That counts as touching in spirit.”
I sat between them again.
For the first time, the cramped seat felt useful.
Nobody in first class could see my screen.
I opened Daniel’s newest message.
Federal liaison confirms active Customs investigation.
NorthStar employee from gate image tentatively identified.
Name: Marcus Vale.
Employment records show he had access to outbound cargo documentation.
There was a second line.
Marcus Vale was found unconscious in a parking structure at Kennedy Airport forty minutes ago.
I read it twice.
Then a third.
Condition unknown.
His vendor badge was missing.
The aircraft continued east toward New York.
For the first time that day, I wished we were farther away.
I kept the message open while the aircraft crossed over eastern Pennsylvania, and for the first time since leaving the gate, I felt the old pressure behind my ribs that used to arrive before an operation went wrong.
Not panic.
Inventory.
Who knew what.
Who had access.
Who might already be trying to clean up.
Marcus Vale had met Chad before boarding, handled cargo documentation, and now lay unconscious at JFK with his identification badge missing.
The timing was too close to dismiss, but too incomplete to interpret.
I typed to Daniel.
Is Vale alive?
His answer came a minute later.
Yes.
Critical but stable.
Blunt-force trauma.
Police and Customs have scene.
No public release.
I read the words again.
Owen shifted beside me.
“You’re doing the face again.”
“What face?”
“The one where everything gets worse and you pretend it didn’t.”
Harold looked over.
“He does have a point.”
“You two have known me for four hours.”
“Long flight,” Harold said.
I closed the laptop halfway.
“There may be additional security personnel meeting the aircraft.”
“May be?”
“Yes.”
“Are we talking uniforms or the kind that don’t wear uniforms?”
“Possibly both.”
Owen sat straighter.
“Should we tell people?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what they need to be told.”
He frowned.
“That feels wrong.”
“It often does.”
I looked at him.
“Rumor travels faster than fact in a closed cabin.”
“So does fear.”
“Yes.”
“Which one are we avoiding?”
“Both, if we can.”
He considered that and finally put his earbuds back in without turning on the music.
Harold studied me for another second.
“You used to do this for a living.”
“Something adjacent to this.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was.”
“Miss it?”
The answer arrived too quickly, so I did not trust it.
“No.”
He nodded as though he heard the part I had not said.
I reopened the laptop.
Daniel had sent a photograph of Marcus Vale from an employment file.
Mid-thirties.
Dark hair.
Thin face.
A small scar beside his left eyebrow.
Nothing about him resembled the partially hidden man in the gate image enough to confirm identity from appearance alone.
Tentative identification was exactly that.
I messaged back.
Do not treat gate image ID as confirmed.
His response came immediately.
Agreed.
Customs is pulling access logs and parking video.
Then another message.
There is more.
May you like
I waited.
Vale accessed cargo hold documentation for Flight 421 at 05:42 this morning.
