Lust, Money & Murder (20 page)

“Enjoy your flight,” the officer said, handing her the passport.

Relieved, Elaine headed towards the check-in counters.
I just might make it out of here
, she thought.

There were a few people still queued up at the check-in counter for the Paris flight. An elderly couple, a pair of businessmen, and three nuns.

Elaine joined the line and nonchalantly glanced around. She still didn’t see anyone watching—there wasn’t even a security guard in sight.

Something caught her eye down the corridor. A female airport security guard was slowly walking along the check-in counters, scrutinizing the passengers. Beside her was the man with the pockmarked face.

Elaine looked straight ahead, moving a little closer to the nuns that were in front of her. She stole another glance to the right. Now the female security guard was hassling a blonde about Elaine’s age, asking for her passport.

Elaine was so scared she couldn’t move. She looked down at her suitcase. She had to do something with the data key or they would search her and find it.

She tapped one of the nuns on the shoulder.
“
Pardonnez-moi
.
J’ai un problème
.”

The nun turned around. She was short and pudgy, perhaps sixty years old, and gazed up at Elaine through wire-framed glasses. “
Oui
?”

Elaine tried to appear as distraught as she could, bringing tears to her eyes.
“
La—la ligne aérienne, ils—ils que mes bagages—
”

“You may speak English, dear.”

“Oh, thank you! The airline told me I have too many bags. They want a hundred extra dollars. I don’t have enough money to check this, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

The nun looked sympathetic. “I am very sorry for you,
madame
, but I have very little mon—”

“I don’t want money. Could you just check this one bag for me? Please? Just this one?” Elaine motioned at the suitcase. “You don’t have much luggage, it wouldn’t cost you a thing...”

Elaine stole a glance at the security guard and the other man—they were still questioning the blonde.

The nun looked down at the suitcase, hesitated, then glanced at the scant luggage she and her friends were carrying.

She asked Elaine, “There are no
narcotiques
in this bag...?”

“Of course not,” Elaine gasped, as if shocked by the suggestion.

“Very well.” The nun took the handle of the suitcase and drew it forward—her two companions had just approached the check-in desk. She whispered something to them.

Elaine moved a little closer to the nun and rested her hand on the check-in desk, as if she were simply impatient. She kept looking straight ahead. She held her breath when the ticket agent asked the nuns if anyone had given them any packages to carry with them.

“No,” two of the nuns said in unison. The nun who had taken the suitcase remained silent. All four bags were placed on the conveyor. The one who had checked Elaine’s suitcase nonchalantly pressed the claim check into her hand.

“Thank you so much,” Elaine whispered.

Her turn finally came to check in. She handed over her ticket and passport to the clerk.

“No luggage to check?”

“No,” Elaine said.

“You have seat Twenty-five E,” the clerk said, handing her the boarding pass.

“Excuse me,” a female voice said from behind her, and she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder.

She slowly turned around.

The female guard and the pockmark-faced man were both standing there.

“Passport?” the guard said, with a thick Russian accent. The woman looked as tough as nails.

Elaine gave it to her, avoiding eye contact with either of them.

The guard opened it. “O’Neill, Shannon...” she read, pronouncing the name “Shah-none.”

“Havin’ some kinda problem, are ya?” Elaine said, in her Irish brogue.

The two exchanged a glance.

“Your handbag, please,” the guard said.

Elaine reluctantly slipped it off her shoulder. The woman searched it, the pockmarked man looking on uncertainly.

“
Nichevo
,” she said to him.

“I trust yas have a bloody good reason for harrassin’ me,” Elaine said. “I werk for the Irish Department of Agriculture and I —”

“Did you check any baggage?” the guard interrupted.

Elaine peered down her nose directly at both their faces, which were nothing more than blurs through her reading glasses. “I did not.”

The guard turned to the clerk at the check-in desk. In Russian, she said, “
Eta
devushka registrirovala bagazh
?”

“
Nyet
,” the clerk said, shaking her head.

Turning back to Elaine, the guard said, “Spread you arms, please.”

“Ha! I suppose you’ll be strip searchin’ me next, then?”

“Spread you arms, please.”

Elaine did so, an indignant look on her face. The guard carefully frisked her up and down, checking inside the coat. Elaine repressed a wince as the woman’s hand brushed against her knife wounds.

When she finished, she and the pockmark-faced man glanced at each other. He uncertainly looked down at her right side, but there was no visible evidence of any injury there. Elaine saw him peering at the “mole” on her cheek, and then down at the natural leather satchel.

Elaine said, very loudly, “Are ya proud of yerselves, makin’ a bleedin’ spectacle out of an innocent pearson? I’ll have yas both reported fer this.”

Now all the people in the other queues were watching, and both of them were aware of it.

“You may go to gate,” the guard said sheepishly. “Please excuse the intrusion.”

* * *

At that moment, in Washington, D.C., Gene Lassiter was sitting in the back of a taxi that was heading towards Dulles Airport. He had a reservation under a false name on a red eye to Kennedy, where he would catch a flight to Berlin.

He was pleased with himself. By tomorrow afternoon, the Russians would wire the balance of his payment—eight million Euros—into his numbered Swiss bank account. Elaine Brogan was dead by now. It was a pity that she had to be sacrificed, but in the overall scheme of things, she was insignificant. By this evening, he and his beloved Gypsy would be together.

Gypsy.

The mere thought of that name sent sexual shivers through Lassiter’s aging body. The thick mane of black curly hair, the dark, bewitching eyes. And that figure!

Lassiter constantly fantasized about Gypsy. Their relationship had been flourishing for two years now, ever since they had met in Berlin. Those two years were the most glorious of Lassiter’s life. For him, Gypsy was human Viagra. The relationship had liberated Lassiter, taken him to sexual heights that he never dreamed existed. The last time they were together he had shaved Gypsy’s pubic hair, leaving the skin smooth and pink and childlike. The 30-year age difference only increased the sexual thrill, at least for Lassiter.

Yet for him, it wasn’t merely a physical relationship. He was madly in love with Gypsy. He only truly felt at peace when they were together. The last time they met at a secluded little seaside hotel in southern Portugal. It had been like a dream, a magnificent, sensual experience that he wished had lasted forever. They had spent hours walking along the beach, hand in hand, watching the sea, the soaring gulls, the breathtaking sunrises and sunsets. Lassiter knew they were an odd couple. People stared. He didn’t care.

Unfortunately, Gypsy had an insatiable appetite for the material things in life. Things that he could never afford on his lousy government salary. But Lassiter aimed to supply those things, no matter what it required. He only had a few more years to live, and he was determined to spend them with the one he loved.

Was that so wrong?

His cellphone started ringing.

When he pulled it out of his pocket, he recognized the number—the call was from Russia.

“Pull over,” he told the taxi driver, the phone still ringing in his hand.

“What you say?” the man said. He was wearing a turban and didn’t seem to understand English well.

“I said pull the car over for a second. I have to take this call.”

Lassiter got out and shut the door, shivering on the side of the road as traffic whizzed by.

“Yeah?” he said into the phone.

“We have
problema
,” a Russian-accented voice said.

“What problem is that?” Lassiter said.

“Your ‘mule’ has taken back the package.”

“What do you mean, taken it back?”

“She was armed. Why you send us armed mule?”

Lassiter frowned. He couldn’t believe that Elaine had taken a gun aboard a commercial flight. And where had she gotten it? He knew for certain that she had turned her Secret Service issued weapon back in before she left Bulgaria.

“I don’t believe it,” Lassiter finally said.

“No package, no money.”

“Look, I delivered your goddam package! If your people are so incompetent they couldn’t handle a woman—”

“No package, no money.”

“Goddammit,” Lassiter said. “Where is she now?”

“We do not know. We think she leave Russia from Sheremetyevo. Maybe.”

Lassiter felt panicky, but managed to keep it under control—he had taken precautions in case something like this happened. “Look, I’ll get the package to you, as promised. Give me a little time.”

The line went dead.

“Shit,” Lassiter muttered, getting back into the taxi. As the driver pulled out into the traffic, Lassiter opened his notebook computer and pulled up a GPS tracking program. When he had hidden the data key in Elaine’s suitcase, he had hidden a small GPS tracking device there as well.

After a few seconds, a map of the world appeared on the screen. The little green blip looked like it was sitting right on top of Moscow. But when he expanded the map, he could see that it was actually about 100 miles to the west, slowly heading towards Europe.

She was definitely on a plane.

Lassiter quickly estimated the time it would have taken off from the Sheremetyevo Airport, and then went to the airport’s website and checked the timetable for departing flights.

An Air France flight had left for Paris at almost the exact time he’d guessed. It would land at the Charles De Gaulle Airport, in about two hours.

“Pull over again,” Lassiter said to the driver.

“What?” the driver said.

CHAPTER 2.6

When the Air France flight began its final approach into Paris, Elaine’s heart was hammering so hard she thought the old man sitting next to her might actually hear it.

She knew there was a very good chance that someone would be waiting for her at the gate when the plane landed at CDG. The people who had almost caught her in Moscow could have checked to see if there was actually a Shannon O’Neill who worked for the Irish Department of Agriculture, and of course there was no such person.

“Excuse me,” Elaine said, unbuckling her seat belt. “I need to use the restroom.”

With a sigh, the man sitting next to her got up and let her out.

“Pardon,” one of the flight attendants said, in a French accent, “You must take your seat. Ze plane is about to land.”

“I’m sick,” Elaine said, stepping around the woman.

She made her way up the aisle to the very rear of the plane. No one was in the galley—both of the flight attendants were busy up front, telling passengers to put up their tray tables, preparing to land.

Elaine opened the restroom door, and, hiding behind it, quickly glanced around the galley.

She spotted what she needed. In a flash, she grabbed it and hid it under her coat.

* * *

The Russian man waiting at the gate for the Air France flight to arrive from Moscow had an Interpol badge in his wallet, but he was not an Interpol agent. He stood back, casually pretending to read a copy of
Le Monde
, watching each and every passenger walk down the jetway.

The woman he was after was a slim blonde, mid-20s, 178 cm tall, wearing a long green parka, a green hat, and glasses. She might or might not have a mole on her left cheek.

The passengers walked steadily out of the jetway, but he did not see his target. When the flow began to thin out, the man began to shift uneasily from one foot to another. He couldn’t have missed her...

With the exception of three nuns, who he had carefully scrutinized—all too short to be her—the plane seemed to be mostly filled with businessmen.

After another moment, the passenger flow trickled down and stopped completely. He couldn’t actually see the door of the plane, as the jetway took a dogleg turn.

He went over to the gate desk. Flashing his badge at the attendant, he said, “Have all the passengers gotten off the plane?”