Chapter 62 - The Break at Gate B12
The woman on the tarmac did not draw a weapon. In the glare of the runway floodlights, her hand emerged from the dark wool of her trench coat holding a small, laminated security pass on a heavy silver lanyard. She held it against the glass of the ground-crew transport door, tapped the radio on her shoulder, and stared unblinkingly up at the departure lounge.
The phone against my ear let out a low, deliberate click.
"Step out of line, Myrna," the voice instructed, steady and chillingly calm. "If your foot touches the carpet of that jet bridge, the ground operations manager will flag this flight for a hazardous materials inspection. You will be escorted to an administrative sub-basement beneath Terminal 1, where local authorities have no jurisdiction. Walk away from Gate B12. Now."
My chest tightened, but forty years of living alongside Arthur’s cold calculation kicked in like a rusted engine catching a spark. The gate agent was already reaching toward me, his smile mechanical. "Next passenger, please. Boarding pass and passport."
I looked at the agent. Then I looked past the glass, down at the woman beside the fueling rig. She tilted her head, watching me make my choice.
"Excuse me," I said to the gate agent, my voice clear enough for the passengers behind me to hear. "I’ve misplaced my medication in the duty-free lounge. I cannot board this flight."
The young man blinked, caught off balance. "Ma'am, the doors close in six minutes. If you leave the queue, your luggage will be offloaded."
"Offload it," I said without hesitation.
I turned on my heel and pushed past the line of startled tourists and business travelers. A collective murmur rippled through the queue, but I didn't slow down. My carry-on wheels hummed against the polished terrazzo floor as I moved against the current of travelers heading toward the gates.
I kept the phone pressed to my ear. "Who are you?"
"A courier for people who do not forgive Arthur Miller’s final retirement package," the woman answered. Her voice was no longer accompanied by the roar of the engine outside; she was moving inside the ground facilities. "You thought Julian was your adversary. Julian was merely an impatient boy trying to collect a debt he didn't understand. His father, Roland Vance, never died in that car fire outside Bern in eighty-eight. He changed his name, rebuilt his holdings, and waited for Arthur to slip."
"Arthur is dead," I whispered, ducking into the crowded concourse near the retail plaza. "And I don't have whatever ledger you think he kept."
"Arthur loved you too much to leave you penniless, and he despised us too much to surrender the master codes," she replied coldly. "You have twenty minutes before the airport perimeter is sealed under a commercial cargo audit. Exit through the arrivals terminal on Level 0. There is a silver Mercedes sedan parked in Bay 4. Get in, or Roland’s people will pay another visit to your son’s house in Keene."
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The line went dead.
I didn't head for Level 0. I ducked into the alcove between a luggage store and an international exchange counter, my hands trembling as I dialed Davies’s private line.
