He raised his head to look out the side window down the street and saw a bright light. Inside the building. The elevator doors opened. Here they come. Less than thirty seconds. Struggling to keep his hands from shaking, he pulled one last gadget from his pocket. It was an extendable pointer with a small hook at one end. Extending it to its two feet, he attached it to the wire antenna sticking out of the black box and wedged it under the seat base.
"Joey, get out of there...
With a sharp jerk he threaded the pointer—and the antenna—into the back of the seat. It was completely out of sight, but still at the perfect angle to send a signal through the ceiling. A working homemade GPS. "Call him," he whispered. -What? Noreen asked. -Call it!
Joey hastily shoved the black box under the seat and secured it in place with a magnetic plate. He was already. It was time to get out of there.
Through the rear window he could see Gallo and DeSanctis coming up the sidewalk. They were less than twenty meters away. It was too late. A sharp sound tore through the night and Gallo stopped. DeSanctis too.
"This is Gallo," he said, answering his cell phone. The two agents turned toward the building. That was all Joey needed. With a catlike movement he got out of the car through the back door and scuttled over to the other side of the street.
"Sorry, wrong number," Noreen said into Joey's ear.
Gallo closed his phone and headed for the car. Opening the door, he looked up the street. Joey was sitting on the hood of her car.
"Any luck up there?" She," she yelled.
Gallo decided to ignore her, got into the driver's seat and slammed the door. The overhead light went out.
Joey smiled.
After getting off the plane at Miami International Airport, I stick to the crowd and blend in with the mass of newly arrived passengers being suffocated by their loved ones. It is not difficult to tell the difference between the natives and the visitors: we wear long sleeves and jackets; they wear shorts and swimming trunks. As the group breaks up toward the baggage carousels, I scan the terminal for Charlie.
I don't see him anywhere.
All around us, the airport shops and kiosks are closed. Metal bars protect the shop windows; The lights are off. It's after midnight and the whole place is nothing more than a ghost town of travelers. I see the sign for the men's room and, knowing Charlie's tiny bladder, I turn right and head for the urinals. There's just a fat guy in a Florida Marlins sweater. I take a look at the reserved ones. All empty.
I hurried back to the terminal, past the Christmas tree and menorah on display, picking up my pace and speeding down the escalator. Charlie knows he was supposed to wait for me when we got off the plane. If he hasn't… I stop abruptly. There is no reason to think the worst.
I walk away from the escalators and find myself in the baggage carousel area, checking every nook and cranny. I pass the car rental counters… the conveyor belts… Charlie is gone. To my right is a row of phones, and next to one of them, a Hispanic woman is giggling into the receiver. Beyond the phones is a fax and email kiosk, where a man in dark sunglasses...
Dark sunglasses?
I slow down, tempted to turn and walk away. If the guy's secret service, I'm not going to offer myself on a silver platter. But just when I'm about to change direction…just as I get closer…it turns like I'm not there. I walk past him. He doesn't even look up. And that's when I understand it, we are in Miami, sunglasses are part of the landscape. As long as no one knows who we are, there's no reason to...
-Sorry sir? asks a gruff voice. I feel a heavy hand on his shoulder.
I turn to see a black man wearing a porter's uniform. He looks me square in the eye and hands me a folded piece of paper. His voice is dry and cold.
"This is for you..." he says.
He picks up the paper and quickly opens it. There is only one word written with a black pen: Wait for me. No signature.
The lyrics remind me of Charlie's, but it's slightly different. As if someone was trying to imitate her.
I look over his shoulder. The guy with the sunglasses has left.
"Who gave you this?" I ask the porter.
"I can't tell you," he tells me. They said that he would spoil the surprise.
-Them? I ask anxiously. Who are they?
The man turns and walks away.
-Merry Christmas...
A doorbell begins to ring in the huge room. An alarm. A second later, the conveyor belt begins to hum. Our luggage is finally here.
Holding my breath, I watch the porter wheel his cart onto the conveyor belt. Around him are the passengers who have arrived with me on the plane. A university student in a T-shirt that says "Capitalism is faltering." A lawyer with an ink stain on his breast pocket. A woman with an angry expression and a fake tan from New York. I swear they all look up and study me.
I look at the note that trembles in my hands. What the hell is going on? We had a plan: go in and out together.
There's no way he left alone... not unless someone forced him to...
I feel a huge void in my chest. I run for the nearest door, pushing through the crowd, but the moment I'm out I'm hit with a wave of Florida heat that goes straight to my lungs. As a puddle of sweat drenches my back, I realize I'm still wearing my coat. I throw my arms back and fight like a man possessed to get it off. I just want to find Charlie.
Someone grabs me by the shoulder from behind. I make a fist, ready to turn and strike. Then I hear the voice.
"Are you okay, Ahab?" Charlie asks.
I'm going back to check it out myself. There he is, dimples in his cheeks and a playful puppy smile. I don't know whether to hug him or kill him, so I just shake him by the shoulder.
"What the hell...?" A woman watches us from the taxi rank and I lower her voice to a whisper. What the hell is wrong with you? Where have you been?
"Didn't you get my note?" he whispers back.
"So you…" I lead him to the side, past the line of people waiting for a taxi so no one can hear us. Don't you remember what Oz told us? Don't talk to anyone! That includes porters! -hiss.
"Well, don't be like that, but it was an emergency.
"What kind of emergency?"
She looks up but doesn't answer. -What? -I ask-. What have you done?
There's no answer.
"Fuck, Charlie, you won't…" "I don't want to talk about it, Oliver.
"You called her, right?"
The tone of her voice is so low that she almost faints.
—You shouldn't worry about that, I have everything under control.
"We said we wouldn't call her!" - I insist.
"She's our mother, Ollie, and more importantly, one of us still lives with her. If she didn't give her our news, she would have had a heart attack.
"Okay, so what do you think she'll be more upset about, not hearing from us for a couple of nights or having to arrange our funerals after the Secret Service guys catch us and bury us?" They will be monitoring all calls.
-Really? It hadn't occurred to me to think about it... even though it's something you can see in every movie ever made about fugitives. Sarcasm aside, he adds. Will you please trust me if only for once? Trust me, I've done very well. Whoever was listening... won't have heard a single word.
-How are we doing? Rooster asked.
"I just need a sec," DeSanctis said from the passenger seat. In his lap, his fingers moved over the keyboard of what looked like a standard laptop. Closer examination, however, revealed that the only active keys were the numbers lining the top of the keyboard, which DeSanctis used to adjust the receiver that was neatly concealed within. It was like tuning a radio set: find the right frequency and you'll hear his favorite song. Searching and clicking along the row, he punched in the numbers the Technical Security Division guys had given him: 3.8 gigahertz... 4.3 gigahertz... The closer they got to microwave frequencies, the harder it would be for them. intercept the guys from outside. Add a code to an alternating frequency signal and they will find it next to impossible. With the signal moving permanently across the dial, it was now a radio station made for two.
DeSanctis hit the final digits.