Page 133 of Gone Before Goodbye
They rush through the corridor, take the escalator down the steps and past an ornate fountain into the parking garage. There is a sign with an arrow for Uber and Bolt riders. Nadia gestures toward it.
“I ordered you an Uber to the airport. It’ll be downstairs in two minutes. The ride should only take fifteen minutes. There won’t be time for the police to have covered the airport yet. They may have time to put your real name in the system.”
“But not Emily Sinclair’s.”
“Exactly.”
“And what about your name?”
“I’ll definitely be in the system,” Nadia says. “That’s why I’m notgoing with you. I’ll figure another way out and meet you when it’s safe.”
They head down toward the rideshare pickup zone. Three vehicles are waiting. Nadia checks the license plate on the app. “That’s yours,” Nadia says, pointing. “The blue one.”
“Got it.”
Maggie slides in, and Nadia closes the car door. The Uber pulls away. When the Uber hits the highway, Maggie takes out her phone and calls Porkchop.
He answers on the first ring. “Where are you?”
“On my way to London.”
“Flight number?”
She tells him.
“Once you land,” Porkchop says, “I’ll have you covered.”
“How?”
“Let’s pretend you didn’t ask me that. No contact until you arrive.”
He hangs up.
Porkchop.
But he’s right. Every word she says is being heard by Charles Lockwood. Does she care? Who knows? But the thing is, Porkchop doesn’t want Charles Lockwood to hear. He isn’t saying why. Not yet. But right now, that’s enough for her.
As promised, the drive takes fifteen minutes. The Uber drops her at Terminal 3. She hops on what they call an APM—Automated People Mover—though Maggie has no idea what the difference between an APM and a small train is, and gets to Concourse A in three minutes. The security line is short and moves fast. Maggie is on full alert as she makes her way through it, sure that every employee is looking at her. She feels exposed. She wishes she had a hat or sunglasses or something, though that just usually makes a person stand out more.
When she reaches her gate, her flight to London is already boarding. She gets on the queue. Part of her keeps waiting for someone to grab her arm and pull her out of the line. There are, of course, plenty of security officers walking about the gleaming terminal. When she scans her boarding pass, the Emirates employee at the gate asks to see her passport. Maggie has it opened to the right page. It’s the same photo as the one in her real passport—Charles had just had it duplicated to create “Emily Sinclair’s”—but the agent seems to be taking a longer time than she should studying it. The gate agent looks at the photo, then at Maggie, then back to the photo.
“Have a nice flight, Ms. Sinclair,” the agent finally says, handing her back the passport.
Maggie hurries to her window seat. A man in a “groutfit”—gray sweatpants, gray hoodie—drops into the seat next to her. He says “Well, hello there” with a little too much enthusiasm. Maggie isn’t a plane-engager under the best of circumstances. Engaging with a plane passenger is up there with her major phobias, the most terrifying being when you get an aisle seat at a Broadway show and the actors come offstage for audience participation.
Shudder.
Still, she gives the man a tight-but-polite nod back. Then she stares out the window and doesn’t relax until the plane taxis down the runway. She closes her eyes and flashes back to one of her first flights with Marc. In a surprise move, Marc gripped her hand tightly and asked her:
“Why do we say we ‘taxi’ down the runway?”
“Good question. Well, not good, really. Pretty inane as a matter of—”
“I mean, when else do we use the term ‘taxi’ as a verb to describe movement? Why only with air travel? What else besides airplanes ‘taxi’ and why do we use that term for it? Sorry, I babble when I’m nervous.”
“You’re nervous?”
“Maybe a little.”
