Долгий '68. Ричард Вайнен

      “Stay in touch.”

      When she hung up with him, she looked up the number of the Chicago UBC station and called to speak with the personnel manager, a man named John. She identified herself as a member of the NSA, and said she was tracking some information regarding a case—would she be able to check the files tonight? He agreed warmly, said he’d be in that evening to train a new cameraman, and she could stop in at her convenience.

      She changed into jeans and warm boots, but left her hair in a knot at the base of her neck. Into a small duffel, she threw a change of clothes and her makeup bag. From a rack on the back of her closet door, she chose a small shoulder purse, and tucked in her wallet, cell phone, and at the last minute, her NSA security badge. Within an hour, she was at the airport.

      The ticket had been purchased at the last minute, so Kim wasn’t surprised when she was pulled out of the security lines for additional screening—and not just the usual, extra hand-wanding, but a full, focused search of her belongings and the body search by an appropriate female guard. The girl was skinny as a praying mantis, her elbows like knots. Her blond hair was tightly pulled back from her extremely young—and serious—face.

      Kim joked, “All clear? For once, I remembered to not wear an underwire bra.”

      “Wait right here.” The girl picked up a phone, punched in a number.

      Scowling Kim said, “What is—”

      “Better if you just follow directions, ma’am.” She turned away and said something into the phone, looking at the NSA badge with Kim’s picture.

      Kim felt passersby giving her the curious eye. Odd how it made her feel guilty.

      “I’m afraid there’s an additional problem, ma’am,” the girl said. “You’ll have to follow me, please.”

      “Sure, but—”

      “High alert this week and you have a lot of red flags.”

      “Last-minute ticket, I know. It’s just that I work for—”

      The woman flashed Kim’s confiscated badge. “National Security Agency. I know.”

      Kim scowled at the rudeness and rolled her eyes. She looked younger than she was, she knew that. No point in antagonizing the woman further—it would just lead to more delays. “Will this take long? I’m worried about missing my flight.”

      “There’s another one at 3 p.m. if you miss this one,” the woman said without looking at Kim.

      “Great.” It wasn’t. It would mean getting to Chicago after dark, maybe not to the television station until the evening news. With an effort, she breathed in. Out. No point in getting upset. It wouldn’t hurry anything.

      At an office with a window overlooking the concourse, the woman stopped and shoved open the door. “Here we are. Have a seat, ma’am.”

      A tall, bearded black man in a Transportation Security Administration uniform waved Kim into the chair. The woman escort handed over Kim’s bags and badge, then exited.

      “I’m sorry about the delay,” the man said. “I need to verify your identity.”

      “No big deal.”

      As the man dialed the telephone, Kim fidgeted, irritably wiggling her foot until she realized it would make her appear to be nervous. Which she was, though not because she wanted to blow up the airport.

      The airport. Why had the FBI in Chicago paid so much attention to the airport? Airports were so heavily guarded since 9/11 that there had to be an easier way for a terrorist to accomplish goals of instilling fear. Why bother? Narrowing her eyes in thought, Kim decided the FBI must have had some intelligence they weren’t sharing.

      The man hung up the phone. “I’m afraid we have to hold you for twenty minutes, just until they can fax a photo to your boss.”

      “I’ll miss my flight.”

      “Sorry, ma’am. When it goes to orange, it gets a lot tighter around here.”

      Tamping down her annoyance, Kim folded her hands around her knees. “I appreciate that, but I’m bewildered. Why the trouble today? I’ve flown a dozen times under similar circumstances recently.”

      “I’m not at liberty to say.”

      “If I get through the security clearance will you tell me?”

      He nodded. “That’d be all right, I guess.”

      The fax went through with a series of beeps and bleeps. Kim stared through the window over the concourse at the streams of humanity bustling through the hallways. She puzzled over the challenge of clearing millions and millions of passengers every day. Millions.

      And it wasn’t as if criminals hadn’t proven they were willing to do anything to reach their objectives. Q’rajn wanted to punish the U.S. for its involvement in Berzhaan. Other rebels wanted other things, and anyone with an ax to grind, a pound or two of plastic explosives and a death wish could do it. For terrorists of the ilk they were all trying to fight, life was as thin and cheap as paper.

      Watching the crowds, she tried to imagine she was the one trying to decide who was a terrorist and who was an ordinary citizen. A tall man in a business suit looked like a physician, hurrying toward an important surgery. The turban on his head marked him as a Sikh, something Kim knew from her studies at Athena Academy. Exotic, but likely not dangerous.

      But how would the ill-educated girl who’d carted Kim up here know that?

      Odd, but sitting in the plastic chair in the office of the head of security made Kim feel guilty.

      “It’s a pretty rough job, the security of airports,” she offered.

      The man, his hands steepled in front of his mouth, raised weary brows. “That’s understating the situation, I’d say.”

      “It’s impossible, really, isn’t it?”

      He shook his head. “Never give up.” The fax machine spit out a piece of paper and the man leaned forward to swipe it off the tray. “Looks like you’re good to go, Ms. Valenti. Sorry for the delay.”

      Kim shrugged and took the things he held out to her. “So, I assume it was the late booking that caused so much trouble, but what else? I’ll try to avoid it next time.”

      He scratched his nose. “Not sure you’ll be able to do anything about it. The girl—er—thought you looked Arabic.”

      “Ah.” She met his eyes.

      He held her gaze for a second, then lifted a phone. “I’ll call your gate to have them hold your flight.”

      Kim hitched the bag over her shoulder. “Thanks.”

      On the concourse, she headed for her gate, glancing up over her shoulder at the two-way window. Something niggled—there was something they weren’t telling her. What could it be? What information had gone out that she’d not yet seen?

      As she walked, she took the cell out of her bag and punched in the numbers to Scott’s desk. The phone rang at the other end as she reached the deserted gate.

      An impatient flight attendant stood irritably at the door to the flight. Kim handed the woman her boarding pass. “Sorry. Got stuck at security.”

      “Not your fault.” The woman gave her back the small piece of pass. “Have a good flight.”

      Scott’s voice mail picked up. “Shepherd,” Kim said, hurrying down the ramp, “run the files again and see if there are any references to women, then get back to me. I’m getting on the plane right now, so I have to turn off my phone, but leave a message.”