14
Cassie saw that she was on page nine of the New York Post and page eleven of the Daily News. At the same time that she bought the two newspapers at the Rite-Aid a block from her apartment, she bought new sunglasses: big and bulky and a completely different shape from her old ones. The ones in the photograph. On her way back to her building, she threw away the sunglasses she was wearing in Dubai, as well as the scarf with the arabesque patterns. It was pretty and she knew she would miss it. She deposited them into an overflowing trash can on the corner, because the garbage would be collected later that morning.
The article was identical to the version she had read online, and she was rather surprised by how tame it all seemed now that she had read Sokolov’s obituary. Usually the Post wrote the worst or the wildest things that anyone thought or suspected but would never say aloud. But there was no conjecture that Alex was CIA or KGB, no innuendo at all that he was a spy. Alex was portrayed as just another hedge fund guy who happened to go to places like Moscow and Dubai for work.
On the sidewalk near her apartment, she saw three schoolgirls walking toward her in matching plaid uniform skirts and white blouses, and guessed they were close to her nephew’s age: they looked about eleven. Each was using her phone as a compact, flipping the camera lens as if taking a selfie, but she could tell by the anxiety in all of their eyes that they weren’t merely checking their makeup—were they wearing anything more than lipstick?—but were instead examining their faces for uncorrectable imperfections. One of the girls had twin constellations of freckles on her cheeks. Another, who looked closest to tears, had a slight bump along the ridge of her nose. They were pretty girls, and their self-doubt and their fear seemed needless. But Cassie understood. She had no idea where they were going because she doubted even private schools started this early in August. Perhaps it was some sort of summer program or summer day trip. It didn’t matter. She recalled feeling the way they did herself. She knew her niece would soon. All of Jessica’s confidence would disappear like a helium balloon released on a blustery autumn afternoon. Maybe some of it would return, but it would never be as bold and pure as it once was.
When the children were behind her, Cassie looked again at the picture of herself in the tabloid. Utterly disgusted, she shook her head exactly like the girl with the freckles.
« «
Almost as soon as she was back in her apartment, her phone rang and she saw it was Megan. She paused for a brief moment but then answered it. “Hey, there,” she said. “Aren’t you in Berlin?”
“I am. The flight’s delayed, so I thought I’d check in with you. You okay?”
“Let’s see: I’m speaking again to the FBI this afternoon and I’m kind of wigged out by the newspapers. Other than that, what could possibly be wrong?”
“I get it. The FBI talked to me again, too.”
She stared at Hammond’s business card on her refrigerator. Suddenly she felt as if she had just dodged a bullet not saying anything more to Megan. She told herself that she was being crazy, but an idea came to her: this conversation is being recorded. The FBI was using Megan to get her to incriminate herself. And so, just in case, she responded, “I hope they get to the bottom of this soon. I feel so bad for that poor man’s family.” She said a small prayer that Megan wouldn’t bring up the fact that she had asked her friend to lie for her when they had spoken last.
“Vaughn feels that way, too,” Megan agreed, referring to her husband. “When he read the newspaper stories, he called and said he didn’t understand why it’s all about the mystery woman and not the guy who was killed.”
“How is Vaughn?”
“Good. Same old, same old.”
“What’s he working on these days?” she asked. She had no interest at all in what Vaughn Briscoe did for a living as a consultant, but the question struck her as innocuous and safe. She felt bad not trusting her friend, but just in case, she had to get this conversation as far from Dubai as she could.
“More government nonsense. He’s in Edgewater, Maryland, again. He’s happier when he’s with private-sector clients, but it makes our life so much easier when he’s working in Maryland or inside the Beltway. When the girls were younger and he was working for that pharmaceutical company in Colorado, childcare was a nightmare. He was always away. Always traveling. Kind of like me. Now he’s home every night, and this fall he’ll be able to pick them up from the ten trillion places they have to be after school when I can’t.”
“How was Berlin?”
“It was fine. Are you nervous about this afternoon?”
“No,” Cassie lied. “How many times and how many ways can they ask me about what Sokolov was like on the flight or whether he said anything of interest?”
“That’s all they’re asking?”
“So far. Maybe they’ll have more interesting questions for me this afternoon.”
“Look, Cassie…”
“Go on.”
“Do you need anything? Is there anything I can do?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. I just feel so bad for you. I just—”
“I’m fine,” Cassie said. She wanted to cut her friend off before she could say something they both might regret. “I need to run. My family’s coming to town from Kentucky this weekend, and I have a thousand things to do. But I really appreciate the offer, and I love hearing your voice. I love it. But I’m okay.”
“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
“Yeah. Berlin,” she answered, and she laughed ever so slightly. Her friend, if she needed her, probably would be on another continent and in a time zone six hours distant.
« «
To try and take her mind off the newspapers and what loomed that afternoon, she finished “The Death of Ivan Ilyich” on the couch, occasionally glancing up at the Empire State Building when her mind wandered from nineteenth-century Russia. She felt neither virtuous for reading Tolstoy nor relieved by Ilyich’s transformation: the way he went from fearing to welcoming that great, ineludible light. Mostly she continued to hope that Alex Sokolov hadn’t woke up when his throat was being cut.
« «
It was hot and sunny again that Friday, and so Ani directed Cassie to a glass table in a shady spot of the courtyard, and the two of them brought their street falafel there. The city felt quiet to Cassie, even for the start of a weekend in the middle of the summer.
“This building isn’t precisely a ghost town on August Fridays, but a lot of people clear out—especially the businesses on the other floors. Don’t even try and schedule a meeting after lunch on a Friday in August,” she told Cassie.
“We’re getting so Parisian in the two-one-two,” Cassie murmured. She was distracted. She hadn’t fallen asleep until, almost in desperation near midnight, she had done a couple shots of vodka, popped a pair of Advil PMs, and swallowed a few tabs of melatonin. Normally she didn’t need melatonin on this side of the Atlantic. But normally she wasn’t meeting with lawyers and then the FBI. She’d been fine—a little fuzzy maybe, but fine—when she had first crawled out of bed and walked to the Rite-Aid for the newspapers.
Ani smiled at her small joke, but Cassie could see concern in her eyes. “You look tired,” she said.
“I am.” She stared at the falafel and sauce in its pita. The wrap in its wax paper. She had no appetite today, and tried to decide if she was any less hungry than usual.
“Are you going to be okay?”
“I think so.”
Ani wiped her fingers on her napkin and reached over and took Cassie’s hands. “Try not to worry. You’re not in Dubai. No one is going to prosecute you for committing an act that may lure a person to sin.”
“That’s a thing in the Emirates?”
“It is. So is having consensual sex outside of wedlock.”
She looked down at her hands in Ani’s. Her skin was so pale compared to the lawyer’s. It was August. Why hadn’t she been to the beach? Or a lake? Or even, for God’s sake, a tanning salon and gotten sprayed? She took back her hands, hoping Ani wouldn’t think it was an unfriendly gesture. “We should eat,” she added quickly, trying to give a concrete reason for her discomfort with Ani’s kindness. With her touch.
“Yes,” the lawyer agreed.
“I went by Unisphere yesterday. After you and I spoke.”
“You what?”
“I wanted to learn more about Alex,” she said, aware of how sheepish she sounded.
“Had you been drinking?”
“No! I think I should be a little insulted you even asked that.”
“God. Tell me precisely what happened,” Ani commanded, and so Cassie did, sharing her exchange with the woman from personnel and the little she’d gleaned from the encounter.
“They’re going to know it’s you—if they don’t already,” the lawyer said when she’d finished.
“I suspected as much. But I had to try.”
“Please promise me that you won’t do that sort of thing again.”
“I promise,” she agreed. “Did you find out anything more about Alex at your end?” she asked.
“No. But I called my investigator friend again last night,” Ani said. “Did you read Alex’s obituary?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t it scream spy to you?”
Ani took a small bite of the wrap and seemed to think carefully before answering. “It doesn’t scream that. Maybe it hints at that. I picked up on how brief it was.”
“And the cities.”
“Lots of people work in Moscow and Dubai who have nothing to do with espionage.”
“When will the investigator know something?”
“Next week,” Ani answered. “Maybe even early next week.”
“Okay.”
“Now, this afternoon, the case agent—this Frank Hammond—is going to be sneaky. It’s possible you’re going to think he’s a freaking dunce. But he’s not, I assure you. An FBI knife goes in very slowly. FBI agents are trained to get someone to unwittingly tell the truth. Also? I’m sure he knows a lot more than the newspapers do. He knows everything the FBI’s legal attaché in the Emirates knows, and they’re eight hours ahead of us. There were probably developments today that we know absolutely nothing about.”
“God…”
“Don’t feel that way. A lot depends on whether the Emirates feels like playing ball with the U.S. They may not. It’s their country. And while they might be worried about some kind of tourism backlash, the rest of the Muslim Middle East is a hell of a lot scarier to most Americans than Dubai. Besides, it’s not like there’s a pattern of violent crime against tourists there. The truth is, there’s really no reason why Dubai will care all that much about the murder of some money manager in their fair city.”
“Unless they actually want to make it clear that he was killed by another American: a drunk flight attendant from New York.”
“I guess. But assuming he was just some MBA with Unisphere Asset Management, I really can’t understand why the FBI would give a damn. And yet it’s clear that they do.”
“Do you believe they’re still looking for an American woman who lives in Dubai?”
“Nope.”
“No?” She heard the fear in her voice.
“I mean, I don’t know that for a fact. But by now they’ve talked to the people Alex knew or might have known. Everyone who was supposed to be in that meeting, everyone with Unisphere. Everyone at the hotel. They’re working their way backward. By now every American woman he spoke with on that flight from Paris to Dubai—especially the flight attendant—is under suspicion.”
“I see.”
Ani put down her wrap and took a breath. “Now, this meeting with the FBI isn’t precisely a situation where you can perjure yourself. This isn’t a sworn deposition. But they will try and catch you in a lie, and it is a federal offense to lie to an FBI agent. You may not even feel the knife going in until they begin to twist it.”
“I had been planning to lie like crazy when we landed. But they never asked me anything that demanded a lie.”
“That’s good.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Well, first of all, don’t lie. Just don’t. But you can take the Fifth Amendment. Do you know what that is?”
“Yes. But then, of course, I sound like a Mafia wife.”
“That is the problem with the Fifth. The FBI may still be fishing—they might in fact have nothing concrete—and if you take the Fifth, that’s a pretty serious nibble. So, I want you to look at me before you answer any question. If I nod, tell the truth. If I shake my head, take the Fifth.”
Cassie watched a plane flying silently high overhead. Even now, despite her years at thirty-five thousand feet, the miracle of flight continued to move her. “Won’t you be sitting next me?”
“Probably. But I don’t care if they see me coaching you. That doesn’t matter. Good God, if necessary, I will jump in for you and say you’re taking the Fifth. The thing is…” Ani’s voice trailed off.
“Go on.”
“I wanted to tell you this in person. You may not be extraditable for murder, but you aren’t out of the woods. There are other reasons why you could be prosecuted in the U.S. for Sokolov’s death. Terrorism, for instance.”
“What?”
“It’s unlikely. But here’s the chain. The Department of Justice and the OVT: the Office of Justice for Victims of Overseas Terrorism. The OVT reports to National Security. The OVT director meets weekly with the folks in counterterrorism and counterespionage. Alex Sokolov is an American citizen who was murdered abroad, and his death could be handed over to them—especially if he was someone important to the government.”
“That’s absurd. Once in a while I may drink too much, but I’m not a terrorist.”
“I get it. I just want to be sure you understand the stakes before we go downtown. Now, you should eat. You really should. If you don’t like falafel, don’t be polite. Tell me. We’ll find you something else. I want to coach you for a few minutes, and I want to be sure you have some sustenance inside you before we meet with the FBI.”
She nodded and started to eat, and tried to pay attention. Suddenly, she was feeling like a victim herself, and that only made her feel worse. It shamed her to feel that way. After all, she wasn’t the body left behind in the bed.
« «
Cassie rarely got to Wall Street, but when she did, she was always struck by how narrow the streets were compared to Murray Hill and midtown Manhattan. The FBI was in a skyscraper on Broadway, but Broadway this far downtown, this close to the Brooklyn Bridge, was the slender tip of the funnel. Federal Plaza was a little more squat than the Seagram Building, but what made it feel so different was the Wall Street claustrophobia induced by the combination of tall edifices and thin streets. Outside the building was a small park with three tall, dark columns, a sculpture called the Sentinel, and some trees that she guessed were a kind of willow. On the side streets around the plaza were manned guardhouses and black-and-yellow striped metal barricades that police officers raised or lowered to allow select vehicles in and out of the parking garage. She thought of the Fearless Girl standing tall against the Bull a few blocks to the south. Cassie understood that there was nothing heroic about who she was, nothing courageous about what she was doing; she was here because she drank too much and a decade and a half of bad decisions—especially one night in Dubai—was catching up to her. But she thought of that bronze little girl with a ponytail, her hands on her hips and her chest out, facing off against the much larger bull. Cassie wanted now to be just that plucky and do the right thing.
Whatever that was.
“Ready?” Ani asked. They hadn’t spoken since they had gotten out of the cab a minute ago and paused in front of the Sentinel.
Cassie shook her head. “No. But I really don’t have a choice now, do I?”
Ani looked her in the eye. “You’ll be fine. Just remember: whatever you do, don’t lie.”
« «
The room was windowless and Cassie didn’t care. She was struck by the shiny, fake veneer of the rectangular table, and how the chairs were covered in an orange shade of Naugahyde that belonged only on pumpkins. Once again Frank Hammond was interviewing her and James Washburn was taking the notes.
“Glad you could make it this afternoon,” Hammond said after Cassie had introduced Ani to the two agents and everyone was seated. “I really am grateful. I know it’s an inconvenience, but we want to help the Emirates and put this part of the investigation to bed. We want to move on.”
“Of course,” she agreed.
“I just hate to have busywork hanging over my head over the weekend—especially a summer weekend.”
“It’s fine.”
He smiled. She was struck once more by how world weary he seemed for a guy who couldn’t have been more than forty or forty-one. Once again she noted Washburn’s unblemished skin and rimless eyeglasses, and wondered if he was ever allowed outside. “When do you fly out again?” he asked.
“Sunday.”
“Back to Dubai?”
“Rome. I have Rome this month.”
“I love Italy.”
“I do, too.”
He shook his head wistfully and she presumed he was recalling a moment in a beautiful piazza in a Tuscan village or a perfect, endless meal in Florence. “Of course, I’ve never been there. But I hope to get there someday,” he said. “So: I guess I really just love the idea of Italy.”
For a moment she was taken aback, but quickly she gathered herself. “I hope you get there, too,” she said. “It’s beautiful. It lives up to its reputation. It’s one of the prettiest places in the world, I think.”
“And you’ve seen a lot of the world.”
“I guess.”
“Is that why you became a flight attendant? You love to travel?”
She shrugged, unsure whether this was chatter to wear down her reserve or he needed to know for some reason. Washburn’s gaze was moving between her and the pad on the table in front of him, but he wasn’t writing anything down. “I think so,” she answered simply. She remembered her carefully scripted answer during her job interview with the airline eighteen years ago: I enjoy people. I think customer service is a real art.
“Ever consider becoming a pilot?”
“Nope.”
“How come?”
“Not really my skill set. I kind of think you don’t want a person like me ever driving a cab or a school bus.” She’d meant it as a joke, but she saw Ani’s eyes grow a little wide and she realized that humor—at least humor that acknowledged her more irresponsible tendencies—was a particularly bad idea.
“Oh, why is that?”
“I just meant that I live in the city. I don’t even own a car.”
Hammond nodded and Washburn started to write.
“So, we’re just clearing up a few little things as a courtesy to Dubai,” the case agent said. “This shouldn’t take very long at all. You said that you and Alex Sokolov spoke during the food service on that last flight—the one from Paris to Dubai on July twenty-sixth.”
“That’s correct.”
“You said he was a flirt.”
“Kind of.”
“How? What kinds of things did he say?”
“He said he liked our uniforms. We actually have three kinds: A pants suit. A skirt and a blouse. And a dress. I usually wear the dress.”
“Why?”
“It’s the most flattering on me.”
“That’s interesting.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’d wear the one that was most comfortable.”
“That’s because you’re male.”
He chuckled and nodded. “Probably true.”
“But, to be honest, they’re all pretty comfortable.”
He seemed to think about this. Then: “What else did he say?”
“Alex Sokolov? I don’t remember. I’ve had”—and Cassie paused to count in her mind—“four flights since then.”
“The air marshal recalls you two talking a lot.”
“I don’t know about that. I try to do a good job, and part of that is making passengers feel relaxed and happy on a flight.”
“He tell you anything about himself?”
“Not really. He probably didn’t tell me much at all.”
“You said he told you that he was a money manager. What else?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“You two both talked about living in Manhattan, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Another passenger recalled him telling you that he was an only child. You told him you had a sister. Do you remember that?”
“Not really.”
“Some other family stuff, maybe?” he asked. “Someone else said you two talked about Kentucky. How your sister and her family still live there.”
She glanced at Ani and then at the way that Washburn had suddenly, inconceivably filled almost an entire sheet of paper on the yellow legal pad. “I don’t know. It’s possible.”
“Did he tell you about why he was in Dubai? His work?”
“I don’t remember him saying much about that.”
“Okay. He said he was a money manager. What else?”
“He said he ran a hedge fund.”
“Good. Go on.”
“That’s all. I don’t even know what a hedge fund is precisely,” she admitted.
“What meetings did he mention?”
“I know he had a meeting, but we didn’t discuss it.”
“It was supposed to be the next day?”
“Yes.”
“Who was going to be in it?”
“Investors, I suppose.”
“So these were investors in Dubai?” he asked.
“I’m just speculating.”
“Any names?”
Instantly she recalled Miranda and almost offered that name, but as far as the FBI knew, she hadn’t seen Alex once he exited the jet bridge in Dubai. She considered telling Hammond that he brought the woman up on the plane, but she wasn’t sure she would be able to manage the questions—the fallout—that would emerge from the revelation. And so she answered, “Not that he told me on the plane.”
“Okay. What about friends? Did he say anything about any acquaintances or buddies or women he might have been planning to see while he was in the Emirates?”
“No. He didn’t mention anyone.”
“I don’t think we asked this when you landed. I’m so sorry. Did you see Sokolov in Dubai?”
She thought of how Ani had warned her that she might not feel the knife going in, but she knew she would. Here it was. The question, the third in a string of short sentences, was the blade at the edge of her skin. Did you see Sokolov in Dubai? She also recalled how Ani had said that under no circumstances should she lie. It was better to take the Fifth. And so she took a deep breath and she did.
“On my counsel’s advice, I am invoking my right under the Fifth Amendment not to answer.” It took courage to say those words—not Fearless Girl bravery, not a righteous refusal to be bullied—but it was still a kind of valor she wasn’t sure she had. She wanted to lie. It was just easier to lie. So much of her life was lying. Oh, she would have moments of candor, especially when she was forced to face who she was after a particularly deep drunk or when the postcoital revulsion was stifling after a romp with a stranger. But usually she lied. Now she watched Hammond look quickly at Ani, who was absolutely stone-faced, and then back at her. He smiled.
“Really?” he said, his tone almost light. “How could that question possibly incriminate you?”
She said nothing.
“So the last time you ever saw Alex Sokolov was as he was leaving the airplane after you touched down in the Emirates?” he pressed.
“On my counsel’s advice, I am taking the Fifth.”
Hammond said to Ani, “I’m not sure what you think we’re looking for here, Ms. Mouradian, or why in the world you would give Ms. Bowden that advice.”
Ani glanced down at her nails and then up at Hammond. Her legs were crossed, and her skirt had ridden up a few inches on her thighs. Her pantyhose were black and sheer, and Cassie recognized the color as one of the shades the airline approved with the uniform. “What are you looking for, Agent Hammond?” she asked him.
“We’re just trying to learn all we can about the death of an American citizen in Dubai. We’re trying to see what he did there the night before he was killed. A courtesy for another country. A courtesy for a grieving American family in this one. Maybe Alex Sokolov said something to your client that will help us find out who murdered him.”
“Why not ask her that?”
He nodded. “Okay.” Then he turned back to Cassie: “Did Alex Sokolov say anything to you that might help us find out who murdered him?”
“No,” Cassie answered.
“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Ani asked the agent. He ignored her.
“Did Sokolov tell you where he was going when he landed?”
Ani jumped in: “Agent Hammond, surely you have already asked Unisphere Asset Management that question and they have told you. For the life of me, I can’t see why you keep coming back to this line of questioning with my client. I’m sure you know exactly who Alex Sokolov was meeting with in Dubai. I’m sure you know exactly why he was in the city.”
“And do you know, Ms. Mouradian?”
“No. Do you care to tell us?”
He looked irked, but he said nothing to the lawyer. Instead he turned back to Cassie and said, “Let’s make it easier: did he tell you the name of the hotel where he was staying?”
Ani jumped in again. “We all know that, Agent Hammond. It’s been in the newspapers, for God’s sake.”
“Ah, but did he tell your client? That’s my question.”
“I invoke my right under the Fifth Amendment not to answer.” Cassie noticed that Washburn was writing even that down.
“Do you honestly believe that we or the police in Dubai think you’ve done something wrong, Ms. Bowden?” He was, Cassie supposed, trying to sound at once astonished and hurt. She might have believed that he actually felt that way if Ani hadn’t warned her.
“I’m guessing that’s a rhetorical question,” Ani said to the case agent.
“It’s not. I’m trying to help solve a crime. I’m trying to help a family get justice. And, just maybe, I’m trying to save other lives by catching a killer.”
“All noble goals. I want you to succeed,” said Ani.
“And there are flight attendants, passengers, and an air marshal on Alex Sokolov’s last flight who are quite clear about this: your client was talking to him. A lot. And in their extensive conversations, it is at least remotely possible that he may have told Ms. Bowden something that could be useful.”
“So you don’t believe she has done anything wrong?”
Cassie was struck by how everyone was suddenly referring to her in the third person, as if she weren’t there. She. Ms. Bowden. She wanted to raise her hand and remind them that she was here, she wasn’t invisible. She recalled a line from an old Beatles song: I know what it’s like to be dead.
Hammond’s brow grew furrowed. “Why would we? Because she went by Unisphere’s New York office late yesterday afternoon?”
And then, as if it were only a game of high-stakes poker, no one said anything. She could see that Ani and Hammond were trying to surmise each other’s tell, that almost imperceptible behavioral tic that would allow them to gauge their opponent’s hand and sense their advantage. It was actually Washburn, the scribe, who broke the silence.
“I just want to confirm,” he began quietly, looking at Cassie, “you said Sokolov didn’t tell you at which hotel he was staying, correct? You only learned where he was staying from the newspapers, well after the fact.” Then he put his head back down and seemed to be staring at the tip of his ballpoint pen as he held it an inch or so above the yellow paper with the thin blue lines.
“I took the Fifth,” she said, the words timorous and momentarily caught in her throat. She clasped her fingers together in her lap because otherwise they would be visibly shaking.
“Where were you the night that Alex Sokolov was murdered?” Hammond asked.
“I am taking the Fifth.”
“Were you in your room that the airline had booked for you at the Fairmont Hotel? In other words, were you at the same place as the rest of the crew? Or did you spend the night elsewhere?”
“Again, I am taking the Fifth.”
“You know the Fifth is not some crazy magical bullet, don’t you?” Hammond told her.
She said nothing. She tried to breathe slowly. She tried not to think about the drink she would have when she got out of here, but to focus instead on this poker game, this chess match. Did they somehow know—and know categorically—that she had not been in the room the airline had provided her, or were they just presuming she was not there because of the Royal Phoenician security camera photos?
“No,” said Ani, answering for her, “it’s not. But it is her constitutional right.”
“And I hope you realize,” Hammond went on, “that by invoking the Fifth you are only giving me the impression that you really have done something incriminating—that you really do have something to hide.”
“I…” Cassie stopped. She didn’t know what she wanted to say.
“Look,” Hammond began, his voice growing a little more gentle. “Let’s just clear up the little things. The easy things.”
“Okay,” she said.
“When did you meet Alex Sokolov?”
For a moment the absurdity of the question confused her, and she had to think about it a second. “On the plane,” she said. “When he boarded.”
“You never saw him in New York?”
“No.”
“It’s a weirdly small city. And, of course, you did go by his office yesterday.”
She remained silent.
“Anyone tell you he was going to be on the flight?” he asked.
“No. Why would someone? That’s…”
“That’s what?”
“That’s not how it works. No one tells us who’s on the flight until we get the passenger list before takeoff.”
The FBI agent looked at her earnestly. “I’m trying to help you, Ms. Bowden. But I can’t help you if you don’t help me.”
“I think she’s being quite helpful,” said Ani.
He ignored the lawyer and continued. “The newspapers. I’m sure you’ve seen them. Is that you in the pictures, Ms. Bowden?”
“What newspapers? What pictures?” she asked. She was stalling and the two FBI agents had to know it—how could she not have seen the newspapers by now?—but her reflex when she couldn’t answer with a grandiose lie was to answer with a modest one.
Hammond was clearly going to play along. “Well, let me tell you. Some of the newspapers have published security camera photos from the hotel where Alex Sokolov’s body was found. Most have published two. One shows a woman on Sokolov’s arm the night before he was killed. The other shows that same woman leaving the hotel the next morning. Alone. She’s wearing the same clothes.”
Washburn opened a manila folder beside his pad and placed the two photos on the table in front of Cassie. “Here they are,” he said.
Ani smiled but didn’t glance at the pictures. “A walk of shame? Seriously? Why are we even discussing this?”
Hammond ignored her and elaborated: “The legal attaché in the Emirates says that the woman in these pictures matches the description of the woman—an American—who three different hotel employees say they saw with Sokolov the night before he was murdered. Apparently, she matches the woman with whom he dined at a French restaurant that evening.”
The photos were eight by tens. They were crisper than the reproductions in the newspaper or the images she had seen on her phone, but certainly not crystal clear. Was the woman indisputably her? Not indisputably. The first was a grainy, long-range profile. In the second, the woman was wearing sunglasses. In both she was wearing the scarf. But a reasonable person could reasonably suppose it was her.
“Recognize the scarf?” Hammond was asking.
She shrugged. She gazed for a moment at the arabesque, at the almost hypnotic array of tendrils and swirls.
“One of the flight attendants on the plane with you from Paris to Dubai recalls you buying one just like that when you landed,” Hammond said. “It was near the duty-free shop at the airport. Maybe even next to it.”
She wondered: Was this Megan? Jada? Shane? It could have been any of them or someone else. There were nine other flight attendants. “I may have,” she answered simply.
“So: is that you?”
She looked up at him and she looked at Ani. She glanced at Washburn. She held her hands tightly together, but she couldn’t stop her legs from shaking under the table. She knew she was supposed to take the Fifth. But, suddenly, she knew also that she wasn’t going to. She knew it. She thought once again of that old Beatles lyric, I know what it’s like to be dead, and understood with certainty that she was going to lie, because that was who she was, and you can no more escape your DNA than you can an Airbus that is pinwheeling into the ocean after (pick one, she thought to herself, just pick one) a cataclysmic mechanical failure, a suicidal pilot, or a bomb in the cargo hold. She was the lightning that brings down the plane, the pilot who panics on the final approach in the blizzard.
They’d probably found her lipstick in Alex’s hotel suite already. Or, perhaps, that lip balm. They’d found it where she had left it or where it had fallen out of her purse. They’d found it beside a mirror in the bedroom or the bathroom or on the carpet near the chair where she had tossed her purse. They’d found the incontrovertible evidence that she had been with Alex the night he was killed.
“Well?” Hammond pressed. Ani was mouthing the three syllables Take the Fifth, her eyes wide and intense.
Instead, however, Cassie gazed for one long, last moment at the images on the table, savoring these final seconds before the plane hits the earth, unsure whether the next few words would result in a successful crash landing or the aircraft would break apart and explode upon impact. She took a deep breath through her nose, exhaled, and then said, “Of course, it’s me. Alex and I met on the plane, we had dinner in Dubai, and then we went back to his hotel room. We made love in the bedroom and in the bathroom—in the shower. And in the morning, when I left, he was still very, very much alive. I can assure you of that. He kissed me once on the forehead before I said good-bye, and then said he was about to get up himself. But I swear to you on my life: when I left the hotel, he was perfectly, totally fine.”