Lynne Heitman - The Pandora Key aka The Hostage Room

“Wow. I didn’t expect this.”

“You don’t deserve it, either. I just didn’t want to hear you bitch and moan.” He turned to help a stooped woman with long gray hair who had caught her rolling bag on the lip of the aircraft door. “Here you go, ma’am. Have a nice flight.”

She thanked him, and so did I.

“Remember the story,” he said. “I don’t want you embarrassing me with my contacts over there.”

“I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”

Dan had told a tiny white lie to get me onto the very tightly controlled guest list for the hostage reunion. I was enhancing the customer-care section of Majestic’s disaster manual, the one that gets pulled out when you have to turn your maintenance hangar into a morgue or make arrangements for your hijacked passengers, or their bodies, to get home. I was to interview passengers about how they had been treated in the wake of the flight 809 hijacking to find out what had worked and what hadn’t, what they had needed and not gotten.

“What do you think you’ll find over there, anyway?”

“Someone who can tell me they’ve seen or heard from Roger lately, or his alter ego, Gilbert Bernays.”

“That reminds me.” He pulled some folded pages from the pocket of his suit jacket. “Take this with you.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the 809 manifest and as much updated contact information as I could find. I was going to throw it away, but I thought you might need it.”

Like Felix, Dan had a way of coming through with all the things I didn’t even know I needed. I gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for the first-class seat.”

“Get your ass onboard. I’m not taking a delay for you.”

IF YOU DIDN’T KNOW OTHERWISE, YOU WOULD NEVER guess the people talking and laughing at the Paris Hyatt were former hostages gathered to commemorate their hijacking. Considering the outcome, perhaps gathered to celebrate the fact that they were there at all. Nine of them, plus eight hijackers, hadn’t come back.

I took a few minutes at the door to review the scene. Straight in from the airport, I’d taken time to shower in my room and change my clothes. Then I’d ordered a room-service breakfast and eaten, so I was feeling all right. I’d put some heavy-duty concealer over the cut on my forehead, pulled my bangs down as camouflage, and come down early to the ballroom.

The room was just beginning to fill. People gathered around twelve round tables with white tablecloths set for brunch. Each table had a bright bouquet of spring flowers as a centerpiece, which struck me as optimistic, given the cold and damp early-spring weather outside.

As people filtered in, I spotted the one man who looked to be in charge. I got close enough to read his name tag. He was the contact Dan had set up for me.

“Dr. Wilson.” I offered my hand. “I’m Alex Shanahan from Majestic Airlines.”

“Oh, indeed. You’re the researcher from Boston. We had a call that you were coming. Welcome.”

There wasn’t much on Dr. Wilson’s tall frame except his suit, and his voice was almost as wispy as he was, but there was substance in his eyes. He seemed to be someone you could count on.

“Thank you,” I said. “I feel privileged to be here. I know you don’t let a lot of people in.”

He shifted his drink from one hand to the other and put the free hand in his pocket. It allowed him to lower his head without appearing to be whispering. “This is a smart thing your airline is doing. Salanna did a very poor job in the area of customer support. We were scattered all across Africa with no money, no passports, and only the clothes on our backs. Everything was taken from us. We had no cell phones and very little information. You never realize how important your identity is in this world until you stand without it in a hostile country.”

When I hadn’t been sleeping on the flight over, I had been studying the information I had on the passengers, trying to match names on the manifest to stories in the various articles. I knew Dr. Wilson had diabetes. He had been let off the plane early with a group of women and children. His being from Portugal and considering how the ordeal ended, his disease might have saved his life. “You were one of the hostages?”

“We prefer to be called survivors.” He gestured to his name tag. It said it right there: “Survivor.” Mine said “Guest.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“Not at all. How would you like to approach this? Shall I introduce you to some of our group?”

“I know this seems xenophobic,” I said, “but would it be possible for me to start with the Americans, since Majestic is a predominantly domestic carrier? Domestic to us, anyway.” I pulled out a picture of Roger and showed him. “How about this man? I’ve been told that he would be a good one to start with. You know, lots of complaints to air.”

“Ah, Mr. Fratello.”

“Yes, Mr.-” Wait, he wasn’t supposed to know that name. “What did you call him?”

“Your American FBI showed me a picture of this man. They have a different photograph, but it is, naturally, the same face. The agent told me this Roger Fratello is or was a notorious criminal in the States. Is it true?”

“I have no idea.” I pretended to dig through my bag, as though I might find the answer in there. I should have figured the FBI would be doing exactly as I was trying to do. I looked around at the growing crowd. “Is the FBI here?”

“No. I was interviewed in Lisbon.”

“This is embarrassing,” I said. “I thought his name was Gilbert Bernays.”

“Yes, so did we all.” He handed the picture back.

“Whatever his name was, he was on this plane, right?”

“I’m told he was.”

“You don’t remember him?”

“The takeover happened within one hour of our departure. We were immediately separated on the aircraft into small groups. Much of the time, we were bent over in the crash position or blindfolded. Beyond my own group, the first time I met most of these people was at our first reunion.”

“I see. I’m going out on a limb and assuming Gilbert Bernays has never been to any of your reunions.”

He laughed. “That’s correct. I don’t believe anyone-at least, none of us-has seen him since the ordeal ended.”

We were being increasingly interrupted as more guests arrived and made a point of saying hello to Dr. Wilson. As he was greeting someone, I pulled out the manifest Dan had given me.

“The other American men who survived”-I checked my notes again-“Voytag, Plume, and McGarry. Are any of these gentlemen here?”

“I’m afraid Peter Voytag died last year.”

“That’s too bad. How did he die?”

“Very sad. He survived the inferno, only to be felled by prostate cancer. He was young, too. But Frank and Tim are scheduled to be here. Perhaps we can find them.” He stretched his body up like a Slinky dog and checked around the room. “I don’t see them yet.” He was about to comment further when a young woman rushed up to him with the distressing news that a reporter was at the door, agitating to come in. A voice of authority was needed.

“Is it Mr. Kraft again?”

“No,” she said. “It’s someone different.”

Dr. Wilson turned to me. “I do apologize, but I must take care of this matter.”

“Who is Mr. Kraft?”

“He’s a reporter. Actually, he insists on being called a journalist. An investigative journalist.”

“Really?” That was very interesting. My cyber pen pal had made the same self-reverential distinction in our chat. “What’s his first name?”

“Max.” I wrote the name in my notebook, on the off chance that I had just stumbled over the Mr. No Comment in possession of Roger’s computer. We were still on for our meeting in Paris, but I had no idea when or where. He had all my contact information. I had none for him.