Stuart Woods - Imperfect Strangers

Sandy got to his knees and looked down at Cara. "Are you all right?" he asked..

"I nearly smothered, I think, but I'm all right. What happened?" She got up onto an elbow and looked at the Arab party. "Oh, dear God," she half-whispered.

Sandy helped her to her feet and put his arms around her.

"Sandy! You're hurt!" Cara yelled. "Your arm!"

"It's not my blood," he said. "I'm all right." He looked down and saw whose blood it was. The familiar-looking Arab from first class lay at his feet, his chest a mass of blood, part of his head shot away.

Suddenly, a man in civilian clothes flashing a badge was in their faces, shouting, "You two! Over there! Into that office, now!"

Sandy hustled Cara toward the room, grateful to get away from all the screaming and blood.

Are you people all right?" the policeman asked, closing the office door behind them and shoving the luggage cart into a corner. He indicated Sandy's bloody arm. "Do you need a doctor?"

Sandy shook his head. "It's not my blood."

"I expect it belongs to the gentleman out there," the cop said, showing them to chairs and pulling up one for himself. "Let me see your passports, please."

Sandy had both passports in an inside coat pocket, and he handed them over.

"Mr. Kinsolving," the cop said, reading from the document, "were you traveling with those men out there?"

"No," Sandy said. "We were about to take off from Heathrow, but we turned around and went back for that party. Who are they?"

"The leader, the one without the face, is called Said. He's high up in one of the Palestinian organizations; the others are aides or bodyguards."

"Armed bodyguards?"

"Their weapons were taken from them in London."

"Why wasn't security better?" Sandy asked.

The cop sighed. "We were told that they'd missed their plane in London and that they'd be on the next one, an hour later."

"A breakdown of communication, I guess," Sandy replied.

The cop nodded. "What did you see as you came out of customs?"

Cara spoke up. "I didn't see anything; the first thing I knew,

Mr. Kinsolving had pushed me down and was lying on top of me."

"What is your relationship with Mr. Kinsolving?" the cop asked.

Sandy broke in. "We're business associates. We had been to London to photograph a shop I own there, in preparation for redesigning my New York shop to resemble it."

"What business are you in?" the detective asked.

"The wine business."

"Do you have a business card?"

Sandy produced one.

"And what did you see that made you push the lady to the floor, Mr. Kinsolving?"

"I saw a photographer drop his camera and take a weapon from under his coat."

"And when did the shooting start?"

"As we were falling, I think. It happened very quickly."

"You have very good reactions, Mr. Kinsolving. Are you sure you didn't know Said?"

"I did not. I thought he looked familiar, but I suppose I must have seen his picture in the papers."

"Did you know the photographer?"

"No. Officer, if I had had the slightest inkling that what happened was about to happen, I would not have been standing directly behind Mr. Said, I can promise you."

"I need both your home addresses," the cop said.

"Here's my address," Sandy said, handing him a personal card. "You can reach the lady through me. Do you need us any longer?"

"No. Thanks for your cooperation. If you'll wait a few minutes I'll send you home in a patrol car."

Sandy had no wish to arrive at his apartment house in a police car. "Thank you, but there should be a car waiting for us out-side, if we can get out there."

The detective rose, went to the door and brought in a uniformed officer. "Take these people through the cordon and find their car for them; if the car's not there, find them a cab." He shook hands with both Sandy and Cara and helped Sandy turn the luggage cart around.

Sandy followed the policeman through the chaos that still prevailed in the terminal. The paramedics had arrived, and bodies were being loaded onto stretchers.

"How many were killed?" Sandy asked the cop.

"Said and three of his party," he replied. "Another guy was hit pretty bad, and one of the bodyguards wasn't hurt. The shooter isn't expected to live."

Outside the terminal ambulances had traffic snarled. To Sandy's surprise, a uniformed driver was still standing at the curb, holding a sign with Sandy's name on it. The driver loaded their luggage into the trunk, and they piled into the car. The cop had a word with a colleague about letting their car through, but another twenty minutes passed before they were able to drive away.

"I'll tell you something," Cara said when they were headed for the Triborough Bridge. "I've led an exciting life since I met you."

Sandy laughed aloud. "That's as close to gunfire as I ever hope to be."

In another three-quarters of an hour they were in Sandy's apartment, unpacking.

"Tomorrow, let's send for the rest of your things at Thea's," he said, tossing aside his laundry.

"There's not much still there," Cara said. "I came to New York with only two bags and a briefcase."

Sandy hung up some suits and turned to his second bag. He opened it and began removing clean shirts.

"Look," Cara said, pointing at the end of the suitcase. Sandy bent over and looked. A neat hole punctured the leather. He moved aside some clothes and looked at the inside of the case. "Good God," he said, holding up a shoe.

"I don't believe it," Cara said.

The bullet had penetrated the case and was now visible protruding from the shoe, apparently stopped by the cedar tree inside. Sandy plucked it out and held it up between thumb and forefinger. It was only slightly deformed.

"Was it an expensive shoe?" Cara asked.

"Don't ask."

"Somehow, I feel awfully lucky," she said, slipping her arms around his waist. "To be alive, of course, but to be here with you, too."

"Me, too," Sandy replied. "Let's hope our luck holds."

Somehow he had the feeling that, with their picture all over the papers, it wouldn't hold long.

The ringing woke Sandy early; he glanced at the bedside clock as he reached for the phone. A quarter to seven.

"Hello?"

"Dad?"

"Angus, where are you?"

"I'm in Beaune. Are you all right?"

"Of course I'm all right. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You're all over the Herald Tribune this morning," he said. "You and Cara."

"What?"

"Your picture at the airport; you're standing right behind that Arab guy"

"Oh." After all, there had been a lot of photographers there. "Yeah, it got a little too exciting there for a minute."

"I'm glad you weren't hurt. The article doesn't mention you by name, but I couldn't see you in the second photograph."

"We ducked when the shooting started. Did you pick up your car in Stuttgart?"

"Oh, yeah, and we had a great tour of the Porsche factory, too. Maggie says hello. She had one hell of a hangover the morning after our dinner. Come to that, so did I."

"Did you call M'sieur Calvet?"

"Yes, and our tour is today Maggie is champing at the bit."

"Take a lesson from that girl; get interested in wine."

"It looks as though I may have to."

"I thought Maggie was terrific; so did Cara."

"Maggie liked you both, too, and I think Cara is a knockout."

"Where're you headed after today?"

"Looks like it's to Bordeaux; more wine country."

"Good news. Keep me posted on your whereabouts, okay? Call in every few days."

"From Bordeaux we plan to drive through the south of France to Rome, taking our time."

"Good. Try the Hotel Hassler in Rome; it's a lot like the Connaught."

"We will."