The Flight Attendant(103)

“Yell for help and I’ll kill you,” he said.

Cassie tried to shake her head. She was indeed able to move it. “I won’t,” she murmured, her voice still mushy and hoarse. She tried to focus anywhere but on the tip of the long silencer at the end of the pistol.

“Tell me about Elena.”

“Elena?”

Instantly he switched the gun to his other hand, grabbing it by the barrel, and rapped her hard on the shin with the grip. She closed her eyes and cried out reflexively against the pain, and when she opened them he was already aiming the weapon at her once more. She collected herself and whimpered, “I don’t know who that is.”

“The woman who came to Alex Sokolov’s suite in Dubai.”

“Miranda?”

He rolled his eyes. “Miranda,” he repeated.

“We had a drink. The vodka she brought. Then she left.”

He pounded her other shin with the gun, but either because she was expecting it or had just experienced precisely this agony, this time she merely grunted through her tears.

“What were you doing with her?”

“I told you, drinking! That’s all!”

“Did she recruit you?”

“Recruit me?”

“Cassie, let me be clear: the only chance you have of walking out of this hotel room alive is if you give me the names. You knew Elena, obviously. Who else is embedded?”

“Embedded? I don’t know what you mean, I don’t understand any of this,” she told him. She was crying now and didn’t care. “Recruits? Embedded? I’m not a spy! I’m nothing. You know me. You know what I am. I’m just…”

“Why didn’t she kill you?”

“I don’t know! I’m telling you, I don’t know anything,” she whimpered.

He stared at her and seemed to think about this. Then: “I almost believe you. Almost.”

“Because I’m telling you the truth.”

“Tell me about your brother-in-law.”

“He’s in the army,” she mumbled. “He’s a major. He’s stationed at Blue Grass.”

“What else?”

“There is no what else.”

He stood up, his feet on either side of her body, and aimed the Beretta straight down at her. “You are fast running out of time, Cassie. Why were you with Sokolov in Dubai?”

“We met on the plane, that’s all there was to it,” she mewled. “Please don’t kill me.”

“Why was he interested in you?”

Why was any man interested in her? she wanted to ask in return. The answer was simple: because she was a drunk and she was easy. And while a small part of her understood the rightness of sarcasm and self-loathing when she appraised her life, there was a gun pointed at her. And so she replied simply, “He wanted a good time. I guess I did, too.”

From the corner of her vision she saw that Enrico had moved his head. She didn’t dare turn her gaze on him because she didn’t want to draw Buckley’s attention to the young bartender, but Cassie noticed that one of his eyes was open. “He was just a guy on the plane,” she went on, hoping to hold Buckley’s interest. “Someone to drink with in Dubai. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again.” She didn’t know if there was any way in the world that Enrico could creep over to him without drawing his attention, but the idea gave her hope.

“Did he mention the name of anyone else he was seeing in Dubai?”

“No. I mean, I knew he had a meeting, but I assumed it had something to do with his hedge fund.”

“Did he mention anyone else who worked at the airline?”

“No, he didn’t.” She tried to watch Enrico with soft eyes: eyes that focused on nothing but took in everything. Her friend Paula had grown up with a horse, and it was how she was taught to ride: to see her surroundings without turning her head and thus confusing the animal beneath her by moving her body. Enrico had managed to inch a little closer to the bed from his spot outside the bathroom. Any moment, she supposed, he was going to dive at Buckley. When he did—if she could move quickly, which she was unsure if she could—she would try and help. She would attack too. Years ago she’d taken a voluntary self-defense course the airline had offered. She’d never needed to use anything she’d learned (or, alas, she’d been too drunk to realize that she should be defending herself), and she tried to recall what the instructors had taught in the class. There was something about pulling your assailant into you when he had his hands on you. Elbowing his head. Poking or punching his abdomen. She could do that. She would do anything to force the man by the bed to deal with multiple attacks.

“I’m about to go through your suitcase and your kit. I am going to empty everything onto the floor. Sensation should be returning about now. Do not get up off the floor, and do not try and stop me. Are we clear?”

She nodded.

But then Buckley swung his arm as if swatting someone with the back of his hand—he’d seen Enrico—and calmly pulled the trigger of Uncle Piero’s Beretta.





36




The gun exploded, the silencer dampening but not eliminating the pop, and Cassie was aware that she had winced and cried out—and that Enrico was still alive. He had launched himself on top of Buckley, pinning him on his side on the mattress. There was a cut on Buckley’s cheek, the gash already puddling red, and he was holding his right hand with his left. The wound on his hand looked far worse than the one on his face: Cassie could see blood streaming down the man’s forearm, as well as the black burns along his fingers and thumb. His index finger was misshapen and either dislocated or broken.