The Flight Attendant(40)

And instantly Cassie understood her mistake: she shouldn’t have called Megan back. She should only have phoned Ani. Yes, she and Megan had known each other for years, but in the end Cassie was now going to have to ask Megan to perjure herself. She wasn’t quite at that place yet, however—she was still too sober. But the crux of the problem was really very simple: she had told Megan one thing in Dubai and Derek Mayes another at the diner in New York. So far she had told the FBI nothing. If she was to accomplish anything right now, she should see if there was a way to reconcile her two stories and get Megan and Derek on the same page. She swallowed the last of her Negroni, and the bartender, as if he were telepathic, emerged from behind that great, wonderful balustrade of a bar and was at her side, asking if she wanted another drink. She nodded enthusiastically.

“What photos?” she asked Megan, stalling for time by playing dumb.

“You haven’t seen them? You really haven’t seen them?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Cassie could hear the woman’s great sigh of exasperation through the phone. “There are two photos on the web of a woman who looks like you and is wearing a scarf that might be the one you bought when we landed in Dubai. You know, at the airport? The photos are from the hotel in Dubai where the guy from two C was killed. The hedge fund guy. In one picture, she’s with the dude; in the other, she’s alone. Jada is sure it’s you. Shane is absolutely positive.”

“And you?” Cassie asked. She wished Alex Sokolov were more than the guy from 2C or the hedge fund guy. He deserved better. “What do you think?”

“Tell me, were you with him? I know you didn’t kill him. But were you with him? Just tell me that. The FBI has been calling. I’m supposed to meet with them today and I need to know what you want me to say.”

What you want me to say. The words echoed in Cassie’s mind.

“I guess the FBI will be calling me, too, when I get back,” she said, instead of mentioning that she already had a message from an agent herself. She watched the bartender preparing her drink, and tried to will him to hurry up. She needed to ratchet up the pain medication.

“Yeah. I guess,” said Megan, her tone equal parts frustration and derision.

“I’m glad I’m in Italy. Where are you this month?”

“Berlin. The seven-thirty flight tonight.”

“I like that flight.”

“You’re not answering my question. Should I read something into that?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Then what’s going on? What’s really going on?”

The bartender returned with her drink and when he placed it on the table, she had an urge to reach out and touch his long, beautiful fingers. Instead she murmured her thanks and plucked the orange peel from the rim, tossing it unceremoniously onto the table beside her small paperback book. Then she drank it down at least an inch and a half. “Here’s what I want you to do,” she began.

“Go on.”

“I want you to forget I ever told you that I picked up a guy at the hotel bar in Dubai. I want you to forget we ever spoke that morning in my hotel room before we left the city. As far as anyone knows, I never left my hotel room that night. I didn’t even order up room service. That’s all.”

There was a long pause and Cassie used the opportunity to drink some more. Her stomach was empty. She knew she would be feeling better soon.

“So you want me to lie,” said Megan.

“I doubt it will ever come to that.”

“It will.”

“Then, yes. Please.”

“Can you tell me anything more?”

“Oh, Megan, I just don’t want people to get the wrong idea. I just don’t want you to get sucked into this. Assume I really did hook up with a guy from our hotel. Why not just believe that, okay?”

“Because you’re a spy.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“One more thing,” Cassie said. “You haven’t told Jada or Shane or anyone about our conversation in my hotel room in Dubai that morning—and what I said, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, then. Good.”

“Send me your schedule for August, so I know when we’re both going to be in the same time zone,” Megan asked. “We have a lot to talk about. It would be great if it could even be in person.”

“I agree,” Cassie said. “I’ll send you my schedule. Maybe we’ll be at JFK the same day.” Then she thanked her—deeply and sincerely—and took the last of her Negroni to the bar. She knew she should call Ani now, but she couldn’t cope. She just couldn’t. The bartender was leaning back and looking at something on his phone. He had a gold badge with his name: Enrico.

“Another one?” he asked when he noticed her. He had only a trace of an Italian accent.

“Yes, please. You make a good one.” She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had sex sober, and wondered a little now at the synaptic connection between her body—body image, really—and booze. Between intimacy and intoxicants. She ran her fingers through her hair: she needed another drink to make these sorts of mental gymnastics go away. Some lives, including hers, were best left unexamined. She was buzzed just enough to crave a little shame. To crave this young waiter.