Everybody was here, he thought, everybody and everything that normally took place at the terminal was here. Everybody except the people waiting for Flight 175 to get to the gate. Those poor bastards, Sorentino thought, they'd be in a private room soon with Trans-Continental officials.

Sorentino tried to imagine Trans-Continental making all those notifications, keeping track of what morgue the bodies were in, getting the baggage and personal effects back to the families. Jesus.

And then, in a few days or weeks, when this 747 was all checked out and the problem was fixed, it would be back on the line, earning money for the company. Sorentino wondered if the passengers' families would get rebates on the tickets.

A Port Authority cop was standing in front of Sorentino's RIV now and motioning him forward a little, then the guy held up his hands and Sorentino stopped. He checked his sideview mirrors to make sure the idiot in the tug stopped, too, which he did. Sorentino reached up and turned off his rotating beam. He took a deep breath, then put his face into his hands and felt tears running down his cheeks, which surprised him because he didn't know he was crying.

CHAPTER 11

Kate, Officer Simpson, and I didn't say much, we just listened to the patrol car radio. Simpson switched frequencies and made a call directly to one of the Emergency Service vehicles. He identified himself and said, "What's the problem with Trans-Continental One-Seven-Five?"

A voice came over the speaker and said, "Seems to be toxic fumes. No fire. All souls lost."

There was complete silence in the patrol car.

The speaker said, "Copy?"

Simpson cleared his throat and replied, "Copy, all souls lost. Out."

Kate said, "My God… can that be?"

Well, what more was there to say? Nothing. And that's what I said. Nothing.

Officer Simpson found the taxi way that led to the security area. There was no urgency any longer, and, in fact, Simpson slowed down to the fifteen-miles-per-hour speed limit, and I didn't say anything.

The sight in front of us was almost surreal-this huge aircraft lumbering along the taxiway toward this strange-looking wall of steel that had a wide opening in it.

The 747 passed through the opening in the wall, and the wings passed over the top of the wall.

Within a minute, we were up to the opening, but there were other trucks and cars ahead of us who'd waited until the 747 cleared. The other vehicles-an assortment of everything I'd ever seen on wheels-started to follow the 747, causing a small traffic jam.

I said to Simpson, "Meet us inside." I jumped out of the patrol car and started running. I heard a door slam behind me and heard Kate's footsteps gaining on me.

I didn't know why I was running, but something in my head said, "Run!" So I ran, feeling that little pencil-shaped scar area in my lung giving me a problem.

Kate and I did some broken-field running around the vehicles and within a minute we were inside this huge enclosure, filled with vehicles, people, and one 747. It looked like something out of Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Maybe the X-Files.

People who run attract attention, and we were stopped by a uniformed Port Authority cop, who was joined quickly by his sergeant. The sergeant said, "Where's the fire, folks?"

I tried to catch my breath and say, "FBI," but only managed a sort of whistle that came out of my bad lung.

Kate held up her Fed creds and said, without any huffing or puffing, "FBI. We have a fugitive and escorts aboard that aircraft."

I got my creds out and stuck the case in my outside breast pocket, still trying to catch my breath.

The Port Authority sergeant said, "Well, there's no rush." He added, "All dead."

Kate said, "We have to board the aircraft to take charge of… the bodies."

"We have people to do that, miss."

"Sergeant, our escorts are carrying guns as well as sensitive documents. This is a matter of national security."

"Hold on." He put his hand out, and the police officer beside him laid a radio in his palm. The sergeant transmitted and waited. He said to us, "Lots of radio traffic."

I was tempted to get uppity, but I waited.

The sergeant said, while we waited, "This bird came in total NO-RAD-"

"We know that," I said, happy that I'd picked up this jargon recently.

I looked at the 747, which had stopped in the center of the enclosure. Mobile staircases were being driven up to the doors, and soon there would be people on board.

The sergeant wasn't getting a reply to his call, so he said to us, "You see that Mobile Incident Command vehicle over there? Go talk to somebody in there. They're in direct contact with the FBI and my bosses."

Before he changed his mind, we hurried off toward the Mobile Command vehicle.

I was still breathing hard, and Kate asked me, "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

We both glanced over our shoulders and saw that the Port Authority sergeant was busy with something else. We changed course and headed toward the aircraft.

One mobile staircase was now in place at the rear of the aircraft, and a few Emergency Service guys were heading up the stairs followed by men and women in white, plus some guys in blue jumpsuits, and a guy in a business suit.

A gentleman never climbs a staircase behind a lady with a short skirt, but I gave it a try and motioned for Kate to go first. She said, "After you."

So we got on the stairs and went through the door of the aircraft and into the huge cabin. The only lights were emergency floor lights, probably powered by batteries. There was some illumination from the late afternoon sunlight through the port side windows. But you didn't need a lot of light to see that the cabin was about three-quarters full and that no one in the seats was moving.

The people who had entered with us stood motionless and quiet, and the only sounds came through the open doors.

The guy with the suit looked at Kate and me, and I saw he had a photo ID on his breast pocket. It was actually a Trans-Continental ID, and the guy looked awful. In fact, he said to us, "This is awful… oh, my God…"

I thought he was going to cry, but he got himself under control and said, "I'm Joe Hurley… Trans-Continental baggage supervisor…"

I said to him, "FBI. Look, Joe, keep your people out of the aircraft. This may be a crime scene."

His eyes opened wide.

I really didn't think at that point that this was a crime scene, but I wasn't totally buying the toxic fumes accident thing either. The best way to get control of a situation is to say, "Crime Scene," then everyone has to do what you say.

One of the Port Authority Emergency Service guys came over and said, "Crime scene?"

"Yeah. Why don't you all go to a door and hold up the traffic awhile until we look around. Okay? There's no rush collecting the carry-on baggage or the bodies."

The EMS guy nodded, and Kate and I moved quickly up the left aisle.

People were starting to come on board through the other open doors, and Kate and I held up our creds and called out, "FBI. Please stop where you are. Do not enter the aircraft. Please move back onto the staircases." And so forth.

This got the traffic slowed down, and people started to congregate at the doors. A Port Authority cop was on board, and he helped stop traffic as we made our way to the front of the aircraft.

Every now and then, I glanced over my shoulder and saw these faces staring into nowhere. Some had their eyes shut, some had their eyes open. Toxic fumes. But what kind of toxic fumes?

We got to this open area where there were two exit doors, a galley, two lavatories, and a spiral staircase. A bunch of people were jamming into the area, and we did our routine again, but it's hard to stop a tide of people at a disaster site, especially if they think they have business there. I said, "Folks, this is a possible crime scene. Get off the aircraft. You can wait on the stairs outside."