The Schwarzschild Radius (42 page)

She washed her face. It wasn’t going to help to look upset or suspicious. She went outside and bought a pair of sunglasses and a large brimmed hat. Tong was gone and Achara got in the line.

“I’m flying to New York.” She handed over her passport and e-ticket receipt. The lady drew the passport across the reader, then returned it to Achara. This just checked her name against a database of wanted felons and no-fly passengers. She had to remember that her name was now Olivia Wallen.

“Any bags for check-in?”

“No, just this carry-on.”

“The flight leaves at 6:30 from gate forty-seven. Up the escalator to your left.”

“This is the ticket?”

“That’s your boarding pass.”

“Thank you.”

The glasses went back on and she went up the escalator. She had never been on an escalator.

At the security checkpoint, she started getting nervous. She handed the first official her passport and boarding pass. He perfunctorily looked at it and waved her on. Next, she took off her shoes and put her bag through the X-ray machine. After passing through the metal-detector, she picked up her knapsack and started walking.

Someone tapped her on the shoulder.

“May I see your passport, miss?” The official leafed through it with practiced speed. “Come this way, please.” The girl followed him to the far end of the security area where there were three more guards.
This is no good
, thought Achara. She had to get one of them alone to offer him the bribe. There wasn’t enough for all four.

“This passport has no entry stamp,” said a female officer.

“I didn’t know that.”

“When did you enter the country?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“You are a US citizen?”

“Yes.”

“You’re from here. How long have you lived in the USA?”

“Seven years. I just got my citizenship.”

“And your name is Olivia Wallen?”

“That’s my American name.”

“You’ll need to correct this before you can fly.”

“How can I do that quickly? My flight leaves in less than an hour.”

“Where did you enter the country?”

“Chiang Mai Airport.”

“Please report to Room 519, 5
^th
Floor, Old Building, Immigration Bureau. Bring a copy of your original flight ticket, boarding pass, or other travel document to show the date of entry and flight number. The officer on duty will make the necessary entry in your passport.”

“Where is Old Building?”

“Outside the terminal, all the way down to your left. You really don’t have much time.”

“I need to talk to the officer on duty about stamping my passport,” Achara said to the secretary.

“He’s occupied. Take a seat.”

“My flight leaves in forty minutes. I really need to speak to him to correct my passport. Can you please tell him this is an emergency?”

“I’m sorry, he’s with another person. Please have a seat.”

Achara sat down for one minute, then got up and began pacing across the doorway of the office. After fifteen interminable minutes, the man sitting opposite the officer left.

“You need to see me?” He waived her inside.

“I have a serious problem and I hope you can solve it for me,” she sat in the low chair. “My flight leaves in less than a half hour and I don’t have an entry stamp on my passport.”

“You have the ticket or boarding pass you used to enter the country?”

“No, I don’t have those with me.”

“Can someone get them for you?”

“No, I don’t have those.”

“You need proof that you entered the country.”

“How can we solve it?”

“By getting the boarding pass or plane ticket.”

She took the money out of her bag and put it on the desk. “I can give you this.”

“What’s that?”

“A gift for you if you help me.”

“I can’t do that.”

“I really need your help. I need the entry stamp. Please help me. It’s sixteen-hundred dollars.”

“I don’t work that way. I know everyone else does, but I don’t.”

“But I need to get to America. Only you can help me.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“Please, I have a family waiting for me in America.”

“I have a family, too.”

“That’s why it’s sixteen-hundred dollars.” She tried to control her voice, but it was no use. Passengers were already boarding the plane. Soon the door would close. “It’s just a stamp. It’s just a stamp.”

“It’s not just a stamp.”

Achara’s world was collapsing as she faced the one man in Thailand who could not be bought. She knew from the beginning that it all depended on this moment, that all the planning and all the hope hinged on the corruptibility of a man she had never met.

“I have to get to America.”

“Please. I’m sorry. I can’t help you.” He handed her back the passport. “You should go home now.” Those final words descended from the high chair like a death sentence. He was getting up. He walked past her to open the door.

She looked at the name plate on the desk. “Rangsang Wattana, if I don’t go to America tonight, then I go back to a brothel.” He paused. Her hand reached into the bag again.

“You can have this too.” She held out the vihara. He took it in his hand, briefly, then returned it. For a moment, he just stood over her, then he reached out and took back the passport. After stamping it, he put it on top of the money and gave it all back to her.

She fled the Immigration Bureau and caught another taxi to the Departure Terminal. There were only nineteen minutes before takeoff and the door may have already closed.

Again, she went through the security checkpoint. There was a line of people for other flights. She ran to the front and looked for one of the officers who had stopped her before.

“I have it stamped, please let me go ahead. My flight leaves in ten minutes.”

He waved her through and she placed her shoes and bag in the scanner. She passed through the metal detector and waited forever for her shoes and bag to advance the five feet. Now to find gate forty-seven.

A voice came over the PA system.

“Yui Ho and Olivia Wallen, please come to gate forty-seven immediately. Your flight is leaving.”

She was desperate. There were four directions she could go. She saw a sign for gates twenty-three to fifty-two. Jumping on the conveyor, she ran past all the restaurants full of people sitting leisurely, shopping for souvenirs, the ads of beautiful girls selling Chanel and Omega watches.

“Olivia Wallen, this is your final call. Please come to gate forty-seven immediately. Your flight is leaving.”

She saw the sign for gates forty to fifty-two. An immense length of stores, people, and departure gates before her. She ran past Rolex and Longines, Coach and Louis Vuitton. They stopped calling her name. She would have traded all the riches in this place for one more minute of time.

There it was in the distance. Her lungs were bursting. She could see it. She ran past gate forty-four, forty-five, forty-six. Into the waiting lounge of gate forty-seven.

There was no one there.

nce inside the van, Rachel’s hands were bound behind her back and her screams were muffled by Gorilla tape. A hood went over her head. The full magnitude of it all now set in―the simplicity of the trap. She had traced Olivia’s steps all the way to death. She wailed at the top of her lungs.

The vehicle stopped at the booth to pay the parking fee, and Rachel desperately kicked the sides of the van to get someone’s attention. But the transaction was quick and the car sped off.

Once on the highway, her abductor finally spoke.

“You violated me. And you have to pay. Where we’re going, they’ll never find you. And I can dispose of a body, so it can never be identified. I’ll drill out the pulp in your molars, so they can’t DNA it.”

She took deep breaths, recapturing her heartbeat, dispelling the miasma of chaos in her mind. There was no hope of escape while the car was moving; with her hands behind her back, she would surely die even if she had a chance to roll out of the car.

Her cell phone was on her belt. If she could get it out of the holster and managed to make two keystrokes, it would dial 911. She couldn’t talk, but police could track her with the built-in GPS once they were alerted to a problem. Her wrists pulled at the plastic strap, testing it, but they only dug deeper into her flesh. Groping with her foot for a weapon, she found none.

She tugged at her belt, sliding it around her waist, but the cell phone got stuck at the first loop. Rachel tried to get to the buckle of the thin belt and undo it. She could then pull the belt off her waist and the phone would fall off.

They got onto a highway. It could only be the Belt Parkway. Were they heading east or west? The van didn’t stop for any lights. Sliding the belt around her waist to access the buckle was harder than she thought. Getting the buckle past each belt loop was a struggle. Twenty minutes later, Rachel still had three more loops to go. Then she heard the unmistakable steel roadway of the Queensborough Bridge under them. There was no pause for a toll and the metal grid against the tires made a whirring sound. This led to the Fifty-ninth Street entrance to the bridge on the Manhattan side. Then the car would slow as it negotiated the streets and traffic lights.

But that’s not what happened. There was no slowing. The car veered sharply right in a U-turn which meant the FDR Drive. North or south? North led to the Bronx and the Hutchinson River Parkway toward New England. South led to lower Manhattan.

There was no stop and go. They were traveling at highway speed for twenty or twenty-five minutes after they hit the Queensborough. And now they stopped. They were still in New York City.

He parked the car and they were silent for ten minutes.

The tape came off and sunglasses went over her eyes. The insides of the lenses were painted black.

“Don’t scream. Don’t run,” said the voice. “I’ll split you in half.” Rachel felt the flat side of an endless knife travel across her throat. He tore the cell phone from her waist.

The passenger door opened. “Out.”

He slung a jacket over her shoulders and took her by the arm.

They ascended the incline, stepping over discarded tires. He opened a metal door and pulled her through, closing it behind them. A crossbar followed and a padlock. Now there was silence. Now they were alone. He pulled off the sunglasses.