London to Cairo.
Cairo to Kabul.
There were thirty-eight hours of travel, including layovers, which gave Clark plenty of time to sleep, and to think. Customs agents in three cities had accepted his phony passport and, so far as he knew, the flight suit had accompanied him safely in his checked luggage. As the pilot announced the final approach into Afghanistan, Clark ran through options in his head; just in case there was some hang up in the terminal when it came time to claim his bags.
The previous day had started early, after almost no sleep from the night before. The trial flight had gone better than expected. Between the residual adrenaline from soaring eight-hundred feet above New York City and the rush of packing for an international mercenary trip, Clark nearly forgot to confirm his travel arrangements. At 2:40 a.m. he completed the on-line check in process for a flight that was to leave only four hours later. He was really good at last minute travel accommodations. He was a journalist after all, so setting up a trip on a minute’s notice with a shoestring budget was essential to his livelihood. And, because of his escapades reporting on the Middle East, navigating customs and security while traveling under an assumed identity caused him no worry.
The decision to check the suit and have it stowed under the plane came upon James’ very strong suggestion. Clark wanted to carry it onboard in the oversized duffle bag he used to secret it out of Washington. James, however, insisted that the carry-on items were much more closely examined than the checked items, and there would be less chance of a search. Besides, he didn’t think there was any way a personal flying combat suit would fit in an overhead compartment. After some convincing, Clark agreed, then proceeded to entrust the pivotal factor in his mission to the baggage handlers and security agents at JFK, Heathrow, Cairo, and Kabul.
During his layovers, Clark had to resist the urge to inquire about the luggage. He found that two XanaPro with chamomile tea made a nice cocktail to calm his nerves. It had been two weeks since he had any kind of narcotic in his system, but the anti-anxiety drug did the trick. That, he figured, was the only thing to stop him from chewing his fingernails down to nubs over the whereabouts and overall condition of the suit. In Clark’s mind it was only a temporary, but entirely necessary relapse.
The plane touched down at 5:45 a.m. Kabul time, which made it approximately 9:15 p.m. in New York. Clark’s relaxed feeling had worn off as he anticipated the reunion with his luggage. His actions would have to be swift and confident as he retrieved the bags, proceeded through customs, and then hailed his cab to the hotel. Although airport security had lagged a bit since the signing of the International Disarmament Act, he could not afford any suspicion at all. With everything he had set out to accomplish over the course of the next several days, it would have been easy to become overzealous and lose focus. Clark thought it would be best to just concentrate on his breathing.
After a brief delay on the tarmac, the plane taxied to the gate and the passengers were allowed to exit the plane. Clark made his way to baggage claim number seven and waited as patiently as he could. The flight had been full, so the luggage retrieval area was crowded. Clark edged his way to the front of the group and stood with his shins against the stainless steel platform that supported the conveyer belt. With a buzz and the strobe of a red light the belt slowly started to move and bags began to emerge. With a heavy breath, Clark looked at the businessman standing next to him and said, “Finally.” The man grinned and nodded. Clark nodded back.
___
An hour later, he stood alone as the empty belt came to a stop. Clark rubbed the back of his neck and noticed for the first time he was sweating profusely. His head started to throb and he was suddenly overcome with an acute awareness of the blood rushing through his fingertips.
Reality started to set it: the bag was gone, the suit was gone, and the gig was up.
As the room started to collapse around him, the distinct sound of leather heeled shoes walking briskly on a concrete floor interrupted Clark listening to the sound of his own pounding heart. An Afghani Travel Security Agent approached like a bullet and stopped just short of a head-on collision.
“Mr. Snyder?” It took a moment. Clark hadn’t remembered his phony name.
“Um, yes.”
“Are you alright sir?” the agent asked in broken English, “You don’t look good.”
“I don’t travel well. Say, maybe you can help…”
“I need to speak with you about your bag, sir,” the agent interrupted. “Follow me, please.”
Minutes later Clark was ushered into a poorly lit office with cinderblock walls. There was a rusted desk, a folding table, and three chairs. The smell of stale sweat mixed with mold made the room’s atmosphere almost unbearable. An Afghan police officer stood in the corner and two additional airport security agents stood behind the folding table. The black duffle-bag sat unzipped in front of them with the top portion of the combat suit completely exposed. Both agents looked concerned as they stared intently into its owner’s eyes. Clark fought hard to keep his expression relaxed.
“There it is. Thank goodness. I thought maybe my luggage got lost in…”
“Mr. Snyder,” the older agent interrupted, “is this your bag?”
“Sure is.”
“We need to ask you about what you’ve brought with you on your trip.”
“Shoot. Uh, bad choice of words. I meant, go ahead with your questions.”
“Mr. Snyder, the contents of this bag seem as if they are of some value. This particular item,” the officer grabbed the chest plate of the suit and partially lifted it out of the bag, “seems to be of great value.”
“What, my costume? Well my sister would be glad to hear that. She stitched it together in her basement. It’s a piece of shit, really. Coming apart at the seams.” Clark smiled and held back vomit.
“You expect us to believe that this is a costume?”
“Yeah, a Halloween costume from one of our office parties. Why?”
“And for what reason would you transport a costume that is of no value half way around the world, Mr. Snyder?”
“Well, it is of some value. I sold it to one of my college buddies who works for an oil company here. Fifty bucks. I haven’t seen him in thirty years but we stay in touch on the internet. He thinks I mailed it, but his wife and I set up this reunion. I was going to surprise him.” Clark thought there was no way they were going to buy that, but it was all he could come up with.
“Mr. Snyder, we have contacted your government’s Central Intelligence Agency and are awaiting their reply.” Now Clark was sure that they didn’t fall for his story. “We have sent them pictures of this bag, as well as security shots of your face captured from our cameras in the terminal. You will be held in our custody until such time that you are deemed not to be a threat. Do you understand?”
“Not really, but you’re in charge here. Do I need to contact my attorney?” Clark asked, as if he had one.
None of the three men replied. One agent grabbed the bag, the other opened the door and all three left swiftly. Through the clouded window in the door, Clark could see that the Afghani police officer remained to stand guard. Clark slumped down in the closest chair and rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. He was so close.
He checked his watch every thirty seconds. Eight minutes seemed like three hours. Suddenly, the door of the small holding room flung open. Only one security officer returned. He did not have the bag.
“We have spoken to your C.I.A. There seems to be no problems. They said that you should give your sister some credit. That is one impressive costume. This way, sir.” Clark tingled with relief.
“Thank you.” He didn’t know what else to say.
“By the way, we put a small tear in the material of your bag. If you see our properties secretary on the way out he will give you the necessary form to get a reimbursement for the damage.”
“Really? Great. Which way?”
“This way, down the hall and to your left. Your bag is waiting. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
“No need to apologize. Just doing your job.” Clark offered to shake the man’s hand. The security officer looked at Clark’s offering, but did not return the gesture.
“Good luck, Mr. Kent.”
“Excuse me? My name is…”
“Forgive me. Mr. Snyder, right? Good luck meeting up with your friend. I hope we have not delayed the surprise.” The officer turned on his heels and disappeared around the corner.
Clark knew better than to stand around asking questions. He completely ignored the reimbursement process and within minutes he stood at the curb outside the International Concourse. The duffle bag was slung over his shoulder and the strap was adjusted so that the bulk of its contents rested securely under Clark’s right arm. He was able to quickly hail a cab. The driver hurried around the front of his car with a smile and offered (first in his own language and then quickly in English) to take the bag and put it in the trunk. Clark resisted.
“This stays with me.”
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