Terminal 4a
Sky Harbor International Airport

Maggie watched Patrick from above the ticket area. She stayed on the second floor, close to the rail, but away from the escalators. Looking down on him in his blue jeans and gray hooded sweatshirt, she couldn’t shake the feeling of how much he looked like those college boys at Mall of America.

Wurth had equipped all of them with wireless headsets that slipped on over the ear and allowed them to communicate with each other while looking like ordinary passengers, talking on their cell phones. They agreed to keep conversation to a minimum but Maggie insisted Patrick do check-ins at fifteen-minute intervals.

“If I can’t see you, I want to hear you,” she told him earlier as she helped him into his Kevlar vest.

They had been wandering around for a couple of hours now, disguised as passengers, carry-on cases over their shoulders. Patrick had a worn duffel bag and a smartphone. He stopped periodically to look like he was reading or sending text messages. An ordinary kid going back home or back to college after a Thanksgiving holiday. Maggie was impressed. He looked convincing despite his eyes wandering around the entire area, not stopping on any one face long enough to be suspicious. He was better at this than she expected.

Somewhere Nick was watching monitors that corresponded with the new wireless cameras he had installed, several in each terminal’s ticket areas. He’d studied the sketch of the Project Manager. They’d all studied the sketch, but only Patrick seemed totally convinced that he’d recognize the man.

New passengers came up the escalators. The first flights of the morning had already left. Maggie felt certain it was to be another morning attack but it could end up being a long day.

She opened a paperback novel and leaned on the rail. It looked like she was reading but her eyes were still looking down below, watching the entrances, scanning the figures in the check-in lines and examining any of the men lingering off to the sides. She also kept checking the faces coming up on the escalator.

“At the newspaper stand,” she said, suddenly noticing a man stopped there, wearing a navy blue jacket, trousers, sunglasses and dragging a large, black Pullman.

She glanced down at Patrick and saw him casually wander closer, pretending to be interested in the headlines of the newspaper through the glass on the machine.

“Nope, I don’t think so,” he said, this time holding up the phone to his ear so anyone who might not see the wireless headset would know he was on the cell phone.

“I’m gonna stop off at the restroom. Talk to you later.”

The ticket area quickly got crowded again. Bodies and luggage pressed tight, waiting to check in, lined up at self-serve kiosks. She noticed A.D. Kunze down below talking to a woman in a housekeeping uniform. She certainly didn’t look like a sniper or a member of the bomb squad, but then that was the whole idea, wasn’t it.

When Maggie glanced back she didn’t see Patrick. Her breath caught as she searched, straining to keep from looking like she was searching. Where had he gone?

“Patrick?”

In answer, she heard a toilet flush. She saw Kunze look up at her but he didn’t smile until he turned away.

Okay, so she was being an overprotective big sister. A few minutes later she noticed Patrick come out of the restroom but he disappeared out of her sight again, just behind the down escalator.

Relax, she told herself. She needed to relax.