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Remi drew in a shallow breath and prepared to scream, but the woman held a towel over her face. The sound began as a muffled yell but quickly died in a fight for breath. By then, Remi had begun to feel weak and helpless from the drug, and in a moment she lost consciousness.
Sam sat in his seat in the waiting area. He had been watching people go by for some time and now he picked up the book Remi had been reading about Kazakhstan, read a few pages but couldn’t keep his mind on it. He went back to watching passersby. Moscow’s airport was an open place, where any number of travelers from every continent were always visible. He picked up her book again, but after a time he realized he had been posing as a reader rather than reading. His book was merely a mute explanation of how he was passing his time and an assurance to others that he was harmless. Where was Remi? Too much time had passed. He pulled out his cell phone and called her, but her phone was turned off, probably since they’d boarded the plane in Budapest.
Sam knew that women’s restrooms in public places often required waiting, but this felt wrong. Sam got up and, shouldering Remi’s bag along with his, walked in the direction he’d seen her go. Down the concourse were restrooms. He walked directly there, but kept scanning the nearby shops and crowds for Remi.
He saw a large, heavy woman, dressed like a cleaning lady, come out of the restroom, pushing a wheeled cart with a couple of large barrels on it. She picked up the sign on the cone that had been blocking the door. Another woman in a janitorial dress came out and helped her push the cart. They went off down the concourse and turned into an alcove that, he supposed, led to some of the innumerable doorways where passengers couldn’t go.
The fact that the cleaning ladies had closed the restroom for a few minutes reassured Sam, but not entirely. He stood across from the door and waited but kept looking up and down to see if Remi might have chosen another restroom and would be returning.
He had a memory of a restroom at O’Hare Airport in Chicago that had two sets of doors, one opening onto the concourse, where
he’d entered, and the other, on the opposite wall, opening onto a different concourse. Could this ladies’ room have two entrances? He saw a woman coming out, speaking on a cell phone. He said, “Excuse me.”
She stopped walking, the phone still to her ear.
He said, “Does that restroom have two exits?”
The woman looked back at it and then at him, as though she were wondering what he could possibly mean.
He answered for her. “I guess not.” He hurried on. He had wasted too much time. He called Remi’s cell phone again, but it was still off. He listened to part of the message and hung up. He came to a gate where there were two women in airline uniforms, talking in Russian as they stood at a counter.
“Hello,” he said. “Do you speak English?”
“Yes, sir,” said one. “How can I help you?”
“My wife went to a restroom but didn’t return. And it’s not like her. She would call me on her cell phone if she went anywhere else. I’ve been calling her, but her phone is turned off. I’m very worried about her. She would never do this.”
“Is she . . . perhaps ill?”
“She wasn’t a while ago when we arrived from Budapest. Can you get in touch with airport police?”
The two women looked at each other uncomfortably. “Yes, I can,” said one. “How long has she been gone?”
He glanced at his watch. “About a half hour. I know it doesn’t sound long, but, I swear to you, she would never do this without telling me.”
“It’s a big airport. Could she be lost?”
“Anyone could get lost. But if she were, she would be even more likely to call me.”
“Let me page her.”
“Sure. But please call the police too.”
The woman picked up a telephone, pressed a button, then held the receiver against her arm. “What’s her name?”
“Remi Fargo.”
“Would Mrs. Remi Fargo please pick up a white courtesy telephone or go to any Aeroflot desk. Mrs. Remi Fargo, please pick up a white courtesy telephone.” She hung up the phone and smiled reassuringly. “She should be calling us in a moment.”
“Please call the police.”
“We should wait a few minutes to give her time to call.”
“She’s had plenty of time to use her own cell phone to call,” Sam said, getting agitated. “Please call the police.” He spotted two uniformed police officers walking along the concourse. “Excuse me.” He turned and ran after them.
As he came up on the two cops, he saw them look quickly over their shoulders at him, their bodies tensed for an attack. He smiled as well as he could. “Do you speak English?”
They looked confused, so he began to walk back toward the airline desk, beckoning them to follow. When they arrived, he said to the airline woman, “Please, tell them my problem.”
