“Why did they think Mr. Bézy would be here?” His expression was almost a smirk.

“Beats me,” I said. “They must have had bad information.”

A limousine was waiting above the dock to take us back to the airport. I walked stiffly up the long ramp. The bulletproof vest had all the suppleness of a tree trunk. I had to get rid of it before boarding their plane. I assumed I could find a men’s room back at the terminal and ditch it there.

As we walked toward the limousine I looked back at the FBI commander and his unhappy little army. I could almost hear him say the words: You asshole. I was undoubtedly a reminder for him of what every cop knows in his soul: reporters always screw things up. I gave him a little wave, good-bye.

Alessi and I got into the backseat. “There’s one detail about the flight to Montreal,” I said as the car pulled away. “The Mirror will have to pay for my share of the cost. We have rules about that.”

The chauffeur drove in the direction of the main terminal, but then took a separate ramp toward General Aviation, where private jets boarded their passengers. I felt the vest, still tight against my chest. I had to get rid of it.

“I need to find a men’s room,” I told Alessi.

“We don’t have time now,” said Alessi. “There is a toilet on the plane.”

“But I really need to use the men’s room now.”

He smiled blandly. “No time. You’ll have to wait.”

The plane taxied away from the General Aviation terminal five minutes after we arrived, and it was airborne soon after that. When we reached cruising altitude, I got up and went to the toilet. As quickly as I could, I removed the Kevlar vest. It felt bigger in my hands than it had on my chest. Where to discard it? I found a cabinet under the sink, where they kept extra paper towels and toilet paper, and stowed it in there. With luck, nobody would find it for a few days. I put my shirt back on, tucked in my trousers. I examined myself in the mirror. All things considered, I didn’t look too bad.

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