He repeated what he had said before in more emphatic tones and hand gestures that seemed to indicate no entrance.

There was the sound of a car door slamming. A woman walked up, mid-forties, very chic, spoke to the guard and then turned to Franny.

“I heard you say you were English.” She spoke English with a pronounced Italian accent.

“Uh … American actually, but I don’t speak the lingo here.”

“The airport has been taken by the military. All commercial flights have left or they are grounded. They are saying to check back tomorrow.”

“All commercial flights. Are there private planes? Are they flying? Could you ask for me? My grandmother is really sick. We came here so she could show me home and she got blood poisoning. We need to get back to Manhattan—” Franny clamped his jaw shut to stop the nervous, exhausted babble.

“I will ask. Poor lady. She looks very bad.”

There was more conversation. In the line behind them someone began blowing his horn. The woman turned back to him. “There are a few private planes still here, but he says it’s not permitted to enter the airport grounds. I am sorry.”

“Well, thanks for your help.” She returned to her car. Franny executed the U-turn and drove away. He then set out driving around the perimeter of the airport. Somewhere there was going to be another gate for deliveries. And perhaps a persuadable/bribable guard.

The Angel had never been to Brighton Beach before. It had an aura of middle-class respectability about it, but the Angel knew that that was a bit of a lie. Still, it was largely quiet and homey-looking, especially the old but well-tended apartment building where Captain Mendelberg had a first-floor, two-bedroom apartment.

Miraculously, there was a parking space available right across the street from it, where Lonnegan expertly maneuvered her car. They got out and sauntered across the street, and pushed the doorbell once and nearly instantaneously an old and pleasantly plump woman in a long flowered dress, sensible shoes, thick stockings of some artificial material that wasn’t nylon, and a babushka opened the door.

“Yes?” she asked pleasantly, with a pleasant smile.

Lonnegan showed her her badge.

“Is Chavvah Mendelberg in?” Lonnegan asked. “We work with her, but she didn’t show up this morning and we haven’t been able to get in touch with her. We’re concerned.”

The sight of Lonnegan’s badge, the Angel thought, had caused the expression on the apple-cheeked old lady to become withdrawn, ever so slightly.

“Why, Chavveh hasn’t lived here for months.”

Joan looked at her blankly. “For months?”

“Why, yes.”

Joan looked at the Angel, frowning, then turned back to the old lady. “You’re sure?”

Her eyes suddenly turned hard. “I’m the landlady, ain’t I?”

Before she could agree, the door closed suddenly, loudly, in her face.

They looked at each other again.

“What now?” the Angel asked.

“Well,” Joan said thoughtfully, “there’s always Uncle Ivan.”