14

Deere, the co-pilot, suggested Captain McDonald ought to lay off pounding on the door when McDonald, in his frustration at 3A’s lack of response, began to do so.

“Where’s he going to go?” Deere asked. “What’s he going to do? Flush himself down the john? He’s too big.”

“But if he’s carrying—” McDonald began.

Deere, who had himself used cocaine on more than a few occasions, said: “If he’s carrying, he’s carrying heavy. He can’t get rid of it.”

“Turn off the water,” McDonald snapped suddenly.

“Already have,” the navigator (who had also tooted more than his flute on occasion) said. “But I don’t think it matters. You can dissolve what goes into the holding tanks but you can’t make it not there.” They were clustered around the bathroom door, with its OCCUPIED sign glowing jeerily, all of them speaking in low tones. “The DEA guys drain it, draw off a sample, and the guy’s hung.”

“He could always say someone came in before him and dumped it,” McDonald replied. His voice was gaining a raw edge. He didn’t want to be talking about this; he wanted to be doing something about it, even though he was acutely aware that the geese were still filing out, many looking with more than ordinary curiosity at the flight-deck crew and stewardesses gathered around the bathroom door. For their part, the crew were acutely aware that an act that was—well, overly overt—could provoke the terrorist boogeyman that now lurked in the back of every air-traveller’s mind. McDonald knew his navigator and flight engineer were right, he knew that the stuff was apt to be in plastic bags with the scuzzball’s prints on them, and yet he felt alarm bells going off in his mind. Something was not right about this. Something inside of him kept screaming Fast one! Fast one! as if the fellow from 3A were a riverboat gambler with palmed aces he was all ready to play.

“He’s not trying to flush the john,” Susy Douglas said. “He’s not even trying to run the basin faucets. We’d hear them sucking air if he was. I hear something, but—”

“Leave,” McDonald said curtly. His eyes flicked to Jane Dorning. “You too. We’ll take care of this.”

Jane turned to go, cheeks burning.

Susy said quietly: “Jane bird-dogged him and I spotted the bulges under his shirt. I think we’ll stay, Captain McDonald. If you want to bring charges of insubordination, you can. But I want you to remember that you may be raping the hell out of what could be a really big DEA bust.”

Their eyes locked, flint sparking off steel.

Susy said, “I’ve flown with you seventy, eighty times, Mac. I’m trying to be your friend.”

McDonald looked at her a moment longer, then nodded. “Stay, then. But I want both of you back a step toward the cockpit.”

He stood on his toes, looked back, and saw the end of the line now just emerging from tourist class into business. Two minutes, maybe three.