Janson sprang to his feet. He had to change his location: that rule was basic. It’s urgent that we meet at once, the caller had said; if so, they would meet on his terms. Now he started to make his way out of the VIP lounge, grabbing a paper cup from a water cooler he passed. He approached the greeting counter with the paper cup held in front of him, as if it were full. Then he yawned, squeezing his eyes shut, and walked straight into the heavyset FAA inspector, who staggered back a few feet.

“I am so sorry,” Janson blurted, looking mortified. “Oh, Christ, I didn’t spill anything on you, did I?” Janson’s hands moved rapidly over the man’s blazer. “Did I get you wet? God, I’m really, really sorry.”

“No harm done,” he replied with a trace of impatience. “Just, you know, watch where you’re going, OK? There’s lots of people in this airport.”

“It’s one thing not to know what time zone you’re in, but—Jesus, I just don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Janson said, the very picture of a flustered and jetlagged passenger. “I’m a wreck.”

As Janson made his way out of the VIP lounge and down the pedestrian corridor that led toward Concourse B, his cell phone buzzed again, as he knew it would.

“I don’t think you quite understand the urgency,” the caller began.

“That’s correct,” Janson snapped. “I don’t. Why don’t you let me know what this is about?” In an angled stretch of the pedestrian corridor, he saw a recessed area, about three feet deep, and then the expected steel door to a room that was off-limits to travelers. UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL KEEP OUT was emblazoned on a plaque above it.

“I can’t,” the caller said after a beat. “Not over the phone, I’m afraid. But I’m in the airport and could meet you—”

“In that case, call me back in one minute,” Janson interjected, ending the conversation. Now he hit the door’s horizontal push bar with the heel of his hand and made his way inside. It turned out to be a narrow room that was lined with electrical panels; LCD displays measured outputs from the airport’s heat and refrigeration plant, which was just to the east of the terminal. A rack of pegs held caps and windbreakers for outdoor work.

Three airline employees in navy-blue twill uniforms were seated around a small steel-and-Formica table, drinking coffee. He had obviously interrupted their conversation.

“What do you think you’re doing?” one of them yelled at Janson as the door banged closed behind him. “You can’t be here.”

“This ain’t the fucking john,” another one said under his breath.