Janson smiled without warmth. “You’re going to hate me, boys. But guess what?” He pulled out an FAA badge, the item he had lifted from the heavyset man in the lounge. “Another drug-abatement initiative. Random testing for a drug-free air-transport workforce—to quote the administrator’s latest memorandum on the subject. Time to fill those cups. Sorry for the inconvenience, but that’s why you make the big bucks, right?”

“This is bullshit!” the third man yowled in disgust. He was nearly bald, save for a graying fringe around the back, and he kept a short pencil behind an ear.

“Haul ass, guys,” Janson barked. “We’re following a whole new procedure this time. My team’s assembled over at gate two in Concourse A. Don’t make them wait. When they get impatient, sometimes they make mistakes with the samples, if you get my drift.”

“This is bullshit,” the bald man repeated.

“Want me to file a report saying that an Air Transport Association member protested and/or sought to evade the drug audit? Your test comes in positive, better start combing the want ads.” Janson folded his arms on his chest. “Get the hell out of here, now.”

“I’m going,” the bald man grumbled, sounding less sure of himself. “I’m there.” With expressions of exasperation and disgruntlement, all three men hastened out of the room, leaving clipboards and coffee cups behind. It would take them a good ten minutes before they reached Concourse A, Janson knew. He glanced at his watch and counted the few remaining seconds until his cell phone buzzed; the caller had waited one minute exactly.

“There’s a food court near the ticketing pavilion,” Janson said. “I’ll meet you there. The table on the far left, all the way to the back. See you in a few.” He removed his jacket, put on a dark blue windbreaker and cap, and waited in the recessed area. Thirty seconds later, he saw the white-haired woman walking past.

“Hey, honey!” he called out as, in one continuous movement, he reached an arm around her waist, clamped a hand over her mouth, and hustled her into the now-abandoned service room. There was, Janson had verified, nobody around to see the three-second maneuver; if there had been, his actions, coupled with his words, would have been taken for a romantic embrace.

The woman was startled, and rigid with fear, but she did not even try to scream, displaying a measure of professional composure that Janson found not the least reassuring. Once the door had closed behind them, Janson brusquely gestured her to take a seat at the Formica table. “Take a load off,” he said.

The woman, looking incongruously elegant in the utilitarian space, sat down on one of the metal folding chairs. Janson remained standing.