Before they parted, Cassie had asked if there was anyone he missed in Russia or America. She wasn’t sure why: she guessed it was because they all presumed he was dead. He’d chuckled and said, “Trust me, you don’t want to meet my friends. You just don’t. They make me look pretty damn…American.”
“What does that mean?”
“Wimpy.” Again, she had a sense he was teasing her. But then he sat forward and folded his hands together. “How wimpy, you ask?”
She waited, wondering whether he was going to make a joke at the expense of the United States. But instead he continued. “So wimpy I am very, very glad you screwed up when you loaded that gun. I wouldn’t have wanted you on my conscience.”
“Because…”
“Because you are just too damn much fun. You’re a mess—or, I don’t know, maybe you were a mess—but you sure as hell were good company.” Then he unclasped his fingers as if they were a balloon exploding and added, “And I have a feeling you’re not nearly the shitstorm of a mother you probably figured you’d be.”
She rolled her eyes. “Being sober helps.”
“You named her Masha, right?”
She nodded.
“That can’t possibly be a family name.”
“Tolstoy. The young woman in ‘Happy Ever After.’ She’s my happy ending.”
“God, I remember you reading that,” he said, his own happiness at the recollection genuine. Then: “You still dance barefoot?”
“I have other pleasures. Board books. Sippy cups shaped like animals. Teething.”
He made a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue, pretending to reproach her. Then they parted.
Now, as she stood in the dimmed cabin light and looked at the notes she had written down about the passenger in 4C, she recalled—as she did rather often—the way Masha would nurse. She would latch on to Cassie and drink with the same fervor with which Cassie knew she had once drunk tequila. Those little baby eyes would grow intense, then sated, and it was in those moments that Cassie could see in them Masha’s father, that enigmatic man who had loved Tolstoy and washed her hair ever so tenderly in a lavish hotel suite one night in Dubai.
She thought of that quote she’d seen on a blackboard outside a West Village boutique: “Remember that person you wanted to be? There’s still time.” She wasn’t completely sure this was who she wanted to be, but she found the work offered the same adrenaline rush as drinking, but without the hangovers and humiliations. It gave her life purpose. She knew, however, that the person who had most assuredly saved her life was Masha, because Masha was the reason she had stopped drinking and Masha was warmth in the morning when Cassie was home and they would wake together, and Masha was a euphoric squeal when she would return to her from a trip. Masha was the word moon, her first word, and how with her authoritarian little pointer finger she had looked skyward at dusk at a sickle moon and elongated that single, lovely syllable almost into song. Masha gave her something she loved more than herself—something that didn’t come in a glass with ice cubes or a paper umbrella or a straw.
Cassie opened the first-class bar on the flight, looked at the liquor bottles, as beautiful to her as Fabergé eggs, and reached for a can of Diet Coke.
Acknowledgments
“Nothing can be more limiting to the imagination, nothing is quicker to turn on the psyche’s censoring devices and distortion systems, than trying to write truthfully and interestingly about one’s own hometown,” John Gardner taught us in The Art of Fiction.
I agree. I rarely write what I know. But I always do my homework, and I have come to love the research that goes into my books—partly because of what I learn, but also because of the new friends I make. In this case, I offer my deepest thanks to easily a dozen and a half people.
Jerrold H. Bamel and Tristram Coffin were my guides through how the FBI might be involved in this story. My sense is that each of them could someday write a gripping spy thriller. Tris is the former U.S. attorney for the District of Vermont. Jerrold is a retired FBI agent and now a corporate fraud investigator. He also makes some mighty tasty jam from mangos, pineapples, and key limes.
Carla Malstrom and Daphne Walker shared with me what life is like as a flight attendant at thirty-five thousand feet and at sea level. Chat with either of them for an hour and you will thank your flight attendants for all they do (and endure) the next time you board a plane.
Adam Turteltaub (a great friend from college), Khatchig Mouradian (my Armenian godfather), and Matthew Gilbert taught me about Dubai. Adam and Khatchig also read early drafts of this manuscript and offered valuable insights. I have dedicated books in the past to the two of them; I know I will again.
J. J. Gertler (another friendship that dates back to when I was eighteen years old) was my expert on drones and chemical weapons and National Intelligence. He is a professional national security geek, and it is a pleasure to have his name again in the Acknowledgments.
Also helping me once more with a novel: Steven Shapiro, chief medical examiner for the State of Vermont, assisted with the autopsy scenes. Ani Tchaghlasian was my guide through the labyrinthine world of offshore money and OFAC laws, and the sort of fund one of my characters is managing.
My biking buddies in Vermont, Andrew Furtsch and Stephen Kiernan—again, I have dedicated books to them both—allowed me to bounce plot machinations off them over hundreds of miles. Stephen Gragg assisted with airport security. And while traveling with me on the backroads of Artsakh and in a bar in Stepanakert, Fred Hayrapet shared with me stories of what happens when a deal goes bad in places like Donetsk or Dubai.
I have to give a very special shout-out to Sarah Hepola. I fell in love with her hauntingly beautiful memoir, Blackout: Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget, soon after I finished the first draft of this novel. I keep a screenshot of page 214 of Blackout on my phone.
Among the books I read and enjoyed while writing this novel were: Heather Poole’s memoir of being a flight attendant, Cruising Altitude; Patrick Smith’s book about flying, Ask the Pilot; and Richard Whittle’s history of drones, Predator.
I extend my deepest thanks to my remarkable editor, Jennifer Jackson (this is our sixth book together, and, yes, I dedicated a novel to her, too) and the whole team at Doubleday, Vintage, and Penguin Random House Audio: Maria Carella, Todd Doughty, John Fontana, Kelly Gildea, Zakiya Harris, Suzanne Herz, Judy Jacoby, Jennifer Marshall, Anne Messitte, Charlotte O’Donnell, John Pitts, Nora Reichard, William Thomas, and Margaux Weisman.
I am so grateful to my agents: Penelope Burns, Miriam Feuerle, Jane Gelfman, Cathy Gleason, Brian Lipson, Abigail Parker, Deborah Schneider, Hannah Scott, and Andrew Wetzel.
Finally, I am—as always—so appreciative of the counsel of my lovely bride, Victoria Blewer, and our daughter, the always amazing Grace Experience.
I thank you all.
About the Author
Chris Bohjalian is the author of twenty books, including The Guest Room; Close Your Eyes, Hold Hands; The Sandcastle Girls; Skeletons at the Feast; The Double Bind; and Midwives, which was a number one New York Times bestseller and a selection of Oprah’s Book Club. Chris’s work has been translated into more than thirty languages, and three novels have become movies (Secrets of Eden, Midwives, and Past the Bleachers). Chris lives in Vermont and can be found at www.chrisbohjalian.com or on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Litsy, and Goodreads.
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Chris Bohjalian, The Flight Attendant
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