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t-shirt pulled taut across her breasts. A few of the men looked past the shirt and continued to stare downward, taking in her lean, tanned legs that the cut-off Levis exposed. It was the first week in October; too cool for such attire, but Neeley remembered how she hadn't felt the chill. She’d made her way past the waiting line into the center of the terminal.
    Gant told her later that it was her obvious confusion and agitation that had first drawn his attention. In a place packed with people carrying bags and extra coats, she had seemed oddly out of place, clutching only the package and not even a purse.
    Gant’s row had been called ten minutes ago, but he had waited to board, another one of his rules he had given her as he told her the story of their meeting from his point of view. The last few passengers of the boarding flight had paid Neeley the most attention, but it had been more a matter of perspective and not the girl's action that had drawn the notice. They were Americans, young soldiers who even in their civilian clothes still bore the trademark short hair and overall healthy fitness of the Army's finest. They had ogled her with relish, their togetherness granting them certain anonymity. Some of the other passengers had turned at the sound of the catcalls, recognizing the blatant intent, if not the language. The soldiers noticed the looks and quieted in unison.
    Unspoken among the soldiers and those around them was the knowledge that this was not the time for noticeable behavior by Americans. It had been on the news non-stop: all the world now knew that just two days before the United States had failed in its humanitarian effort in Somalia.
    The images from Mogadishu had been horrible and broadcast around the world: helicopters shot down and soldiers dead, the bodies of some dragged through the streets by angry mobs. A pilot captured and the most powerful country in the world trying to negotiate his release from a warlord. It was a tragedy of the first order and a terrible blow to the Clinton Administration that had ordered the mission. As if remembering all that, the newly silenced soldiers joined the end of the line.
    Neeley remembered standing alone, not knowing what to do next. That was when she had met Gant, at that time just a strange, tall man who had stopped right in front of her. His eyes had been hidden by dark aviator glasses. He’d smiled at her. She would always remember that first smile.
    She’d handed him the package with the first words she ever spoke to him: "It's a bomb."
    He didn’t seem at all surprised about the bomb. His attitude implied a familiarity with such incidents that produced an immediate sense of confidence within her. She had been stumbling about with that horrible betrayal for what seemed like hours, but had in reality been only minutes. She had forgotten her knapsack and baggage in her haste to get out of the confining space of the plane's cabin with the bomb.
    The passion of the previous night, which Jean-Philippe had spent, reassuring her that he would miss her, had appeared genuine. Even the simple request to deliver the package to a man in Heathrow during her layover there had seemed normal and inconsequential. She had been a courier for him before, transferring the important documents of his trade to various cities around Europe and the Middle East and even to the States on occasion.
    When had she known? She would always worry about that simple question in the years to come. When had she finally known that the man she loved had handed her a bomb to carry on board a plane full of people?
    She had been sitting in her assigned seat waiting for the plane to take off and get her the hell away from Berlin and all the sleazy people Jean-Philippe knew. She had welcomed the trip, even the idea of seeing her mother in New York was more welcome than the thought of another night in the business house on Oncle Tom Strasse. The package had been in her lap and she shuddered to think how