It was Yolkov who bought Hanna's ticket on the overnight flight from Warsaw to JFK. Hair streaked with gray, she wore the blue dress purchased on sale for eighteen dollars.

 

"Better to fly later and skip the meal service," Yolkov told her. "Flight attendants notice passengers fasting on long journeys. If you sleep, not eating won't be suspicious."

 

Despite the jetlag Hannah felt from her outbound New York flight one day earlier, she knew sleeping in an economy seat the size of a child's coffin would be difficult. The reference to death raised stress sweat, and she wiped her damp forehead. Her lips tensed with apprehension. Were her hands turning blue? In the dimmed cabin light, she couldn't be sure. Her heart rate skyrocketed. Don't panic, she thought, and fought to control her breathing. Tears started. She glanced at the man in the center seat next to her—a wispy mustache, black stud earrings, and a flaming skull neck tattoo. She wished she could abate her rising dread by talking to someone who understood the risk of swallowing tiny time bombs—the heroin filled pellets working their way through her intestines like explosive depth charges. He ignored her glance, and she shrank back. Even for a young person, he was too odd looking. Yolkov recruited ordinary people who were desperate for the extra money her dangerous endeavor yielded.

 

Hanna and her husband had emigrated from Poland eight years earlier. Her grief when he died of a heart attack was compounded by the recognition that she had meager means to make her way in a country where she still felt foreign. The prospect of penniless declining years, childless, without an advocate, homeless or shoveled like rubbish into an old-age-home such as Carlyle Nursing where she scrubbed floors, gave her chills of foreboding. At Carlyle, white-haired male and female seniors in wheelchairs slumped and moaned in a miasma of despair, and the odor of bodily functions filled the air. Hanna cleaned Carlyle's filth fighting dark premonitions that this trash pile was her future until Yolkov outlined that a single trip to Poland as a mule yielded her six month's drudgery wages. She straightened, wiping her eyes, reminding herself that despite the danger, she was attempting to control her destiny.

 

After an eternity without sleep, the plane landed safely, and Hanna, exhausted, made the sign of the cross in thanks. At JFK, she rolled the black carry-on she was given by Yolkov for the trip. As instructed, she'd attached a large, red heart tag. As she walked toward passport control, customs, and baggage claim, she was encouraged at seeing other passengers rolling identically tagged luggage. At the inspection point, her gut rumbled audibly, and her face flushed. She held her breath as the customs officer eyed her, praying that he'd simply stamp her passport and customs declaration. When, finally, he did, she almost gasped in relief and grabbed up her documents. The official at the "Nothing to Declare" portal took her form and waved her through. Outside the secure area, she spotted Yolkov near the exit and began to relax. He escorted Hanna with her fellow mules to the Comfort Hotel in Brighton Beach where each evacuated their precious cargo. Hanna could breathe without angst, and she scheduled another trip in three weeks.

 

***

 

She preferred a mid-airplane seat on her return flights from Warsaw, so she deplaned and walked to customs and baggage claim amongst a crowd. As she stepped from the jetway bridge, she saw two crew-cut men and a woman in a black pants suit awaiting the flight. Her stomach dropped. The trio didn't appear happy—no expressions of eager anticipation at greeting a loved one. Instead, their eyes scanned her like they had X-Ray vision. She gulped with concern and increased her pace, noting several other red heart tags. As she turned toward passport control, the three took positions around them like sheep dogs herding a flock. The two men flanked the people mover and strode quickly to keep up. The woman waited for the last heart-shaped tag to enter the moving belt, then followed. Was she their target? Her pulse rate rose, and her stomach churned. She hoped that she was merely being paranoid, and gave them a small smile. They broke eye contact, which added to her nervousness. She fought the rising urge to flee. Where could she run? She couldn't ditch the heroin— her body was the drugs' vessel. She stepped down the escalator to passport control, entering the line, and glanced around. The three stared at her. Distracted, the passport inspector had to call out before she stepped forward.

 

His tone was cold. "Purpose of travel?" 

She tried to sound nonchalant. "Vacation."

He asked in an incredulous tone. "For two days?" 

She gulped, not having expected to be challenged. The man's right eye twitched waiting for her response.

She lied, her voice trailing off. "My aunt. She's ill."

The inspector peered at her customs form. "Nothing to declare?"

She croaked. "No."

After the inspector swiped her passport, his eyebrows rose at the information displayed on his computer. 

Her mouth went dry. 

The man's eyes narrowed, but he stamped her passport and the customs declaration with two bangs and tossed the documents toward her.

 

As she proceeded toward baggage claim, her three shadowers passed through the "Crew Only" line, flashing credentials before retaking positions enveloping passengers. Her chest pounded and she had trouble catching her breath. She had to do something. She spotted and quickly stepped into a Ladies Room and headed straight for a stall. Inside, she abandoned the red-heart-tag bag before peeking out the exit. No suits.

 

She breathed in relief. At baggage claim, she spotted two men waiting with passengers for the flight's luggage delivery to the carousel. She stepped quickly toward the "Nothing to Declare" sign. The customs officer waved her through. Outside, she sighed with reassurance as she spotted Yolkov waiting in his normal spot near the exit. She started toward him, but his face became tense, and her eyes darted with distress. The pants suit woman trailed close behind. Yolkov put a forefinger to his lips, then dashed from the airport. Her heart pounded. What now?

 

The woman moved to her shoulder. "Madam."

Trembling, Hanna kept moving.

The woman shouted, "Stop," and flashed FBI credentials.

Hanna halted. Her throat had closed to speech.

The agent said, "You'll need to come with me."

Hanna's mind whirred. They knew everything. Heat rushed to her face. 

The agent said, "Don't bother to deny it."

Hanna gave a slight nod. She'd die in prison. God help her. All because she'd wanted to avoid an impoverished old age. Why had she been so stupid? Her hands quivered, and she wanted to scream. 

The agent said, "It's forbidden to leave luggage unattended. Come with me to retrieve it."