There was no signature, no date stamp and no local validation mark.

“Give me five minutes to sort it out,” I said.

“The system locks the passenger manifest for Flight 1482 at seventeen fifteen,” Brenda said, laying my pass down on her mouse pad.

“Not one minute after.”

I picked up the packet and walked twenty steps down the carpeted walkway toward the emergency wall phone next to Gate C27.

The concourse smelled of stale paper-cup coffee and jet fuel seeping in through the glass doors.

I took my cell phone out of my leather shoulder bag and hit speed dial three for the post headquarters admin desk.