The Gift Box

*** Warning: This story contains mention (just mention, no actual incidents) of drugs and terrorism. ***

I pulled myself out of the pool, wrapped a cover over my bikini, and walked to the poolside bar. My friends were drinking hotel margaritas in the sun, and getting noisily wasted. Free flights and cheap hotel deals – the perks of working for an airline. I ordered a cerveza and a bottle of water. It was the last night of our long weekend, we still had to hit the town one more time this evening, and I had no desire to travel home with a hangover.

“Frankie!” trilled Joanne. “Why are you drinking beer? This is our last day. Let your hair down.”

I smiled at her indulgently. “You keep going, I’ll catch up when I’m ready. Someone has to be sober enough to keep us from getting robbed tonight.” I raised my beer and called “To the Bitter Women in Aviation inaugural weekend trip,” and all the others dutifully knocked back their cocktails.

There is actually a legitimate group called Women in Aviation, but we were definitely not a legitimate group. Our attitude was all wrong. We hated our head office jobs and bonded over our dislike of our management and the low salaries. This trip was not so much a team-building session as a team bitching session.

We’d been drinking more or less non-stop since our arrival. By the pool or on the beach during the day, then at the bars and dance clubs at night. There had been a small amount of shopping for souvenirs in the tourist shops and medications at the tourist pharmacies. Joanne had made a scene at the pharmacy yesterday, trying to buy drugs she had never even heard of. “Gimme three bottles of that. What’s it for?” The ugly American on vacation.

Fortunately, I was not sharing a room with Joanne, although she was my closest friend in the group. I’d made a show of making the new girl, Sasha, feel welcome in the group by claiming her as a roommate. Sasha was now so drunk I doubted that she’d even make it to the bars in town tonight. Most likely she’d be fast asleep in the room or perhaps even vomiting in the bathroom while the rest of us partied. That suited me just fine.

Sasha was normally quiet and reserved, a new immigrant from Eastern Europe. She had really let loose this weekend, and she seemed to be a lightweight when it came to alcohol consumption. She was not a big spender, but I’d managed to persuade her to join me in the shops on the first day. I exclaimed with delight over colorful, tacky souvenirs and bought one for each member of my family and friends back home. I showed each one to her as I found it, and eventually she gave in and bought one for her neighbor, probably just to shut me up. I’d bought one of almost every design, but she had limited herself to a single item – a huge gaudy tropical fish statuette. We laughed as we took our haul back to the hotel room. They were all boxed and wrapped in the same bright paper, and we separated them carefully so that I didn’t take hers by mistake.

As expected, our dinner table that evening was raucous. I was embarrassed by the behavior of some of the group, but I never planned to come back here, so I just joined in the laughter. After dessert, Sasha stood up unsteadily and sang an emotional song from her homeland, and we all applauded. Then she became maudlin about the country and the family she had left behind and started crying into her napkin. We all tried to cheer her up and belatedly ordered soft drinks for her. Her face was red, and she started to hiccup. Joanne and I helped her back to the room and left her a bottle of cold water before we followed the rest of the group to dance and drink some more.

It was a wild night for the group. A number of the BWIA members hooked up with other partygoers. Several more were so out of it that I despaired of getting them home safely. I met up with my contact as arranged, then quietly made my way back to the hotel. It was well past 2:00 a.m., and Sasha was snoring on her bed. I carefully emptied the souvenir out of the biggest gift box, put the package into that box, and rewrapped it. I left the room to dispose of the souvenir pottery in a trash bin downstairs. Returning, I glanced at Sasha, who was still fast asleep. I switched my repacked box with hers. Let her take the drugs through Customs, while I just had holiday souvenirs. I’d promised her a ride home in my car so I could swap the boxes back and she’d be none the wiser.

I slept late in the morning, waking after Sasha had gone down to breakfast. I saw her bag was already gone – she must have taken it downstairs with her. I showered, dressed and packed my own bag, then joined the group for breakfast just before the hotel stopped serving. We all had our rollaboard cases with us. Working for an airline and flying standby, we all knew the ropes well enough not to check bags.

Sasha was feeling a great deal better this morning. She talked excitedly about how much fun she’d had, and where we should go next time. Joanne arrived too late for breakfast, showing all the signs of significant drug and alcohol abuse, as well as a less than maidenly blush to her cheeks. I pointed and laughed at her, and we both accused the other of misbehaving the night before. We all loaded our bags into the hotel shuttle bus and headed for the airport.

Joanne and I sat next to each other on the flight home, giggling about all the highlights and lowlights of the trip and rehydrating with bottles of water. I was out of danger now, having picked up the goods and found a way to get them through the airport that was risk-free. Life was good, and I hoped that Sasha wouldn’t get her bags searched. But she was innocent, and ignorant of what she was carrying, so the chances that they would stop her were pretty low.

Sasha didn’t have a US passport, so we were separated at Immigration and agreed to meet up again past Customs. Joanne and I walked together through Immigration, then came to a dead halt at the Customs checkpoint. They were going through the bags of everyone from our flight. The line moved painfully slowly, and I saw that Sasha was ahead of us, smiling blithely without a care in the world. Her bag was still being searched as I walked up to the counter, and everything was being opened up and examined. I looked away and paid attention to the Customs officer. I answered his questions and opened up my bag for examination. The officer looked at the ten gaily wrapped packages and asked what was in them. I explained with a guilty smile that I had gotten carried away with buying gifts for friends and family, and he nodded.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to unwrap them all,” he said, “but I’ll try not to mess up the paper too badly.”

I gave him an understanding look. “I get it, it’s your job.”

As he unwrapped each box, looked at the souvenir inside, and passed them to me, I rewrapped them to put away. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sasha walking away with her case. Had her Customs officer not bothered to unwrap her gift box?

My Customs officer had stopped his search. He had just opened the box I had taken from Sasha. There was no colorful fish statuette. Instead, there were bags containing an unknown substance. “Is this yours, Ma’am?” he asked.

I stuttered. I could say that I had switched my gift box with Sasha’s, but that wouldn’t get me off the hook. Obviously, she had seen what I did last night. If they found the drugs in her case, we would both be arrested. More likely she simply discarded the box I had given her. Either way I would look guilty. Several officers approached. They ran a test on the substance and determined I was carrying explosives. I looked around frantically, seeing the Bitter Women in Aviation group staring at me with shock written on their faces. Joanne had an expression of disbelief. At the far end of the Customs hall, Sasha was making direct eye contact with me, shaking her head sadly as the officers handcuffed me.