Today
Newark Airport was not a quiet place.
Last year, as the twelfth-busiest airport in the country, it served over forty-six million passengers. To pull it off requires pictorial and international signs, TSA officers who speak twenty-four different languages, and outdoor maps labeled with oversized arrows to make sure people won’t get lost going from long-term parking to the main terminals.
Still, there’s one street at Newark Airport that’s always been a bit harder to find: Conrad Road.
Put it into Google Maps—where it crosses Brewster Road, the service road surrounding the airport, the street view simply stops.
Most people assume it’s a glitch, or that it’s because of what’s on the corner, in Building 15—the small but elegant private-jet terminal known as Signature, which serves gourmet tea in a well-appointed lounge as you wait for your private charter. Certainly, the Signature clientele prefer the anonymity.
Still others—the Newark employees who have been here for decades—assume it’s due to what’s at the end of the block, the art deco historic site known as Building 1.
Built in 1935, with a semicircular canopy that resembles a South Beach hotel, Building 1 was Newark’s original terminal, hosting aviation legends like Amelia Earhart and Charles Lindbergh. After World War II, as the airport expanded, Building 1 became too small. But to preserve its history, the entire concrete structure was cut into thirds and moved here—to Conrad Road—where it became the headquarters for the airport’s own law enforcement, the Port Authority Police Department.
When 9/11 hit, it was the perfect excuse to get Conrad Road blurred on Google Maps. But that wasn’t the real reason.
Nearly every day, some random tourist accidentally turns onto Conrad Road. Some are smart enough to ask directions in the private-jet terminal on their left. Others make it all the way to the end of the block, to the police station. Both are perfect distractions. People are so busy staring at the private planes or the crush of parked cop cars, they don’t look twice at what’s across the street: a fenced-in parking lot with a prefab guard booth, like you’d find at a gated community.
It was the same tonight. The shed looked old—by design—though the windows were bulletproof. Inside was a guard—a fit, middle-aged man with heavy-lidded eyes, chewing nicotine gum like it was his final meal. On late shifts like this, he knew to keep the lights in the booth off. Indeed, since his bosses jammed all cell signals for security and location purposes, his silhouette was lit only by the faint glow of his laptop, which he was using to watch a YouTube video counting down the best TV theme songs.
He was singing along with the theme to Diff’rent Strokes when a set of bright headlights appeared up the block.
“Whatchu talkin’ ’bout, Willis?” he muttered, thinking of his mom, who used to hate the show because back in Providence, Rhode Island, Reverend Williams once incorrectly said there was an episode where they cussed, using the B-word, as she used to call it. Momma hated the B-word, telling her son that if you want to be a man, you speak like a gentleman. She wasn’t wrong, he thought, eyeing the car up the block. It was slowing down, like every other lost tourist.
Typically, most cars headed for the police station across the street, but when the lights turned his way and the car pulled toward his booth, he didn’t think much of it. Especially these days, some people won’t trust cops.
“Lemme guess,” the guard announced, opening the drive -through window and squinting toward the headlights. “You can’t find the main terminal?”
“Actually, Axel . . . the only thing we’re looking for is you.”
The guard, Axel Padilla, took a half step back, not even hearing the Miami Vice theme playing from his laptop. “Son of a B.”
Zig smiled from the driver’s seat. Next to him, Elijah leaned closer for a better view.