It was six a.m. when Katy stood before her dresser mirror and rubbed her flat hand up and down on her flat stomach. Last week with Thaddeus had been good; she hoped she had hit the ovulation cycle on the money when she had seduced him after he got home late. She smiled. Whatever else could be said about it, he hadn't complained. He was obviously devoted to her and only had eyes for her, for which she was grateful—but not too grateful. She didn't want to spoil him.
As a physician, Katy knew there were five steps for women to consider when trying to get pregnant, before making an appointment with an IVF specialist.
First up was a complete physical. Check, she had been to see Evelyn Meier, her OB-GYN.
Second step was genetic testing. Why? Because she and Thaddeus were different genetically, she being Native American and he being Irish-English. Or at least she thought the difference might be significant enough to justify testing; so they had opted for it, each one giving up a sample of saliva to the lab. Her doctor had convinced her—and Thaddeus—the genetic screening might be the single most important thing they could do to help ensure a healthy baby. And all it required was a saliva sample from each of them. Better yet, their insurance had covered it.
The remaining steps required Thaddeus. He would soon be home from Zurich and she would guide him from there.
Not that he actually needed guiding, she thought, smiling.
6
Jacques Lemoneux was a minor talent in the French Embassy in New York.
He was mid-fifties, balding with a dyed-black fringe of hair, a graduate of the École d'économie de Paris, and an expert on American wheat exports to France. He had been in Chicago visiting the Board of Trade when he purchased a one-way ticket to Paris, with a stopover in Zurich. Lemoneux flew between Paris and New York every weekend, leaving late Friday and returning late Sunday. His airborne pastime was dialing in his GPS to follow the plane's speed and flight path. His phone's GPS had proven infallible. Once, at 38,000 feet, several hundred miles south of the Aleutian Islands, he had been able to lock onto eleven GPS satellites within six seconds, a personal best. He always knew where he was, a small eccentricity he allowed himself when traveling.
At two a.m. he opened his eyes for a quick look at his phone. He noted the plane was four hundred miles short of the European continent, traveling 553 miles an hour. On time, he saw, but definitely north of its usual flight path by at least two hundred miles. Lemoneux attributed the odd geolocation to a thunderstorm bypass and immediately went back to listening on his ear buds. The audiobook was entitled, A Western Survey of Eastern Terrorism, a study Lemoneux was perhaps one-third really interested in. But the economist in him demanded he finish listening to the book since the price had been paid.
The audiobook's narrator droned on:
The Chechen–Russian conflict is the centuries-long conflict, often armed, between the Russian government and various Chechen nationalist and Islamist forces. Formal hostilities date back to 1785 though elements of the conflict can be traced back considerably further.
Since the end of the Second Chechen War in May 2000, low-level insurgency has continued, particularly in Chechnya, Ingushetia and Dagestan. Russian security forces have succeeded in capturing some of their leaders, such as Shamil Basayev, who was killed on July 10, 2006. Since Basayev's death, Dokka Umarov has taken the leadership of the rebel forces in North Caucasus.
Radical Islamists from Chechnya and other North Caucasian republics have been held responsible for a number of terrorist attacks throughout Russia, most notably the Russian apartment bombings in 1999, the Moscow theater hostage crisis in 2002, the Beslan school hostage crisis in 2004, the Moscow Metro bombings in 2010, and the Domodedovo International Airport bombing in 2011.
At that point, Jacques Lemoneux angrily jerked his seat to the upright position, yanked the ear buds from his ears, and summoned the steward. "Coffee," he said, exasperated with the increasingly dull audiobook, "two sugars on the side. And hurry, please." He was wide awake; the audiobook had failed its key use, which was to transfer useful knowledge to Lemoneux which might possibly increase his chances for a promotion at the Embassy. Chechen-Russian relations bore no foreseeable possibility of giving his career any kind of boost, so Lemoneux kicked himself for buying the audiobook. $11.95 shot to hell. Amazon and its five-star rating system had been skewed with this particular offering, Lemoneux was certain of it. But the returns period had lapsed and so he was stuck with the book. Hopefully, a strong jolt of coffee would remove some of the bad taste left from reading it.
Lemoneux tugged the phone from his breast pocket. He jabbed the GPS icon.
He was shocked to see the plane was even further north of its usual path. Plus, it hadn't begun descending for the stopover in Zurich.
“Now what?” he wondered.
The plane was closing on Moscow at 577 miles an hour.
7
"Miss, we've just flown over Zurich and we're not descending! What is going on?"
Four passengers complained to the flight attendants. The foursome was following their flight on GPS phones and, according to the GPS geolocation, they had overflown Zurich and were turning northeast. What, they demanded of the attendants, was going on?
At which point, Christine Susmann opened her eyes.
Paralegal Christine Susmann had received her professional training in the U.S. Army. Following Basic Training, she had begun her career working as an M.P. and had served two years at a Black Ops detention center in Baghdad. She was under lifetime orders to never discuss what she had seen or done on that post, which was fine; she never wanted to discuss it anyway. Following two successful years working hand-in-glove with the CIA field officers, she had her choice of Army schools and selected paralegal school. She had seen all she ever wanted to see of detention centers, prisons, jails, or any other institution where people were held against their will. Paralegal training had dragged on for almost a year, but when she finished she was assigned to a JAG unit of busy lawyers in Germany.
Now she was traveling as Ama Gloq on the Swissair flight to Zurich, and she overheard one of the complaints about overflying Zurich. She looked to her left at Thaddeus, who was asleep and oblivious to the minor upset of their fellow passengers. An idea occurred to her and she dug through her carry-on and located the phone the CIA had issued her under the Gloq identity. She paged across the icons until she found the GPS button. She jabbed it and waited.
Sure enough. Off-course by several hundred miles. Her pulse quickened. Something was up, wasn't it? She couldn't be sure. She nudged Thaddeus with her elbow. He moaned and moved away. She did it again, this time poking him hard in the ribs. His eyes opened—just barely, but opened.
"What?" he said.
Christine looked around. No one listening from behind.
"We're off-course." She lifted the GPS screen to him. He studied it and raised his eyes.
"I asked that steward if we had turned. He tried to tell me it was only a weather correction."
"Unh-uh. We're several hundred miles northeast of where we should be."
"Damn," said Thaddeus, coming fully awake.
It was then that he noticed the young woman to his left. Her eyes were wide open and she had clearly been eavesdropping on his exchange with Christine.
Her pupils were fully open in the dark cabin, and the whites flashed.
"What's going on?" she asked Thaddeus at a conversational level.
He shrugged. "What do you mean?"
Angelina eyed him closely. "I heard what you and your friend were saying. We're off-course. How come?"
"Don't have the answer to that," he said. "Wish I did. Probably weather."
"We wouldn't be east of Zurich if it were just weather, would we?"
She’d stumped him. She had him there.
"I don't think it's anything to worry about. You can probably go back to sleep," he reassured her.
"You think? You think I should sleep through a skyjacking? What are you, nuts?"
"Sorry. I guess I meant that I should go back to sleep," he said and leaned back against his chair. He closed his eyes and lapsed into a sequence of shallow, even breaths, meaning to indicate to the young woman that he was no longer available for dialog.
But she was anxious. "You're a surgeon, am I right? Going to Zurich to give a paper?"
Thaddeus cracked one eye open. "Me? No, you have me mistaken for someone else. I'm going to sleep now if you'll let me."
"So what do you do? Talk to me! Can't you see I'm dying over here?"
"Dying? Why are you dying?"
"Fear, man. This shit scares me to death, flying across the Atlantic in the middle of the night and now going past our destination. Why aren't you scared, too?"
At which point, Christine brought her seatback upright.
Christine said, "Miss, this man is trying to get some sleep. And you're keeping me awake. Do you think you could just back off a little and let us both get a few winks?"
The young woman's jaw tightened. Her dark eyes flashed.
"Who appointed you Mother Superior? What, you're the queen of the flight? Why aren't you both getting a little nutso like me?"
Christine did the best thing she could think of. She gave the younger woman a wide smile. "We're seasoned travelers and we're probably both thinking there's a weather detour here. That's all."
"Show me on your GPS, please. Show me where we are."
Christine sighed and activated the screen on her cell phone. She punched the GPS icon and waited while the software accessed a geo-satellite. Then she held the screen up for the young woman to see.
"OMG," the young woman said. "OMG. We're way past Zurich!"
Christine turned the phone to her face. In the dim light, her profile was clear. Anyone watching would have had a good look at her, but at that moment she was ignoring that possibility.
"OMG is right," said Christine. "Thaddeus, we're four hundred miles past Zurich. What the hell?"
Thaddeus took the phone and studied it. He turned it horizontal and obtained a wider view of the area. Then he handed it back to Christine.
"I'm clueless," he said. He reached overhead and summoned a steward. Looking up the aisle, he could see they were all busy, to a man and to a woman, speaking in whispers with other passengers. Evidently the odd news was traveling fast.
8
Inside the cockpit, the Chechen national, Ayub, stood behind Royal Evans as he piloted the plane. Ayub held the pilot’s Walther PPK jammed against the pilot's head. Captain Evans thought the gun's placement was meant to impress the crew, but he wasn't entirely sure of that. It could be that the original hijack plan had been abandoned, and now the Chechens really meant to kill them all if the Russians didn’t meet demands.
Both Captain Evans and Ayub were staring intently out the windshield. The wipers were flipping aside a mixture of ice and rain pelting the Plexiglas at 600 miles per hour. The co-pilot was flicking through switches on his console, monitoring flight metrics as they reported on his screens. So far, he had announced minutes ago, all values were within normal ranges.
The stewardess named Leona Lacey stuck her head inside the door.
"Captain Evans, someone needs to say something to the passengers."
Royal Evans gave her a look over his shoulder. "GPS'ers got the word on the street?"
"They do. Everyone knows something's up. We're going to have a revolution back there if someone doesn't say something."
Ayub laid a hand on Evans' shoulder. "Make no announcement," he said. "I'll go back and talk to them when we've crossed into Russian airspace."
"About that," said Evans. "You don't just fly into Russian airspace unannounced. They're going to scramble Sukhoi Su-24 attack aircraft to intercept and turn us around. Or worse. A missile up our ass doesn't sit well with me, how about you?"
Ayub smiled. "Couldn't care less. We're prepared to die, Captain. The only question is, when does it happen? However, we have a trade to make with the Russians first. So what do you recommend?"
"We need to call up Moscow Center and announce our intention and route. We need to get on their screens as a known aircraft in their airspace."
"So call them up."
"Now? You're saying I should call them now?"
"Why not? We don't want to anger them. Not yet, anyway."
Captain Evans looked across at his co-pilot, an ex-Air Force airman with 2500 hours in 777's.
"First Officer Manfred, please contact Moscow Center. We need to advise."
First Officer Manfred was a small, crew-cut co-pilot who couldn't leave the coffee alone. He swore by it on long flights and always had his favorite mug in his hands.
"Roger that," said Manfred. He began punching numbers into the dash and soon was receiving data from the Swissair mainframe.
"Okay," said Manfred, "Here we go. Evidently after the fall of the Soviet Union, the Federal Air Transport Agency assumed responsibility as the authority in charge of civil aviation in Russia. It's under the control of the Ministry of Transport of the Russian Federation. The agency is responsible for all aspects of civilian air operations, including the operation of the nation's navigation and traffic management system. Rosaviatsia is similar to the Federal Aviation Administration in the United States. All transmissions are in English.
"Fair enough. Dial them up, please, Manny."
"Roger that."
Manfred punched numbers on the radio and immediately began speaking in a monotone into his mike.
"Moscow Center, this is Swissair Flight 3309. We are declaring an emergency and are thirty minutes from entering Russian airspace. We have been hijacked."
Manfred repeated the same call several times.
Then Moscow Center came back. It was English, as advertised, but dripping with Russian inflection.
"Swissair 3309, this is Moscow Center. You are not authorized to enter Russian airspace. Will say again, do not enter Russian airspace. You are prohibited; your emergency is denied."
"Oh, hell, no!" moaned Captain Evans. "How the hell does he deny an emergency?"
"Negative, Moscow," said Manfred. "The situation is out of our hands. We have been hijacked by three men who are demanding we fly into Sheremetyevo."
"Permission to enter Russian airspace is denied. Repeat, permission denied. Please divert elsewhere or you will be intercepted by fighter aircraft."
"Notice he didn't say what that would mean," Evans said to the Chechen. "My guess is they play very rough. Just ask the Koreans, if I recall correctly."
"Captain, yes," said First Officer Manfred, "here's a data update." He began reading from his dinner-plate-sized green screen. "In 1983, 1551 Zulu, Korean Air Lines Flight 007 deviated from its intended course and entered prohibited Soviet airspace over Kamchatka. Soviet ATC dispatched Sukhoi S-15 fighter aircraft to intercept. Non-incendiary rounds from cannons went unnoticed and, long story short, the fighters shot down the flight. 269 aboard were killed."
"Of course," said Captain Evans. "Textbook intercept and shoot-down for the Soviets. We're about to find out if the new and improved Russian ATC is so short-sighted, I guess."
Captain Evans thumbed his mike.
"Moscow Center, this is Swissair 3309 Captain Royal Evans. We are hijacked and declaring an emergency. We have no choice but to enter Russian airspace. We will crossover in sixteen minutes. Please advise."
Dead air followed. The tension in the cabin was mounting. A bead of sweat broke out on the captain's forehead. Having his aircraft brought down by a Russian missile hadn't been part of the deal. No, the deal was cash money and every passenger delivered safe and sound. He drew a finger across his forehead and wiped the moisture on his trousers. He couldn't let the situation degrade further.
"Repeat, Moscow Center, this is Swissair 3309 Captain Royal Evans. Permission requested to enter Russian
airspace for declared emergency. Please advise."
Now he was making a transmitted record of the intrigue between a Swiss aircraft and the Russian Federation. Whatever followed would be the topic of the next week in the press. CNN and the BBC would be all over it. Al Jazeera would feature it. Time and Newsweek would do analyses. The world would judge the Russians on the next hour. They would compare any antagonism to the shoot-down of the Malaysian airliner over the Ukraine several months earlier. It was well known a Russian SAM missile had been responsible. Public opinion would warrant severe U.S. and Euro economic penalties, not to mention furor in the U.N.
Captain Evans predicted, correctly, the Russian controllers were in touch with the Kremlin, maybe President Piotor Irunyaev himself. Another public whipping was the last thing the Russians needed, what with the Ukrainian sanctions already underway, not to mention the horrendous financial impact of the collapse of oil prices. Russia was in dire straits, and another international incident was the last thing the mother country needed.
Just then, the Russian ATC came back over the dashboard speakers. The aircraft was advised to set a course for Moscow, Sheremetyevo Airport.
Ayub pounded the captain on the back.
"Well done, Captain!" the Chechen cried. "Well done!"
Four minutes later they flew across the imaginary line in the air. Two attack aircraft had been scrambled and were waiting. They assembled at both wingtips and began the escort.
Russia now spread out below their wings.
9
Passengers who had a view of the wings were astonished to see fighter aircraft take up positions twenty feet beyond the wingtips. Russian red stars adorned the aircrafts' rudders. Word passed quickly among the passengers. Russians were out there; you could all but reach out and touch them.
Pandemonium erupted.
Thaddeus and Christine quietly conferred.
"My guess? That's Russia down there," he told her.
The Girl Who Wrote The New York Times Bestseller: A Novel (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thrillers Book 8) Page 3
