He watched the construction lights flare up ahead and the intermittent red arrow pointing at the off-ramp to the airport. How he would love to bypass the ramp and just keep driving. Would that day ever come for him? The day when he would turn in his gun and badge and resume life under his birth name? He seriously doubted it. Men like him grew old and chair-bound and suffered a series of heart problems until the big one put them under. He should be so lucky as to be the exception.
He guided the Volga along the off-ramp and took his foot off the accelerator. The little car reduced speed and rolled up to the first red light. Green and white signage offered four choices for airport action: long-term parking, departures and arrivals, curbside, and pass-through. He chose curbside. He would select a security spot and head inside. Airport police would run his plates and immediately protect his VIP status. The car would remain un-towed and untouched. Perqs, he thought, and wheeled in curbside, thirty meters south of the Aeroflot entrance.
One and done.
12
Jacques Lemoneux felt his bladder demanding deflation. But he was afraid to stand up and ask to use the restroom. Now what? he wondered. Just piss in my pants? As he had these thoughts, his eyes never left the form of Aniji, up at the front of the plane, still waving the gun about and glaring back at eyes that dared meet his own. The man moved like a cat: deliberately, on the balls of his feet, always with considerable grace and well-defined goals. No wasted motion there, thought Lemoneux; and he decided he would not ask the murderer if he might use the restroom. He had been the recipient of certain training in the United States and knew better than to draw attention. But then he had let his guard down, and now his bladder was pounding. Rather than draw any attention, he chose wet pants and relieved himself where he sat. The urine flowed into his underwear, along his thigh to his knee, where it abruptly fell away, heading south and wetting even his socks. He regretted all the coffee he'd ingested and promised himself he would avoid all liquids until this present horror resolved itself. One way or the other.
The woman to his left smelled the urine. She flounced uncomfortably in her seat and then stood up and shrieked, "This man has wet himself! Come quickly!"
"Sit down and be still!" Jacques hissed at her. He tugged at her wrist. "These animals won’t care about that. Sit and be glad they haven't heard you!"
But she ignored him. She was wearing a red wool suit with a black and white scarf around her throat, dangly bracelets of gold that weighed down her wrist, and a ladies' Rolex of gold and silver. Her hair was cut to a perfectly even length and her gray eyes were full of horror at the notion that the man sitting beside her had relieved himself where he sat. Clearly, thought Jacques, this is the worst thing that has ever happened to her: being forced to sit beside a urinating stranger on a 777.
At that moment, the man up front noticed her. He widened his eyes in response. She saw that she had his attention and spoke up again.
"This fool has wet himself! I must move!"
The man's expression didn't change, and he didn't respond to her statement. Instead, he slowly began moving along the aisle, closing the distance between the woman and himself. As he moved, he surveyed the passengers on both sides of the aisle, probably half of whom were hanging their heads in order to avoid making eye contact. He had made his point when he had shot the elderly gentleman. So why, Jacques wondered, had this fool woman missed the point? What on earth?
The man with the gun strode up alongside Jacques' row and stopped. Without a word, he stuck the gun in the woman's face. Using his free hand, he roughly shoved her back down in her seat. He then put a finger to his mouth in the universal shush sign. Whether he spoke English was unknown. Jacques was relieved that he came back only to quiet the woman. The fact no one was shot after her outburst was a huge relief. While his heart thumped in his chest, he hadn't made eye contact with the killer. He dumbly stared at the seat back facing him.
"Did you piss your pants?" the killer suddenly asked.
Jacques couldn't ignore him. Better to answer the question.
"I did. I was afraid to ask about the restroom."
"Smart man. We won't be needing the restrooms tonight."
The killer then raised his voice and shouted to all passengers. "No restroom for anyone! You must relieve your bladders and bowels where you sit. This is no longer a friendly Swissair flight. You are now flying Chechen Air, and we don't intend to please anyone!"
No one dared respond.
"You," the killer said to Jacques. "What is your name?"
"Jacques Lemoneux."
"Passport, please."
Jacques two-fingered the passport from an inside jacket pocket.
The killer flipped it open and read.
"French?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why in Chicago?"
"I'm attached to the French Embassy. I was attending an official function in Chicago."
The man scratched his head with the corner of the passport.
"I hate the French. I hate you. Your countrymen dishonor Islam."
"That isn't me, however. I believe in live and let live."
"What does that mean, live and let live?"
Jacques shrugged. "Well, it means you should get to live your life and in return I should get to live mine. Any way we choose."
"That is unacceptable. Our way is the only righteous way. You will die first tonight. I hate the French."
Jacque suddenly needed to urinate again, though his bladder was empty.
"I don't want to die. I will do whatever you say."
"You will be our first offering, Monsieur Lemoneux. Our burnt offering."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we will trade your life for the life of a Chechen brother imprisoned by the Russians. If they refuse to trade, you will be the first passenger shot and pushed out onto the tarmac. Live and let live that, please."
With that, the man motioned Jacques to his feet. Jacques complied and the man guided him from his seat into the aisle.
"To the front of the plane. Now!"
Jacques led the way to the front of the plane, where he was ordered to sit down and place his back against the bulkhead. He did as he was told and found himself sitting on the floor in his urine-soaked pants. He thought briefly of telling his captor about a heart condition—contrived—but then decided against it. No sense creating another reason to make his sacrifice that much more reasonable since he might be about to die from fright anyway. He dropped his chin to his chest and spread the palms of his hands against the hard carpet. The very floor trembled beneath his hands as if the aircraft were frightened for its safety. He fought back tears and closed his eyes. He made it appear he didn't dare allow them to see him crying. As it would turn out, Jacques was an accomplished actor; his fear and near-tears were part of his drama.
Seated four rows back were Thaddeus Murfee, Christine Susmann—traveling as Ama Gloq—and Angelina Sosa, the wannabe Pulitzer-Prize-New-York-Times-Bestseller. They witnessed the selected man's plight. Why he was there, they didn't know; but Thaddeus guessed the man had said the wrong thing. Or maybe he was the man the woman had complained had wet himself. Probably that, thought Thaddeus; and he felt concerned for the man's well-being. He had come up on the killers' radar, and that was never a good thing.
"What are you feeling just now?" Angelina asked Thaddeus.
"Knock it the hell off," Thaddeus abruptly whispered back. "This isn't the time or place for that silliness."
"Silly? I want my story, that's all."
"Thad, you have my permission to crack her across the mouth," Christine whispered loud enough for Angelina to hear. "If you want to trade places with me, I'll do it myself."
Angelina leaned across Thaddeus.
"Then give me your best shot, sister," said Angelina. "My older brothers trained me to knock the shit out of nosy old women. Now sit back and shut the hell up or I'm coming over there!"
"Hey, hey!" said Thaddeus. "You're going to get numb-nuts back
here if you don't knock this crap off. Both of you sit back and quiet down. Angelina, I'm feeling concerned right now, very concerned, that's how I'm feeling. Write it down."
As he said the words, he turned to get her attention with his eyes. As he did so, he looked straight into one of the most wholesome, attractive faces he'd ever run into. She returned the deep look, and a small muscle twitched in her lips. Then he remembered Katy and how much he loved her and how such feelings as he was experiencing right then, were saved exclusively for her. So he turned away. "Write it down. The old guy feels very concerned."
She huffed beside him. "I will. I'll write it in my tablet, no thanks to Miss Come-Kick-My-Ass next to you."
Of course Christine heard. She suddenly reached across Thaddeus and jerked the tablet from Angelina's hands.
"I'll settle this," Christine proclaimed to Angelina. "You can have this back once this mess is cleared up. Until then, shut the hell up before you get him back here."
She was referring to the hijacker Aniji, whose focus had shifted to the arguing threesome. He seemed to be weighing whether he would confront them. Then he looked away as a woman a dozen rows back, opposite side of the plane, fainted. Her seatmate cried out for help, and Aniji's attention diverted away from Thaddeus and the women flanking him.
Which relieved Thaddeus and Christine. Angelina, on the other hand, was half out of her seat, leaning across Thaddeus, trying to grab back her tablet. But Christina had it wedged between her right leg and the side of her seat. "Not until I say so," she hissed at Angelina. After that, Christine seized one of the younger woman's flailing hands and bent her fingers back. Christine half-rose out of her seat and used her leverage to force the young woman to sit back down. It all happened in seconds, without a word being said; but Thaddeus could sense that Angelina realized she had met her match. Even her better.
The young reporter sat back and crossed her arms over her chest, flexing her fingers as if feeling for damage. She looked out her window, and Thaddeus could see her reflection in the Plexiglas, glowering and, he hated to admit, probably planning a counter-attack. It would take everything he had to keep these two apart. At the worst of all possible moments, he had found himself refereeing a catfight—for want of a better term for the melee.
He had words for them both, but he dared not speak up.
He sat back and closed his eyes. He heard the killer talking to someone several rows back, assessing the unconscious woman. Clearly, the killer didn't give a damn and was only there to quell any uproar caused from her faint.
Thaddeus settled into his seat.
He was at once glad and regretful he was seated between the two warring factions. One was a proven warrior with a phony passport and ID, the other a starry-eyed reporter in search of a big future.
How he wished he was alone just then.
Alone and looking for an opening, instead of wedged between this twosome that seemed intent on calling attention to themselves. He swiveled his head and peeked past his seat-back.
The killer was standing in the aisle, arms crossed, tapping the gun against his forearm. Thaddeus was certain the guy had no use for anyone else on the plane except his comrades. Everyone else was just expendable inventory to be used however he wished.
Even if that meant killing another of them just because….
He came back up the aisle and paused beside Christine, seated in the aisle seat. Evidently the man had noticed the commotion involving Christine and Angelina.
"Passport?" the killer said.
Without glancing up, Christine took her passport from her pack. The man studied it, his lips moving as he read. He held the passport up for Ayub to see from where he stood at the front of the compartment. He motioned Ayub to join him. The smaller man hurried back and without a word took the passport and scanned it. He reached down and took Christine's face in his hand and turned it up to meet his gaze.
"Ama Gloq? Is that supposed to be a joke? Come with me."
13
Another group had no less interest in Ama Gloq than did the skyjackers.
Karli Guryshenko and his GRU supervisor Yuri Andrelisov were poring over the flight manifest. It had been forwarded from Swissair in Geneva, and nothing had especially jumped off the screen at them until they came to that one name: Ama Gloq. She was trying to pass herself off as a Middle Easterner, always a person of interest on a transatlantic flight. But the agents knew better; she had been outed; she was CIA.
Yuri said, "Afghanistan? She's from Kabul. Capital city, it says.”
"She might have fought with the resistance, for all we know," said Karli.
"You are referring to the war between the Soviet Union and Afghanistan."
"Yes, the one where we got our ass handed to us."
"Don't think so. Not old enough. Maybe her father or her uncle, but not her."
"What else do we know about her?"
"Her employer is listed as Shell Oil. She's listed as a geologist, Ph.D. from MIT."
Karli nodded. “So the CIA is trying to sneak her here, trying to make this look like a true hijacking. This makes no sense. Why would they go to such trouble?
"You're thinking what I'm thinking?"
"She's CIA and she’s coming here so America can make some kind of political success.”
"My thinking exactly. My guess is, she's never set foot in Afghanistan. Unless she was there as a U.S. combat soldier." Yuri smiled and sadly shook his head. "This entire hijacking might only be meant as a way to get her inside Russia."
"You are a devious man, Comrade Andrelisov."
"It pays to be. What if I'm right?"
"Could be. Let's run her through Central ID. See what else we turn up."
"I've already got that started. We should know something in the next thirty minutes."
“Naturally we will put a hold on her. She's of great interest to the State."
Yuri stood and stretched. It was the middle of the night and he missed being at home in his own bed, soundly sleeping. "She is of interest to the State."
"Then either way Central ID reports back, we'll hold her. A nice comfortable jail cell."
"Maybe not so comfortable. We want her cooperation."
"Agreed. Not so comfortable, then. I promise you, I will have her spilling her guts ten minutes after I have my hands on her."
Yuri gave his underling a blank look. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that."
Karli smiled. "You didn't hear it from me. Just make sure I'm the arresting officer."
"Done."
* * *
Swissair Flight 3309 landed thirty minutes later and taxied to the Swissair pod. Airport security swept the exit doors with blinding spotlights. A coterie of security personnel gathered at the jetway where it connected with the airport terminal. Whatever happened, they would be ready.
Karli arrived behind the others and immediately passed the word. GRU would be running things. Nothing would get done except upon the direct orders of Karli himself. He placed himself at the gangway phone and waited for the pilot to call. Within minutes the red light flashed. Karli waited while the light blinked insistently. Finally, he picked up.
"Airport security. Who is speaking, please?"
"Call me Ayub," the voice crackled over the house phone. "I am in charge of this aircraft."
"All right, Ayub. My name is Karli. Please tell me your plans."
"Prisoner trade. We trade a passenger for an imprisoned Chechen. It's as simple as that."
"You know we don't negotiate with terrorists. No First World country negotiates with terrorists. So a trade, passengers for prisoners, is definitely out. Why don't we talk instead about you leaving Russia alive? Would you like to leave here alive?"
Karli knew the conversation was being recorded. He had come across tough and was taking charge from the start. Exactly on-script.
Except the phone went dead. Karli held the phone away from his ear and studied it for several seconds. Then he put it up to his ear again. "Ayub?" he sa
id. "You still there?"
No answer.
For the benefit of the GRU tacticians listening in, Karli said, "What now?"
Dead air. No instructions came back. And Ayub was gone. For the first time, Karli felt both angry and helpless. He wasn't accustomed to being ignored. His hands clenched and unclenched. For a brief moment, he considered sending an armed force into the plane and taking down the hijackers. But reason and training overcame that egotistical thought and he slowed his thinking. The next move would be up to the hijackers. It had to be: he was left out of the equation at this point.
His earpiece suddenly came to life.
"Karli!" it was Yuri's voice. "Our eyes-on are reporting the aircraft's rear door has been opened and something—or someone—pushed out onto the tarmac. Our ground crew is checking it out."
Karli replied through his throat mike. "I will re-establish communication when you're ready."
"All right, here it is. Comrade Portovia is reporting a dead body has been unceremoniously pushed out the door. An elderly gentleman. We're going through his papers as we speak."
"He is dead, of course."
"Cold and dead, I am told. There is lividity. He has been dead for some time."
"I don't like this. Who are these people? I am wondering."
"Chechens. We are in touch with the president's office as we speak. He was advised thirty minutes ago and he wants to run things, I am told."
"Fair enough. Please advise when you hear."
"Roger that."
Karli surveyed the crowd of armed security personnel waiting behind him. They were very quiet, very professional, very determined. Most of them were older, what the Service called Pskov Storm Troops Division. Men whose happiness was in direct proportion to the body count from any operation. They were hooded and carrying the latest in automatic weapons, with a shotgun or two thrown in for what could only amount to wholesale slaughter, given the tight quarters of an aircraft compartment. Karli shook his head and determined it was up to him to keep them under control. Surely the Russian president would want that.
The Girl Who Wrote The New York Times Bestseller: A Novel (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thrillers Book 8) Page 5
