Just then, the lights in the aircraft blinked out. Agents switched to night scopes, but there was nothing to report. No movement, just an aircraft at rest, looking tranquil in the Russian night, belying what all knew was likely happening on board: the selection of the next victim would be underway. That was how it always went in these scenarios.
* * *
Ayub ducked from the cockpit into the passenger compartment. He kept a low profile, aware that night scopes would be following any movement aboard the darkened aircraft. He found Jacques Lemoneux sitting with his back against the bulkhead, where he had been earlier deposited. "You," he said. "Come with me. Do not stand upright. Crouch, as you see me doing."
Jacques climbed to his feet, keeping a bent double profile. He didn't need to be told twice. Ayub pushed him roughly into the stewardess staging area of the aircraft. A red gangway phone hung from the cockpit bulkhead. Ayub lifted the phone.
"Who am I speaking with?" Ayub asked.
"Call me Karli. We are preparing to assault the aircraft."
"I wouldn't do that. We have several guns on board and will kill everyone on the plane before you can break through the doors."
"Have it your way. But know this: prisoners will not be released. The Russian president himself has given his orders."
"Orders?"
"No negotiations. If you surrender and the remaining passengers are released unharmed, you will be allowed safe passage out of Russia."
"Not interested. My comrades are willing to die here tonight. As am I. Our efforts will be repeated by those who will follow us. Hijackings will continue and innocent American blood will be spilled on Russian soil until our demands are met. You have been warned."
"So be it. No negotiations."
"Then prepare to collect the next dead body," Ayub said and slammed the phone into its cradle. He calmed himself and replaced the handset. He turned to Jacques.
"Are you prepared to die?"
"I'm a Frenchman. What good does it do to kill a Frenchman? I just heard you tell them you would be killing Americans. Killing me will only make you look foolish."
Ayub paused. The man was correct, said his puzzled expression. He smiled wryly. "Well played, Monsieur Lemoneux. Well played. Take a seat back where you were."
With a feigned sigh of relief, Jacques turned and crept back into the passenger area and all but collapsed into his earlier position against the bulkhead. Tears came to his eyes and he gasped for air. That had been close, his behavior said. So close.
Ayub re-engaged with the passengers. "Show your passports!" he commanded them. "I will be coming through the plane and ask all Americans to hold up their passports. I am also looking for the next volunteer."
"Volunteer for what?" cried a muffled voice from the rear of the plane. Ayub couldn't make out the speaker in the dark.
"Volunteer to die. We are here to secure the release of Chechen prisoners. Every time our demands are turned aside, one of you must die."
Silence ensued. The man with the question didn't follow up. There would be no volunteers, the silence told the hijacker. Just then, Aniji appeared beside Ayub.
"Who do you want next?" he asked Ayub.
"We will be democratic. Start with the first row, window seat. Work across the row."
Without another word, Aniji stepped across the bulkhead row to the young black woman seated at the window. His hand swept forward and he had no sooner placed the muzzle of the gun to her forehead than the gun erupted. A bright red flash followed, coupled with the roar of the gun. In one motion, Aniji unbuckled the woman's seatbelt and lifted her dead body away from the seat. He carried her to the rear door of the aircraft, passing boldly through the piercing white glare of the spotlights where they entered the plane's pod-side windows.
The third hijacker, Maritan, was waiting there; and he twisted the handle, pushing the door open.
Aniji pushed the dead body out the door and it fell in a clump to the ground.
Up front, Ayub again placed the telephone handset to his ear.
"Well?" Ayub said.
"You are a dead man. You have committed murder on Russian soil. You will die for it."
"The first prisoner we demand be released is Kebiriam Vachagayev."
"Ah, the presidential aide."
"Exactly. We will trade the next American in line to be assassinated for Comrade Vachagayev."
"Only because I have to, we will speak with our people and call you back."
"Ten minutes. Then we throw out the next American."
* * *
Thaddeus Murfee heard bits and pieces of Ayub's instructions to the Russians. He was considering options—which were virtually non-existent—when a foot kicked the back of his seat. He waited. The foot kicked again.
Without turning around, Thaddeus said, "What is it?"
"I'm an air marshal. You American?"
"I am."
"Will you help me put an end to this?"
"Whatever I can do to help," said Thaddeus. "What is your plan?"
"Trade places with the woman on your right. Lift the armrest to do it, have her slide onto your lap, then you slide into her seat."
"I can do that," said Thaddeus. "Christine?"
She immediately slid over onto his lap and he moved to his right. Her seat was warm and it was on the aisle.
"Now what?"
"When they come back up the aisle, I am going to shoot the one with the gun. The killer."
"And you want me to rush the cabin?"
"Exactly. Your job is to make certain they don't force the plane to takeoff again. Can you do that?"
"I can," said Thaddeus. "I will move when you shoot."
"Yes. And I will be right behind you, with my gun."
"Good. I am ready, then."
"Wait for the killer to come back up the aisle."
"What if they have guns in the cockpit?"
"They won't. I checked the manifest. The only gun on the flight is the pilot's. That's what they’re using to kill Americans."
"Got it."
"I'm going with you," said Christine. "You need backup."
"You stay put," Thaddeus said. "I've got this."
"In fact, I should be on the aisle, not you, Thad."
He gave her a dull look. "I guess not. I've got this, Christine."
At which point, the killer came striding back up the aisle, headed for the front of the plane. Evidently it was time to shoot another passenger. Just as he passed and his back became visible, there was a commotion behind Thaddeus and he instinctively lowered himself into his seat as the pistol barked out behind. Then he was up and leaping over the fallen killer, whose blood was draining from a cork-size hole in the back of his head. The cockpit door banged open just as Thaddeus reached it and he grabbed the first man through by the arm. Ayub was smaller than Thaddeus and wasn't expecting to be jumped, so when Thaddeus pulled sharply on his arm the Chechen flew forward and sprawled in the aisle. Thaddeus dropped down and jammed his knee into the back of the man's neck, face down as he was and bore his entire weight downward. Christine leapt around him and disappeared inside the cabin. The air marshal then rushed forward and followed Christine into the cockpit.
A struggle was underway in the cockpit between Christine and Maritan, the surgeon. The opera fan/connoisseur of French cuisine was outmatched. Christine instantly had him in a headlock and dragged him back through the cockpit entrance. The air marshal helped her, grabbing the man's free arm and jamming the gun into his head.
"Come out and drop to the floor," the air marshal ordered, and Maritan complied.
At this point the two remaining hijackers, Maritan and Ayub, were face down in the aisle. Thaddeus was astride Ayub, pinning him with his knee and full body weight. Maritan lay unmoving with the air marshal's boot on his neck. Christine was straightening her suit jacket, torn up the side in the tussle, and pulling down her cuffs. She was none the worse for wear and saw that Thaddeus and the air marshal had things fully in contro
l, so she returned to her seat.
"What's your name?" Angelina Sosa immediately asked Christine. "Spell it, please."
The reporter had her tablet open in her lap, fingers on the keyboard.
"My damn," Christine moaned and looked off to the side. "Would you please put that stupid thing away? This is neither the time nor the place."
"Please. I'm just asking for your name."
"Ama Gloq."
"I thought I heard someone call you Chris or Christine."
"I don't think so. My name is Ama Gloq."
"No, I'm sure Thaddeus called you Christine when you traded seats. He said it again when you blew by him and hit the cockpit door with your shoulder."
"Ama Gloq. G-L-O-Q. That's my name. First name Ama. Now shut the hell up and let me catch my breath."
"That was very heroic, what you did. I'm impressed, girl. You rock!"
"Please."
14
Two weeks before the hijacking, Jacques Lemoneux had waited outside Christine Susmann's Schaumburg condo. It was 7:25 a.m. and the couple's two children left the house first, on bicycle and foot, followed by Christine's husband. Which left Christine alone in the house. Parked down a half-block in a nondescript white van, Lemoneux waited until Christine left home, driving a ten-year-old SUV. Lemoneux followed behind, hanging back 100 yards until Christine turned into day parking at the Palatine Metra station. He pulled up to the adjacent stop sign and waited, watching her out of his rearview mirror. There was no follow-on traffic behind him, so he dawdled at the stop sign. She parked and walked the fifty yards up to the station, where she disappeared inside.
Lemoneux went on around the station and circled back to Christine's house.
He boldly pulled into her driveway and got out. His locksmith's picks opened the front door lock in less than thirty seconds; and he went inside, carrying his bag of tricks. In the kitchen, living room, family room, and bedroom he quickly hid miniature wide-angle cameras with built-in mikes. The devices were tiny and easily hidden inside sound system speakers. As he worked, he wore latex gloves, always sure to leave no prints on the off chance a device was discovered.
Which they were not.
For the next week, Lemoneux monitored all conversations in the household. He wore an earpiece that made him privy to all exchanges. While he listened, he also followed Christine everywhere she went: Albertson's Foods, L.A. Fitness, Salads n' Such, pediatrician (ear infection, youngest child), Roser Toyota (lube and checkup), dry cleaners, delis, McDonald's, and all the rest of the dozens of stops she made while Lemoneux tailed her. Other workers monitored family cell phones, courtesy of the NSA.
They hit pay dirt on the ninth day, as Christine was talking with the Chicago PD Records and Reports Officer. Evidently her employer, Thaddeus Murfee, was defending the owner of a tri-state office furniture wholesaler on tax evasion charges, and a prior arrest for embezzlement twenty years earlier was on the books at CPD. Christine wanted a copy of that report and was having difficulty with the records custodian, who apparently didn't want to be bothered with a twenty-year-old record. Lemoneux listened half-heartedly while the conversation droned on, but suddenly pricked up his ears when the topic of calendaring the expected delivery date came up.
Lemoneux heard Christine say, "Look, we need these records within seven days, or we'll have to come after you with a subpoena duces tecum. Please don't make me do that. You don't want to appear at our offices and I don't want to go through the headache of having a subpoena issued by the clerk and served by the sheriff. How about just overnighting the records to me, certified?"
"Can't do," said the records clerk. "We can't send certified records by mail or FedEx or anything else. And we can't email them. You'll need to come here and sign in, show proper ID, and have the pickup recorded on our documents diary."
"I have to do this personally, or can I send someone by?"
"You're the requesting agent. It will have to be you."
"Damn, man," said Christine, "you must have a heavy flow of traffic through there every day."
"You have no idea. The idea behind this is that these aren't public records, but we've streamlined the Freedom of Information Act rules for our purposes and made that much simpler. Trust me, this is the best way. Now, when can we expect you?"
"I have to be overseas tomorrow and for the next week. Can I swing by today?"
"No can do. These are paper records. They have to be retrieved from storage. That takes two days, turnaround. Where are you going?"
"Pakistan."
"Pakistan? As in the country Pakistan?"
"That's right."
"Isn't it dangerous for Americans to go there?"
"Not necessarily."
"Does your boss make you do this?"
"I have family there. It's a personal trip. But enough about me. Can I calendar my visit when I return?"
Which was all Lemoneux needed to hear. He immediately reported the upcoming visit to his secret employer, the CIA. The CIA wanted to know more. But nothing more was said about the trip that could be intercepted by eavesdropping. Travel visas were checked at all embassies, airline reservations searched, and thirty days of telephone conversations between U.S. citizens and Pakistani country encodes were traced and sifted by NSA. Nothing turned up that explained the travel plans. In the end, it was decided that Lemoneux would continue his tail of Christine, even out of the country.
Her plans made the CIA all the more anxious to follow through on its original plans for Christine as well. The Assistant Director sent for her, and she traveled to Langley for the recruitment that would take her to Afghanistan, but which ended up hijacked to Moscow, as she traveled under the CIA cover of Ama Gloq.
Lemoneux missed none of it. It was a simple case of the CIA watching the CIA. There were even cases where the overseers were two deep, watchers watching watchers watching CIA agents. But that was deemed overkill in this case because Christine had an impeccable record as a soldier and a patriot. It was believed by the Directorate that she would exclusively represent CIA interests overseas. The possibility of double agency was remote: less than a two percent chance, it was concluded.
But when her plane was sidetracked to Moscow, all records of any CIA involvement with Christine were destroyed. It was as if her name had never appeared on Agency computer screens or been accessed on Agency data farms.
She had vanished and was left entirely on her own. She was no longer numbered among agency assets.
Her value to her country was at an all-time low.
15
GRU Central ID reported in a one-liner to Karli:
"RE: Ama Gloq/AKA/Christine Susmann. Known CIA operative. Arrest and interrogate."
At 12:02 a.m. the night/early-morning of the hijacking, the GRU, and Russian Security Police stormed the Swissair flight. The cockpit crew had notified Sheremetyevo Ground Control the crew had reestablished control of the aircraft, and the hijackers were in custody. Immediate assistance was requested, and Karli was among those who boarded the aircraft. Unlike the others, he was not wearing a face mask and was not brandishing an automatic weapon. But it immediately became clear he was in control of the operation.
"Who are you?" he demanded of the air marshal, whose service weapon was in plain sight.
"U.S. Air Marshal's Service, Tennyson Durant. These are my prisoners." He indicated Ayub and Maritan, handcuffed together face-down in the aisle, the air marshal hovering over them, service weapon drawn and daring the duo to resist.
"Who is Ama Gloq?"
The air marshal answered Karli's question with a blank look. Karli went to the front of the plane, to the phone, and picked up the handset. Pandemonium had set in; the aircraft was noisy, like a busy movie theater after the lights go up. Karli keyed the mike.
"Attention, please. Russian security seeks a woman named Ama Gloq. Will you please self-identify?"
It wasn't until he announced a second time Christine—Ama—heard and responded.
"
That would be me," she said and raised her hand. "I'm Ama Gloq."
Karli lifted his hand and motioned her up front. She gathered her carry-on and stepped into the aisle, carefully stepped around the hijackers, and picked her way to Karli.
"What do you want with me?" she asked. She had just struggled in the cockpit with one of the hijackers and was still trying to calm down, to return her breathing to normal. Dealing with Russian bureaucracy hacks was not at the top of her priority list. "What?"
"We need to speak with you."
"Who is 'we'?"
"Please, come with me."
Karli took Christine by the elbow and worked her out the front door of the plane. The jetway had been attached to allow the boarding and now he took Christine from the plane, the first two to leave.
Thaddeus watched them disappear out the door and attempted to follow, but a hijacker had reached up and wrapped his arm around the young lawyer's leg.
Thaddeus turned to the noisy police and lifted his hands. "What? You're just gonna let this guy take me down?" They were jostling and pushing, try to move him away, and he was trying to disengage—he wanted nothing more to do with any of it—but the cramped space was making it very difficult to indicate with his body language and movement he wanted the same thing they wanted.
At last he kicked his leg free and made it through their cordon. He shrugged through a tight knot of passengers to his seat and twisted in next to Angelina. She was standing, snapping stills with her smart phone and narrating furiously into its mike exactly what she was witnessing. She had no time for him just then, for which he was thankful; but he realized there was a major problem. Christine hadn't stepped back in. She had evidently been escorted into the terminal, something Thaddeus had intended to prevent. Still, she was nowhere to be seen.
The Girl Who Wrote The New York Times Bestseller: A Novel (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thrillers Book 8) Page 6
