Lockout

by John J. Nance

  “Will! How are you?”

  “Actually, pretty good, Jenny. They stopped shooting people over here before they got to me.”

  She hesitated, and he jumped in.

  “Just kidding! We weren’t guilty, it seems, and for some reason they think I saved the world. I told them it was you, but they doubted a female could pull it off.”

  “What?”

  “Okay, that’s a joke, too.”

  “You’re in rare form this morning.”

  “And I’ll be in rarer form this evening, depending on you. Where are you?”

  “I think you know. I’m in my boss’s office.”

  “Yeah, and that was the wrong question. I was going to drop into a Barry White voice and ask what you’re wearing.”

  “What I’m wearing?”

  “Don’t answer that. Just meet me at the same place in the same shopping center at the same time tonight. And this time we’ll really do dinner and a movie.”

  “Really?”

  “To start.”

  “Pretty bold, Bubba, thinking I’d automatically accept putting myself in peril with you again,” she laughed.

  “Didn’t you, somewhere in that safe house, say, ‘Coffee now, seduction later’?”

  “I guess I did.”

  “Well, did I not deliver on the coffee?”

  “You did.”

  “So, do we have a date?”

  “Very well, I will agree to dinner and a movie, and I will agree to listen to you plead your case. Beyond that, no guarantees.”

  “Cool.”

  “Same time, same place, and two more requirements.”

  “Shoot.”

  “This time, no sneaking up on me and no idling black SUVs mysteriously waiting in a loading dock.”

  “Promise.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  One week later

  Tel Aviv, Israel (11:15 a.m. local)

  Two men walking slowly through Tel Aviv’s Yarkon Park in deep conversation in late morning had attracted no one’s attention, save for the security detail protecting the prime minister of Israel and trying to keep a discreet distance.

  Gershorn Zamir gestured to a park bench and they settled onto it, the prime minister sitting slightly sideways as his slender, six-foot-two companion leaned back and sighed, his words spoken with an Oxfordian British accent.

  “Thank you, old chap. My back has been giving me a bloody run for it these past few months. I could blame it on rugby, but in truth it’s too much mucking around at home lifting heavy things the wrong way.”

  “I completely sympathize. I’m too heavy for much exercising, but just walking takes its toll these days after too many hours at a desk.”

  “Or at the head of a crisis center table, I expect.”

  “Yes. So, tell me, please, what you trundled here all the way from London to impart.”

  The man looked over and smiled slightly, then straightened up and looked around carefully, before continuing.

  “The letter, or more properly stated, the email that Moishe asked me to destroy after he sent it in flight didn’t mention how, just why.”

  “I would expect that.”

  “And, you understand, there’s nothing new in the ‘why’: the same old fact that the mullahs would happily die and go collect their virgins if the loss of their country was accompanied by the vaporization of Israel; their first strike on Israel was anywhere from hours to days away; how he had a duty to make sure their ability to attack was destroyed, et cetera, et cetera. But the key was the statement I mentioned. The statement that he had commandeered a commercial airliner full of innocent people only because he had no other method of showing the world Iran’s murderous intent. He said he regretted the impending loss of civilian lives, but that they, too, were dying for a great cause.”

  “Commandeered was the word?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you planning to publish the letter?”

  “To what end, Gershorn? Even if I hadn’t been on Israel’s side my entire life, what would such a revelation do? I don’t particularly care about Lavi’s legacy, but it would stir up anger and distrust of anything Israel says or does regarding Iran, and put them in the role of victim of Zionist aggression.”

  “I appreciate your decision, especially since I know you’re giving up a coup.”

  “Not really. I might be giving up an opportunity to sabotage the very interests I want to help. More than anything, I’d be driving a stake through your political heart if I revealed that letter.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There were a few people thanked in a veiled way in Lavi’s verbiage, Gershorn, and based on who they might be and the positions potentially involved, it would not take a Sherlock Holmes to discern the presence of a host of confederates in Mossad, IDF, your government, and a couple of very key people in the US.”

  “He named them?”

  “No, no. Only implied. He was a master at espionage and subtlety even if he was also the proverbial bull in the china shop. But from those implied confederates come inescapable conclusions.”

  The PM looked away for a few moments, letting his mind run through the thicket of possible reactions from the world.

  “You realize I have to search for these turncoats,” Gershorn replied quietly.

  “Are they turncoats? If they even exist, in their minds, they’re patriots. Far be it for an obscure little journalist to advise the prime minister of Israel, but if you launch a witch hunt—as the Yanks call it—you will split your government down the middle. And, keep in mind that Moishe may have been setting up completely innocent people, whether to settle old scores or otherwise we’ll never know.

  “Who in the States?”

  “He implied he had someone buried deep, but … he was only tossed out of office last month. There simply wasn’t enough time to send over a mole and get things set up for an electronic hijacking.”

  “Then why did he try to take credit?”

  “Because our old friend was first and foremost a master opportunist. I have no trouble believing that he found himself on an electronically locked out airliner maybe heading toward Tehran and decided to take full advantage of it.”

  “But, could he have done it?”

  “We can never know.”

  “I must let it lie, in other words? Here and there?”

  “Precisely what I would say if I were advising you, yes. Fortunately, I am a mere and meager journalist and not in that position, so it is well within my discretion to speak freely and as unaccountably as possible.”

  “And … you will destroy all copies of that communique from Moishe?”

  The journalist looked over at Gershorn again and raised a bushy eyebrow.

  “What communique?”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Two weeks later

  Chicago (7:40 p.m. CST)

  The fact that there always seemed to be a gale whipping the canyons of downtown Chicago had impressed Dan Horneman, and this evening was no exception: While dashing into the posh steakhouse, a wild gust inverted the umbrella he’d raised against a light rain.

  His date had fared no better.

  Laura Snyder hadn’t quite repaired the serious tousling the wind had given her impressive mane of auburn hair. She had an almost feral look, he thought, as he watched her across the table. Wild and exciting, and hopefully eager for change.

  Of course, whether she was his date tonight, or merely his curious ex, was yet to be determined.

  Laura tossed her hair back and took a sip of Cabernet, her eyes finally boring into his with a familiar intensity.

  “So, let’s get to it, flyboy. I figure there’s only one possible reason that you could have asked to see me tonight, since you know how I detest globetrotting men.” She stopped, noting his lecherous expression. “A reason other than wanting sex.”

  “It has been a long time!” he laughed. “At least for us.”

  “Yes, it has, and therefore I
assume you’ve decided to abandon being a gypsy at long last in order to resume chasing me.”

  “What?”

  “In other words, you’ve invited me here to announce that you’re resigning from Pangia to lead a normal life. Right?”

  “Wrong.”

  “Wrong? Then, why did you call me?”

  “Well, why did you come?” he replied. “Fact is, I never thought a scorched-earth resignation was a condition precedent for your affections.”

  “Then you weren’t paying attention,” she said, smiling back at him ruefully.

  She slowly placed the wine glass on the tablecloth, letting a few seconds elapse before replying.

  “I came, Danny, because I care about you, and I guess I remain curious about when you’re going to stop chasing what you already have.”

  “You mean, the money?”

  “No! Not the money. Your own immense worth to the world. To yourself. Maybe even to me. Have you proven everything you wanted to prove? Is the quest over?”

  It was his turn to pause, his eyes studying the base of his wine glass as he twirled it slightly, nodding.

  “I think I’m done apologizing, if that’s what you mean.”

  “What, to me? You certainly don’t need to.”

  “No. To the world in general, as well as all my fellow airline pilots. Apologizing for the money, for not staying and making more, for the steep learning curve as a pilot, all of it. Apologizing, as you say, for trying to prove something.”

  “So, what changed? I mean, I know about the flight from hell, of course, and your incredible landing in Baghdad. Everyone knows.”

  “Did you know they just offered me an early upgrade to captain, jumping the seniority list, as a training captain?”

  Her expression fell slightly. “Really?”

  “Yes. Just this morning!”

  “So, we’re here to celebrate?”

  “The CEO made the offer. Apparently the stuffed-shirt captain who was with us that night, name of Bill Breem, joined Jerry Tollefson, the flight captain, in recommending the upgrade. And believe me, Tollefson was no fan of mine, at least not before that flight.”

  She nodded and forced a smile. “Then, clearly, congratulations are in order, Captain. I’m sure you’ll be very happy.”

  “I turned them down, Laura.”

  She looked up at him then, head slightly cocked, memories flooding back of her childhood as the daughter of an airline pilot.

  “You turned down an early captain upgrade?” she asked, incredulously. “Isn’t that bordering on insanity?”

  “Some will think so.”

  “Why, if you’re not quitting?”

  “I may. Quit, that is. Later, when I’m ready. But this is where I want to be for the moment, and, well …”

  She nodded suddenly, knowingly, and smiled. “Aha! And, for the first time, you feel like you belong. Am I right?”

  His smile broadened. “Yes.”

  “Was that what it was all about? Years of flight training and knocking around like a pimply-faced twenty-something living out of a bag? All of it just to be accepted?”

  He took his finger and traced the rim of his wine glass, studying it before looking up to meet her rock-steady gaze.

  “I’ve learned, Laura, that when great wealth comes too easily, it forces a man to question his own self-worth.”

  “That’s eloquent, Dan.”

  “You asked why I called you? Because I could always depend on you to cut to the heart of the matter.”

  “Okay, I’m not a diplomat.”

  “No,” he chuckled, “You definitely are not a diplomat! But, you are one of those rare people who will tell the brutal truth.”

  “And you’re sidestepping my question.”

  “No,” he interrupted, a finger in the air, “I’m not. I’m getting there. It was more than being accepted. It was a burning need to earn at least a modicum of respect, not for how much money I might have been lucky enough to make, but for something difficult I accomplished that can’t be measured by bank balances, something I had to do myself.”

  “And that was flying?”

  “Yes. I’ve always wanted to fly, but this…this involved invading a fraternity, and a tough one at that. Gaining their respect has proven very challenging, and without that hellish flight, I doubt I’d have it yet.”

  “In my view, Dan, it was unnecessary, but I’m not you. I already know what I’m good at, and what I’m not so good at, and I still respect me.”

  “I respect you, too.”

  She waved the compliment away.

  “So, I get it, Danny. You needed to challenge yourself. I felt the same in law school. I had to be number one in my law class to prove to myself that when I concentrate on something, there are no barriers I can’t jump over.”

  “Yes! Same thing. And you succeeded.”

  “No, I didn’t. I came out number two, but it was okay. As for your quest, what have you learned?”

  He smiled and nodded slowly. “That I can be a good leader as well as a team player, and good pilot. I was just trying to be a good pilot.”

  “And now you plan to keep on flying, just in order to keep validating that finding, over and over and over?”

  “Not much longer. Truth is, after thinking my way through some of the more dismal moments on that flight—when I wasn’t sure how we had a chance at salvation—I realized I have other priorities more important to me than flying or even making captain. He stopped and smiled slowly as he met her eyes. “In fact, one priority in particular.”

  “Which priority is that?”

  “You.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Two months later

  Camp David, Maryland (4:10 p.m. EST)

  Normally, CIA Director James Bergen and Deputy Director Walter Randolph would have been delighted to be summoned to Camp David for a private conversation with the president, but this trip was to receive a formal ass-kicking along with their DIA counterparts. The meeting had been brutal, with an angry president determined to end once and for all the interdepartmental rivalries of his intelligence community.

  Fat chance! Walter thought to himself, very glad his thoughts couldn’t yet be discerned either from his taciturn expression or through some electronic gadget.

  The Defense Intelligence team had departed immediately afterwards by helicopter, their metaphorical tails firmly between their legs, while the CIA team was to be driven back to Langley. But one of the president’s aides caught Bergen and Randolph at the door and ushered them back into a small den. POTUS entered the room almost as rapidly.

  “Jim? Walt? I’m still unclear on a key element of what happened to Pangia. Was Lavi controlling the airplane or not? Did he set this up?”

  Walter Randolph shook his head. “We don’t believe there is any way Lavi could have been controlling the airplane through a computer from his first class seat. And we don’t believe there was any way he could have manipulated so many coincidences, including the accidental triggering of the lockout system.”

  “No moles on our shore, in other words?” the president said, leaning, arms folded, against the side of a sofa.

  “It is always possible that there could have been a confederate over here, but we seriously doubt it.”

  “DIA? NSA?”

  “No, sir. Definitely not one of us. If a mole existed at all, if someone had been buried deep in Pangia or the black project or both, he would be a civilian, and a brilliant one at that. But it just doesn’t figure.”

  “If it did, I was going to order you guys to find that mole at all costs.”

  “We’d be chasing a ghost, Mr. President.”

  “Very well. That was unclear from your joint briefing. Of course, I was too busy kicking your collective parochial asses to listen well.” He looked at his watch. “I have to go. Have a safe trip back to the Beltway, gentlemen.”

  Three hours and a half dozen meetings later, the president of the United States settled comf
ortably in one of the wide wicker chairs on the veranda after handing Paul Wriggle a glass of Scotch.

  “Oban, Paul. My favorite. I’m half Scottish, so these are home squeezin’s.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ve always loved a good single malt.”

  The president gestured to the starfield overhead, iridescent in a crystal clear night sky. “I’ll always regret not getting out there. How about you, Paul? Ever want to join NASA?”

  “I just wanted to fly. Anywhere. Space, atmosphere, you know.”

  “Yep, I do know. I felt the same, just … other interests got in the way of being a professional birdman.” He turned to the general and smiled. “Now let’s talk about you. What’s all this retirement stuff?”

  “It’s time.”

  “I could tell you no. I could have you promoted to four star, Paul, rather than let you retire,” the president said, swishing the liquor in the crystal snifter he was holding.

  Paul Wriggle shook his head ruefully as he nursed his own glass. “Promotion is for those who don’t let their commander in chief down, Mr. President. Besides, that would trigger an absolute tsunami of resentment at the Pentagon.”

  “I don’t think you’ve let me down, Paul. I know you’ve been terribly hard on yourself and the final assessment of things, but … you ran a very tight ship and sometimes shit happens.”

  “Yeah, like a bank of computers I should have had programmed better.”

  “Paul, seriously, you said yourself there had to be an extraordinary number of one-off failures to get to what happened. Who knew the test program your lady was running hadn’t been properly shut down weeks earlier? She didn’t even know. Who knew it would activate itself if the server was rebooted, and then start broadcasting through NSA all over the planet looking for your black box? Who knew the janitor would accidentally turn off the only computer containing that program, and then not understand he couldn’t just snap it back on? For that matter, who knew that the little chip in that computer was defective and it would re-start itself despite being programed not to? I fail to see how all of that’s your fault.”