Slippery Slope

by Robin Shaw

  Chapter 4

  WHEN the first telephone warning was relayed to Consolidated Airlines, it was passed immediately to Tom Foley's desk. Over the past few years he had almost become vice-president in charge of hijackings and ransom demands. His instructions were simple: Do everything that the hijacker demands until the passengers and crew are safe, then move heaven and earth to get whoever is responsible. The policy had worked out so far. Fifteen planes had been hijacked in the past two years, and not one had crashed.

  It irked Tom to have to accede to the demands of the misfits and cranks who had commandeered the aircraft, but he realized that one tragedy would lose the airline more than the inconvenience and extra expense involved in going along. So far eleven planes had made detours to Cuba, three attempts had been foiled at airports when the plane had landed to refuel, and one lone hijacker had been gunned down by FBI men on his way to his car with half a million dollars. Hijackers, when they were interested in money and not free transport, always thought in fractions of a million dollars. They were at heart romantic, not practical, men and their plans were usually sketchy and not very well thought out.

  Now here was another one on flight 536 for Los Angeles. Would this one be different?

  Foley reached for his phone. This one had started off smarter by not calling the airline direct. For three years now they had taped all incoming calls.

  "Operations control? We have a bomb warning on 536. Relay a message to the captain. It is an altitude detonating device that will explode if the plane drops below ten thousand feet. Warn him to conserve fuel and delay his approach to Los Angeles. This one wants money, and you can tell him we'll play ball. No, we have no further information at this time."

  He replaced the phone. Out of his window he could see a large silver jet taxiing for takeoff. They were so fragile, despite their apparent strength.

  He buzzed for his secretary. She came through the door, smiling. Foley did not feel very happy and the smile annoyed him.

  "Laura, I want the passenger list and the booking list for flight 536. Immediately. And I want to know if any cases or passengers were searched. Right away."

  He turned back to the window. The roar of the great jet muted by the thick double-pane window buzzed in his head. Lighting a small cigar, he sipped at the dregs of his coffee. It could be a long night.

  When the lists came, it did not take Foley long to discover that one passenger had bought a ticket for the flight but had not boarded. It happened not infrequently, but the passenger would usually have his ticket changed for another flight soon after the departure of the first. He looked at the name: Wendy Stark.

  A quick call to flight booking revealed that the flight had not been changed and the ticket had never been surrendered. Foley's intuition gave him the answer to the next question, even before Baggage confirmed it. Yes, the lady's luggage had been checked aboard flight 536. No, there had been nothing suspicious about it. Yes, it had passed the metal detection device without incident.

  These bombers were becoming more sophisticated with every month. This one was obviously a technical genius. A bomb had to be constructed with very little metal and with a device that would not trigger on the takeoff as it passed through the ten-thousand-foot level. Foley was at a loss. He had not encountered one like this before. Usually the hijacker was there on the flight, prepared to blow himself up if necessary if his demands were not met. Here was a bomb in the air and the hijacker on the ground. How could it be defused? What information would they receive in return for the ransom demand that was bound to come that they could use to render the bomb harmless?

  Foley picked up his direct line to the FBI. They were as usual efficient, not wasting time in red tape and department buck-passing. The vice-president quickly explained the situation and asked that his queries be referred to their technical branch. He also asked for information on Wendy Stark, description and age unknown.

  There was little else he could do but wait. Waiting was the hardest part of these attempts. Those bastard s never thought of the lives they were putting in jeopardy, only of their own selfish interests. Even now, the captain and crew of that jet, family men, young stewardesses, must be experiencing the stomach tightening realization that the next few hours might be their last. This hijacker had nothing to lose. He or she or they were safe on the ground. Yet they would be caught, and perhaps bloodily. They must be mad to think they could interfere with the operation of a great airline and escape with a fortune when they had to contend with the modern resources of the FBI.

  When the next phone call was relayed, Foley did not hesitate. Ai least the game was going to be played according lo the rules. A quarter of a million was a modest demand, but it might as well be ten million or ten dollars for all the good it would do them. He was careful to relay to McCarron at the FBI the necessity of not alarming whoever was waiting for the drop. Money was only money, but the lives of Consolidated's passengers were of the highest importance. There was no record of Wendy Stark. It would of course be a pseudonym. The technical department thought such a bomb would be feasible. It might be defused by a time device or by a certain altitude change if it had been well constructed. But there was no knowing its secret for certain, so the money would have to be handed over.

  A call to Boise finalized the arrangements there, and the FBI provided a pilot and an observer to fly the light plane. Thank God, the weather was clear out there. Idaho was a mountainous area, and the drop might be anywhere. The plane would be in direct contact with the FBI regional headquarters, and as soon as the last message was passed on, the agents would descend on the area en masse. McCarron had already alerted the National Guard in the area, and everything was set for a mass encirclement of the extortionists.

  Foley had the information relayed to the captain of the jet. It was now over New Mexico and taking its time. It still had four hours of fuel left, so there was no panic yet, if everything went on schedule and the crooks continued to be true to their word.

  Foley pushed back his chair and walked into the outer office. Laura was not smiling now and did not ask any questions. She crossed to the coffee machine and poured a cup of strong black coffee.

  "Well we've given them the money. They should be pretty happy for a while. It's so futile. One almost sympathises with them. They have so little chance ol living to enjoy it." Foley shook his head. He could never envisage himself in the situation the extortionists must be in now. Money just didn't mean that much to him that he would jeopardize his good conscience and his liberty to acquire it. Throughout the history of mankind there have always been outlaws, and yet we know so little about their psychology. But they, sure as hell, cause a lot of grief.

  Foley shook his head unconsciously and made his way back to the solitude of his office to play out the closing moves of the game.