Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2]

by Lions Game(Lit)

  "Two hundred knots," Hernandez answered. "Descending through fifty-eight hundred feet."

  "Okay."

  Stavros picked up the Red Phone again. He also hit the Control Tower emergency speaker, then transmitted, "Emergency Service, this is Tower, over."

  A voice came over the speaker into the silent Tower Control room, "Tower, Emergency Service."

  Stavros recognized Tintle's voice.

  Tintle asked, "What's up?"

  "What's up is the status. It's now a three-three."

  There was a silence, then Tintle asked, "Based on what?"

  Stavros thought that Tintle sounded less cocky. Stavros replied, "Based on a near-miss with another aircraft."

  "Damn." Silence, then, "What do you think the problem is?"

  "No idea."

  "Hijacking?"

  "A hijacking doesn't make the pilot fly with his head up his ass."

  "Yeah . . . well—"

  "We have no time to speculate. The subject aircraft is on a fifteen-mile final for Runway Four-Right. Copy?"

  "Fifteen-mile final for Runway Four-Right."

  "Affirmed," Stavros said.

  "I'll call out the rest of the unit for a three-three."

  "Right."

  "Confirm aircraft type," Tintle said.

  "Still a 747, 700 series, as far as I know. I'll call you when we have visual."

  "Roger that."

  Stavros signed off and raised his binoculars. He began to scan from the end of the runway and methodically out from there, but his thoughts were on the radio exchange he just had. He recalled meeting Tintle a few times at the Emergency Committee liaison meetings. He didn't particularly like Tintle's style, but he had the feeling that the guy was competent. As for the cowboys who called themselves Guns and Hoses, they mostly sat around the firehouse playing cards, watching TV, or talking about women. They also cleaned their trucks a lot—they loved shiny trucks.

  But Stavros had seen them in action a few times, and he was fairly sure they could handle anything from a crash to an onboard fire and even a hijacking. In any case, he wasn't responsible for them or the situation after the aircraft came to a halt. He took a little pleasure out of the knowledge that this 3-3 scramble would come out of the Port Authority budget and not the FM budget.

  Stavros lowered the binoculars, rubbed his eyes, then raised the binoculars and focused on Runway Four-Right.

  Both rescue units had rolled, and Stavros saw an impressive assortment of Emergency Service vehicles along the perimeter of the runway, their red beacons rotating and flashing. They were spaced far apart, a procedure designed to avoid having a monster aircraft like a 747 wiping them all out in a crash landing.

  Stavros counted two RIVs—Rapid Intercept Vehicles—and four big T2900 fire trucks. There was also one Heavy Rescue ESU truck, two ambulances, and six Port Authority police cars, plus the Mobile Command Post, which had every radio frequency of every affiliated agency in New York as well as a complete phone center. He also spotted the Hazmat—the Hazardous Material Truck—whose crew had been trained by the United States Army. Parked in the far distance was the mobile staircase truck, and the mobile hospital. The only thing missing was the mobile morgue. That wouldn't roll unless it was needed, and there was no rush if it was.

  Ed Stavros contemplated the scene—a scene he had created simply by picking up his red telephone. One part of him didn't want there to be a problem with the approaching aircraft. Another part of him . . . he hadn't called a 3-3 in two years, and he became concerned that he'd overreacted. But overreacting was better than underreacting.

  "Seven miles," Hernandez called out.

  "Okay." Stavros began another patterned search of the horizon where the Atlantic Ocean met the New York haze.

  "Six miles."

  "I got him." Even with the powerful binoculars, the 747 was hardly more than a glint against the blue sky. But with every passing second, the airliner was growing in size.

  "Five miles."

  Stavros continued to stare at the incoming aircraft. He'd watched, thousands of jumbo jets make this approach, and there was absolutely nothing about this particular approach that troubled him, except for the fact that even now the aircraft's radios were eerily silent.

  "Four."

  Stavros decided to talk directly to the person in charge of the rescue teams. He picked up a radiophone that was preset to the Ground Control frequency and transmitted, "Rescue One, this is Tower."

  A voice came back on the speaker. "Tower, this is Rescue One. How may I help you today?"

  Oh, God, Stavros said to himself, another wise-ass. It must be the qualification for the job. Stavros said, "This is Mr. Stavros, Tower Supervisor. Who is this?"

  "This is Sergeant Andy McGill, first guitar, Guns and Hoses. What can I play for you?"

  Stavros decided that what he didn't want to play was this idiot's game. Stavros said, "I want to establish direct contact with you."

  "Established."

  "Okay . . . subject aircraft is in sight, McGill."

  "Right. We see him, too."

  Stavros added, "He's on track."

  "Good. I hate it when they land on top of us."

  "But be prepared."

  "Still NO-RAD?"

  "That's right."

  "Two miles," said Hernandez and added, "Still on track. Altitude eight hundred feet.

  Stavros relayed this to McGill, who acknowledged.

  "One mile," said Hernandez, "on track, five hundred feet."

  Stavros could clearly make out the huge jetliner now. He transmitted to McGill, "Confirm a 747-700. Gear down, flaps seem normal."

  "Roger that. I got a fix on him," McGill replied.

  "Good. You're on your own." Stavros ended his transmission and put the radiophone down.

  Hernandez left his console and stood beside Stavros. A few other men and women with no immediate duties also lined up at the windows.

  Stavros watched the 747, mesmerized by the huge aircraft that had just passed over the threshold of the runway and was floating down toward the concrete. There was nothing about this aircraft that looked or acted any differently from any other 747 touching down. But suddenly, Ed Stavros was certain that he wouldn't be home in time for dinner.

  CHAPTER 5

  The van dropped us off at the International Arrivals terminal in front of the Air India logo, and we walked to the Trans-Continental area.

  Ted Nash and George Foster walked together, and Kate Mayfield and I walked behind them. The idea was to not look like four Feds on a mission, in case someone was watching. I mean, you have to practice good trade craft, even if you're not real impressed with your opponents.

  I checked out the big Arrival Board, and it said that Trans-Continental Flight 175 was on time, which meant it was supposed to land in about ten minutes, arriving at Gate 23.

  As we walked toward the arrival area, we scoped out the folks around us. You don't normally see bad guys loading their pistols or anything like that, but it's surprising how, after twenty years in law enforcement, you can spot trouble.

  Anyway, the terminal was not crowded on this Saturday afternoon in April, and everyone looked more or less normal, except the native New Yorkers who always look on the verge of going postal.

  Kate said to me, "I want you to be civil to Ted."

  "Okay."

  "I mean it."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She said, with some insight, "The more you bug him, the more he enjoys it."

  Actually, she was right. But there's something about Ted Nash that I don't like. Partly, it's his smugness and his superiority complex. But mostly, I don't trust him.

  Anyone waiting for an international flight is outside the Customs area on the ground floor, so we walked over there and worked the crowd a little, looking for anyone who was acting in a suspicious manner, whatever that means.

  I assume that the average terrorist hit man knows that if his target is protected, then the target is not going to
come out through Customs. But the quality of terrorists we get in this country is generally low, for some reason, and the stupid things that they've done are legendary. According to Nick Monti, the ATTF guys tell dumb terrorist stories in the bars—then bullshit the press with a different story about how dangerous these bad guys are. They are dangerous, but mostly to themselves. But then again, remember the World Trade Center. Not to mention the two embassy bombings in Africa.

  Kate said to me, "We'll spend about two minutes here, then go to the gate."

  "Should I hold up my 'Welcome Asad Khalil' sign yet?"

  "Later. At the gate." She added, "This seems to be the season for defections."

  "What do you mean?"

  "We had another one in February."

  "Tell me."

  "Same kind of thing. Libyan guy, looking for asylum."

  "Where did he turn himself in?"

  "Same. Paris," she said.

  "What happened to him?"

  "We held him here for a few days, then we took him down to D.C."

  "Where is he now?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Why? Because it smells."

  "It does, doesn't it? What do you think?"

  "Sounds like a dry run to see what happens when you go to the American Embassy in Paris and turn yourself in."

  "You're smarter than you look. Did you ever have anti-terrorist training?"

  "Sort of. I was married." I added, "I used to read a lot of Cold War novels."

  "I knew we made the right move in hiring you."

  "Right. Is this other defector under wraps or is he able to call his pals in Libya?"

  "He was under loose custody. He bolted."

  "Why loose custody?"

  "Well, he was a friendly witness," she replied.

  "Not anymore," I pointed out.

  She didn't reply and I didn't ask any further questions. In my opinion, the Feds treat so-called defecting spies and defecting terrorists a lot nicer than cops treat cooperating criminals. But that's only my opinion.

  We went to a pre-arranged spot near the Customs door and met the Port Authority detective there, whose name was Frank.

  Frank said, "Do you know the way, or do you want company?"

  Foster replied, "I know the way."

  "Okay," Frank said. I’ll get you started." We walked through the Customs door, and Frank announced to a few Customs types, "Federal agents here. Passing through."

  No one seemed to care, and Frank wished us good luck, happy we didn't want him to make the long walk with us to Gate 23.

  Kate, Foster, Nash, and I walked through the big Customs and baggage carousel area and down a corridor to the Passport Control booths where no one even asked us our business.

  I mean, you could show some of these idiots a Roy Rogers badge and walk through with a rocket launcher over your shoulder.

  In short, JFK is a security nightmare, a teeming cauldron of the good, the bad, the ugly, and the stupid, where thirty million travelers pass in and out every year.

  We were all walking together now, down one of those long surreal corridors that connect the Passport and Immigration area to the arrival gates. In effect, we were doing the reverse of what arriving passengers do, and I suggested we walk backwards so as not to attract attention, but nobody thought that was necessary or even funny.

  Kate Mayfield and I were ahead of Nash and Foster, and she asked me, "Did you study Asad Khalil's psychological profile?"

  I didn't recall seeing any psychological profile in the dossier and I said so.

  She replied, "Well, there was one in there. It indicates that a man like Asad Khalil—Asad means 'lion' in Arabic, by the way—that a man like that suffers from low self-esteem and has unresolved issues of childhood inadequacy that he needs to work through."

  "Excuse me?"

  "This is the type of man who needs an affirmation of his self-worth."

  "You mean I can't break his nose?"

  "No, you may not. You have to validate his sense of personhood."

  I glanced at her and saw she was smiling. Quick-witted fellow that I am, I realized she was jerking me around. I laughed, and she punched my arm playfully, which I sort of liked.

  There was a woman at the gate in a sky-blue uniform holding a clipboard and a two-way radio. I guess we looked dangerous or something because she started jabbering into the radio as she watched us approaching.

  Kate went on ahead and held up her FBI creds and spoke to the woman, who calmed down. You know, everybody's paranoid these days, especially at international airports. When I was a kid, we used to go right to the gate to meet people, a metal detector was what you took to the beach to find loose change, and a hijacking was what happened to trucks. But international terrorism has changed all that. Unfortunately, paranoia doesn't necessarily translate to good security.

  Anyway, Nash, Foster, and I went up and schmoozed with the lady, who it turned out was a gate agent who worked for Trans-Continental. Her name was Debra Del Vecchio, which had a nice ring to it. She told us that as far as she knew, the flight was on time, and that's why she was standing there. So far, so good.

  There is a standard procedure for the boarding, transporting, and deplaning of prisoners and their escorts; prisoners and escorts board last and deplane first. Even VIPs, such as politicians, have to wait for prisoners to deplane, but many politicians eventually wind up in cuffs and then they can deplane first.

  Kate said to Ms. Del Vecchio, "When you move the jetway to the aircraft, we will walk to the aircraft door and wait there. The people we're meeting will deplane first, and we'll escort them down the service stairs of the jetway onto the tarmac where a vehicle is waiting for us. You won't see us again. There will be no inconvenience to your passengers."

  Ms. Del Vecchio asked, "Who are you meeting?"

  I replied, "Elvis Presley."

  Kate clarified, "A VIP."

  Foster asked her, "Has anyone else asked you about this flight?"

  She shook her head.

  Nash studied the photo ID pinned to her blouse.

  I thought I should do or say something clever to justify the fifty-dollar cab ride from Manhattan, but short of asking her if she had an Arab boyfriend, I couldn't think of anything.

  So, the five of us stood around, trying to look like we were having fun, checking our watches and staring at the stupid tourist posters on the wall of the corridor.

  Foster seemed suddenly to remember that he had a cell phone, and he whipped it out, delighted that he had something to do. He speed-dialed, waited, then said, "Nick, this is George. We're at the gate. Anything new there?"

  Foster listened to Nick Monti, then said, "Okay . . . yes . . . right . . . okay . . . good . . ."

  Unable to entertain himself any further with this routine phone call, he signed off and announced, "The van is in place on the tarmac near this gate. The Port Authority and NYPD have also arrived—five cars, ten guys, plus the paddy wagon decoy."

  I asked, "Did Nick say how the Yankees are doing?"

  "No."

  "They're playing Detroit at the Stadium. Should be fifth inning by now."

  Debra Del Vecchio volunteered, "They were behind, three to one, in the bottom of the fourth."

  "This is going to be a tough season," I said.

  Anyway, we made dumb talk for a while, and I asked Kate, "Got your income tax done yet?"

  "Sure. I'm an accountant."

  "I figured as much." I asked Foster, "You an accountant, too?"

  "No, I'm a lawyer."

  I said, "Why am I not surprised?"

  Debra said, "I thought you were FBI."

  Kate explained, "Most agents are accountants or lawyers."

  Ms. Del Vecchio said, "Weird."

  Ted Nash just stood there against the wall, his hands jammed into his jacket pockets, staring off into space, his mind probably returning to the good old days of the CIA-KGB World Series. He never imagined that his winning team would be reduced to playing farm
teams. I said to Kate, "I thought you were a lawyer."

  "That, too."

  "I'm impressed. Can you cook?"

  "Sure can. And I have a black belt in karate."

  "Can you type?"

  "Seventy words a minute. And I'm qualified as a marksman on five different pistols and three kinds of rifles."

  "Nine millimeter Browning?"

  "No problem," she said.

  "Shooting match?"

  "Sure. Anytime."

  "Five bucks a point."

  "Ten and you're on."

  We shook hands.

  I wasn't falling in love or anything, but I had to admit I was intrigued.

  The minutes ticked by. I said, "So, this guy walks into the bar and says to the bartender, 'You know, all lawyers are assholes.' And a guy at the end of the bar says, 'Hey, I heard that. I resent that.' And the first guy says, 'Why? Are you a lawyer?' And the other guy says, 'No, I'm an asshole.'"

  Ms. Del Vecchio laughed. Then she looked at her watch, then glanced at her radio.

  We waited.

  Sometimes you get a feeling that something is not right. I had that feeling.

  CHAPTER 6

  Crew Chief Sergeant Andy McGill of the Emergency Service unit, aka Guns and Hoses, stood on the running board of his RIV emergency fire and rescue truck. He had pulled on his silver-colored bunker suit, and he was starting to sweat inside the fireproof material. He adjusted his binoculars and watched the Boeing 747 make its approach. As far as he could determine, the aircraft looked fine and was on a normal approach path.

  He poked his head into the open window and said to his firefighter Tony Sorentino, "No visual indication of a problem. Broadcast."

  Sorentino, also in his fire suit, picked up the microphone that connected to the other Emergency Service vehicles and repeated McGill's status report to all the other ESV trucks. Each responded with a Roger, followed by their call signs.

  McGill said to Sorentino, "Tell them to follow a standard deployment pattern and follow the subject aircraft until it clears the runway."

  Sorentino broadcasted McGill's orders, and everyone again acknowledged.

  The other crew chief, Ron Ramos, transmitted to McGill, "You need us, Andy?"