The sergeant wasn't getting a reply to his call, so he said to us, "You see that Mobile Incident Command vehicle over there? Go talk to somebody in there. They're in direct contact with the FBI and my bosses."
Before he changed his mind, we hurried off toward the Mobile Command vehicle.
I was still breathing hard, and Kate asked me, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
We both glanced over our shoulders and saw that the Port Authority sergeant was busy with something else. We changed course and headed toward the aircraft.
One mobile staircase was now in place at the rear of the aircraft, and a few Emergency Service guys were heading up the stairs followed by men and women in white, plus some guys in blue jumpsuits, and a guy in a business suit.
A gentleman never climbs a staircase behind a lady with a short skirt, but I gave it a try and motioned for Kate to go first. She said, "After you."
So we got on the stairs and went through the door of the aircraft and into the huge cabin. The only lights were emergency floor lights, probably powered by batteries. There was some illumination from the late afternoon sunlight through the port side windows. But you didn't need a lot of light to see that the cabin was about three-quarters full and that no one in the seats was moving.
The people who had entered with us stood motionless and quiet, and the only sounds came through the open doors.
The guy with the suit looked at Kate and me, and I saw he had a photo ID on his breast pocket. It was actually a Trans-Continental ID, and the guy looked awful. In fact, he said to us, "This is awful . . . oh, my God . . ."
I thought he was going to cry, but he got himself under control and said, "I'm Joe Hurley . . . Trans-Continental baggage supervisor . . ."
I said to him, "FBI. Look, Joe, keep your people out of the aircraft. This may be a crime scene."
His eyes opened wide.
I really didn't think at that point that this was a crime scene, but I wasn't totally buying the toxic fumes accident thing either. The best way to get control of a situation is to say, "Crime Scene," then everyone has to do what you say.
One of the Port Authority Emergency Service guys came over and said, "Crime scene?"
"Yeah. Why don't you all go to a door and hold up the traffic awhile until we look around. Okay? There's no rush collecting the carry-on baggage or the bodies."
The EMS guy nodded, and Kate and I moved quickly up the left aisle.
People were starting to come on board through the other open doors, and Kate and I held up our creds and called out, "FBI. Please stop where you are. Do not enter the aircraft. Please move back onto the staircases." And so forth.
This got the traffic slowed down, and people started to congregate at the doors. A Port Authority cop was on board, and he helped stop traffic as we made our way to the front of the aircraft.
Every now and then, I glanced over my shoulder and saw these faces staring into nowhere. Some had their eyes shut, some had their eyes open. Toxic fumes. But what kind of toxic fumes?
We got to this open area where there were two exit doors, a galley, two lavatories, and a spiral staircase. A bunch of people were jamming into the area, and we did our routine again, but it's hard to stop a tide of people at a disaster site, especially if they think they have business there. I said, "Folks, this is a possible crime scene. Get off the aircraft. You can wait on the stairs outside."
A guy in a blue jumpsuit was on the spiral staircase, and I called up to him, "Hey, pal. Get down from there."
People were moving back toward the exit doors, and the guy on the spiral staircase was able to get down to the last step. Kate and I squeezed our way past him, and we went up the staircase, me first.
I took the spiral stairs two at a time, and stopped as soon as I was able to see into the dome cabin. I didn't think I needed a gun, but when in doubt, pull it out. I drew my Clock and stuck it in my belt.
I stood in the dome cabin, which was brighter than downstairs. I wondered if the Emergency Service guy who had gone on board and discovered this was still on board. I called out, "Hey! Anybody home?"
I moved to the side to let Kate up. She came up and moved a few feet away from me, and I saw she hadn't drawn her piece. In fact, there seemed to be no reason to suspect that there was any danger on board. The Port Authority Emergency Service guy had reported that everyone was dead. But where was the guy?
We stood there and scoped the scene out. First things first, and the first thing was to make sure there wasn't any danger to us, and you have to check out closed doors first. A lot of bright detectives have had their clever deductions blown out of their brains while they were poking around a crime scene with their heads in a cloud.
In the rear of the dome was the lavatory to the left, and the galley to the right. I motioned to Kate, and she drew her piece from under her blazer as I moved toward the lav. The little sign said VACANT, and I pushed on the folding door and stood aside.
She said, "Clear."
In the galley, a stewardess lay on the floor on her side, and out of habit, I knelt down and felt her ankle for a pulse. Not only was there no pulse, she was cold.
Between the galley and the lav was a closet, so I covered while Kate opened the door. Inside were passengers' coats, jackets, hanging garment bags, and odds and ends on the floor. It's nice to travel Business Class. Kate poked around a few seconds, and we almost missed it but there it was. On the floor, under a trench coat, were two green oxygen bottles strapped to a wheeled cart. I checked both valves, and they were open. It took about three seconds for me to suspect that one bottle had held oxygen, and the other had held something not so good for you. Things were starting to come together.
Kate said, "These are medical oxygen bottles."
"Right." I could see she was also putting things together, but neither of us said anything.
Kate and I moved quickly up the aisle and stood at the cockpit door, which I could see had its lock smashed. I pulled on the door and it swung open. I stepped inside and saw that both pilots were slumped forward in their seats. I felt for a pulse in both their necks, but all I got was cold, clammy skin.
I noticed that the overhead hatch was open, and I guessed that the EMS guy who'd come on board had opened it to vent the cockpit. I stepped back into the dome cabin.
Kate was standing near the seats in the back of the cabin. I walked over to her and she said, "This is Phil Hundry . . ."
I looked at the guy sitting next to Hundry. He was wearing a black suit, his hands were cuffed, and he had a black sleeping mask over his face. I reached over and pulled the mask up. Kate and I both looked at the man, then finally she said, "Is that . . . ? That doesn't look like Khalil."
I didn't think so either, but I didn't have a clear image of Khalil in my mind. Also, people's faces really transform in some weird way when they're dead. I said, "Well . . . he looks Arab . . . I'm not sure."
Kate reached out and ripped the man's shirt open. "No vest."
"No vest," I agreed. Something was very strange here, to say the least.
Kate was now leaning over the guy in the seat behind Phil Hundry, and she said to me, "This is Peter Gorman."
That at least was reassuring, two out of three wasn't bad. But where was Asad Khalil? And who was the stiff posing as Khalil?
Kate was now staring at the Arab guy and said to me, "This guy is . . . who? An accomplice? A victim?"
"Maybe both."
My mind was trying to sort all this out, but all I knew for sure was that everyone was dead, except maybe one guy who was playing dead. I looked around the cabin and said to Kate, "Keep an eye on these people. One of them may not be as dead as he looks."
She nodded and raised her pistol in a ready position.
"Let me have your phone," I said.
She took her flip phone from her blazer and handed it to me. "What's George's number?"
She gave it to me and I dialed. Foster answered and I said, "George, this is Corey—just
listen, please. We're in the aircraft. The dome. Everyone is dead. Hundry and Gorman are dead—okay, I'm glad Lindley is keeping you informed. Yeah, we're in the dome, and the dome is on the plane, and the plane is in the security area. Listen up—the guy with Phil and Peter does not look like Khalil—that's what I said. The guy is cuffed, but he has no vest. No, I'm not certain it isn't Khalil. I don't have a photo with me. Kate isn't sure, either, and the photo we saw sucks. Listen . . ." My mind tried to come up with a plan of action, but I wasn't even sure what the problem was. I said, "If this guy next to Phil isn't Khalil, then Khalil may still be on board. Yeah. But he may have slipped off the plane already. Tell Lindley to tell the Port Authority guys to call their bosses ASAP and have the security area sealed off. Don't let anybody out of this enclosure."
Foster wasn't interrupting, but I could hear him mumbling things like, "Good Lord . . . my God . . . how did this happen . . . awful, awful . . ." and other genteel mush.
I said, "Khalil has apparently killed two of our people, George, and the score is Lion, a few hundred, Feds, zero. Put out an alert around the airport. Do what you can with that. What can I tell you? An Arab guy. See if you can get this whole airport sealed up, too. If this guy gets out of here, we've got a problem. Yeah. Call Federal Plaza. We'll set up a command post at the Conquistador Club. Get all of this rolling as soon as possible. And tell Ms. Del Vecchio the aircraft will not be proceeding to the gate." I hung up and said to Kate, "Go down and tell the PA cops we need the enclosure sealed tight. People can come in, but nobody gets out. Roach motel."
She hurried down the staircase, and I stood where I was, looking at the faces around me. If that wasn't Khalil next to Hundry—and I was about ninety percent certain it wasn't—then Khalil could still be on board. But if he'd acted quickly, he was already out in the security enclosure with about two hundred other people—people who had on every kind of clothing imaginable, including business suits like the Trans-Continental supervisor. And if Khalil acted very quickly, and very decisively, he was already on some kind of vehicle headed out of here. The airport barrier fence was close by, and the terminals weren't more than two miles from here. "Damn it!"
Kate came back up the stairs and said, "Done. They understand."
"Good." I said to her, "Let's check these people out."
We both moved up the aisle and examined the dozen or so male bodies in the dome cabin. One of the passengers had a Stephen King novel on his lap, which turned out to be appropriate. I got to a guy whose body was completely covered with two lap blankets. He had a black sleeping mask on his forehead, and I pulled it off and saw that the guy had sprouted a third eye in the middle of his forehead. "Over here."
Kate came over to me as I pulled the lap blankets off the body. The guy was wearing a navy blue police shirt and BDU pants. On the shirt was a Port Authority police emblem. I let the blankets fall to the floor and said to Kate, "That's got to be the EMS guy who boarded the aircraft."
She nodded and said, "What has happened here?"
"Nothing good."
You're not supposed to touch things at a crime scene unless you're trying to save a life, or if you think the perp is around, and you're supposed to use latex gloves, but I didn't even have a condom on me—nevertheless, we checked out the other bodies, but they were all dead, and they were all not Asad Khalil. We looked for, but didn't find a shell casing. We also popped open all the overhead compartments, and in one of them, Kate found a silver fire suit, fire ax, and an oxygen pack with a fire mask, all of which obviously belonged to the dead EMS guy.
Kate went back to Phil Hundry. She pulled Hundry's jacket open to reveal his belt holster, which was empty. There was an FBI badge case pinned inside Hundry's jacket, and she pulled it off, then took his breast pocket wallet and passport.
I went over to Peter Gorman, opened his jacket, and said to Kate, "Gorman's gun is also missing." I recovered Gorman's CIA credentials, passport, wallet, and also the keys to the handcuffs, which were obviously returned to Gorman's pocket after they'd been used to uncuff Khalil. What I didn't find was any extra Clock magazines.
I checked the overhead rack, and there was an attache case there. It was unlocked, and I opened it and saw it belonged to Peter Gorman.
Kate retrieved Hundry's attache case and also opened it.
We rummaged around the attache cases, which held their cell phones, papers, and some personal items, such as toothbrushes, combs, tissues, and such, but again, no extra magazines. There were no overnight bags because agents are supposed to travel hands-free, except for the attache case. As for the real Khalil, the only thing they'd let him have was the clothes on his back and, therefore, his dead double was clean, too.
Kate said to me, "Khalil didn't take any personal items from Phil or Peter. Not their passports, not the creds, not even their wallets."
I opened Gorman's wallet and saw about two hundred dollars in cash and some French francs. I said, "He didn't take Gorman's money either. He's telling us he has lots of resources in America, and we can keep the money." I added,
"He's got all the ID and cash he needs, plus his hair is blond by now, and he's a woman."
"But you'd think he'd take all this as a screw-you gesture. They usually do. They show it to their buddies. Or bosses."
"The guy's a pro, Kate. He doesn't want to get caught with hard evidence."
"He took the guns," she pointed out.
"He needed the guns," I said.
Kate nodded and put all the items in the attaché cases and said, "These were good guys."
I could see she was upset, and her upper lip was trembling.
I got on the phone again and called Foster. I said, "Phil's and Peter's guns and magazines are missing—yeah. But their creds are intact. Also, the EMS guy on board is dead—shot through the head. That's right. The murder weapon was probably one of the missing Clocks." I gave him a quick update and said, "Consider the perp armed and real dangerous." I signed off.
The cabin was getting warm now, and a faint, unpleasant odor was starting to fill the air. I could hear gases escaping from some of the bodies.
Kate had moved back to the cuffed man and was feeling his face and neck. She said, "He's definitely warmer. He died only about an hour ago, if that."
I was trying to piece this together, and I had a few pieces in my hands, but some pieces were scattered around the aircraft, and some were back in Libya.
Kate said, "If he didn't die with everyone else, how did he die?" She pulled open his jacket, but there were no signs of blood. She pushed his head and shoulders forward to check for wounds. The head, which had been resting comfortably against the back of the seat, rolled to the side in a very unnatural way. She rotated the man's head and said, "His neck is broken."
Two Port Authority Emergency Service cops came up the spiral stairs into the dome. They looked around, then they looked at Kate and me. One of them asked, "Who are you?"
"FBI," Kate replied.
I motioned the guy toward me and said, "This man here and that guy behind him are Federal agents, and the guy in cuffs is their . . . was their prisoner. Okay?"
He nodded.
I continued, "The FBI crime lab people will want photos and the whole nine yards, so let's leave this whole section as it is."
One of the guys was looking over my shoulder. "Where's McGill?" He looked at me. "We lost radio contact. You see an Emergency Service guy up here?"
"No," I lied. "Only dead people. Maybe he went downstairs. All right, let's get out of here."
Kate and I took both attaché cases, and we all moved toward the staircase. I asked one of the Emergency Service cops, "Can this aircraft land itself? Like on autopilot?"
"Yeah . . . the autopilot would bring it in . . . but . . . jeez, you think they were all dead? . . . yeah . . . the NO-RAD."
The two Emergency Service cops started talking a mile a minute. I heard the words NO-RAD, reverse thrusters, toxic fumes, something called the Saudi Scenario, and the name
Andy, who I guessed was McGill.
We were all in the open area below, and I said to one of the PA cops, "Please stand on these stairs and don't let anyone up to the dome until the FBI crime lab comes."
"I know the drill."
The curtains to the Coach and First Class section had been tied back, and I could see that the cabin was clear, but people still congregated at the doors on the mobile staircase.
I could feel and hear thumping below my feet, and I knew that the baggage handlers were clearing out the hold. I said to one of the Port Authority police officers, "Stop the unloading of the baggage, and please get everyone away from the aircraft."
We entered the First Class compartment, which held only twenty seats, half of which were empty. We did a quick search of the area. Although I wanted to get moving and off this aircraft, we were the only two Feds on the scene—the only two live Feds—and we needed to gather what information we could. As we poked around, Kate said, "I think Khalil gassed this whole aircraft."
"It would appear so."
"He must have had an accomplice who had those two oxygen bottles that we found in the closet."
"One oxygen, one not."
"Yes, I understand that." She looked at me and said, "I can't believe Phil and Peter are dead . . . and Khalil . . . we lost our prisoner."
"Defector," I corrected.
She gave me an annoyed look, but said nothing.
It occurred to me that there were a hundred easier ways for a bad guy to slip into the country. But this guy—Asad Khalil—had picked about the most in-your-face-fuck-you way I could imagine. This was one bad dude. And he was loose in America. A lion in the streets. I didn't even want to think what he was going to do next to top this act.
Kate was thinking along similar lines and said, "Right under our noses. He killed over three hundred people before he even landed."
We moved out of the First Class compartment into the open area near the spiral staircase. I said to the Port Authority cop I had asked to guard the staircase, "By the way, what's the Saudi Scenario?"
The guy explained it to Kate and me, and added, "This is something different. This is a new one."
Nelson Demille - [John Corey 2] Page 9
