by David Wind
Hyte covered his microphone. “Four of them.”
“Lastly, we want a live television feed from inside the plane. One camera. Those five things are all we request.”
Hyte’s knuckles turned white on the edge of the desk. He thought of the dead flight engineer. “Your demands are unreasonable.”
“Our requests are not only reasonable, but possible. Take for instance the five million dollars. How much money are your pro-Zionist airlines losing by the closing of this airport? I’m sure they would volunteer that money themselves. Do you so easily forget the man who died because of you? There will be more if you don’t facilitate our requests.”
“If you kill the crew, you don’t fly out,” Hyte reminded him.
The terrorist laughed. “We don’t need the pilot. I am one.”
Hyte looked at Arnel. “It’s possible,” the FBI man whispered.
“We’ll need time,” Hyte said.
“You have twenty minutes to make the arrangements. Once you have this done, we will discuss a time limit to discharge our requests. Until you have made the initial arrangements, do not contact us.”
A click sounded on Mohamad’s last word. Hyte turned to Arnel. “Can you make the arrangements for what they want?”
“No. Policy.”
“Try anyway.” Hyte held Arnel’s gaze for several seconds. “And while you’re at it, find out how they got the plane.”
Hyte reached for the telephone, dreading the call he had to make. He dialed the number. “Commissioner Rutledge, this is a Lieutenant Hyte...”
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In the coach section of Flight 88, fear was the viscous bond linking the passengers together. The coach passengers and stewardesses huddled in the rearmost section of the plane. Those who found no available seats sat on the floor. There was one guard at the rear, a second in the front.
Narrow strips of gray plastique, which the terrorists removed from beneath their seats when the plane landed, outlined all the doors, including emergency exits. Clear filament trip wires ran from the plastique to detonators.
Earlier, the leader of the terrorists had made his announcement: “The brave commandos of the PLO are neither insane nor criminals. As long as all passengers follow instructions, no harm would befall you.”
No hijacker on Flight 88 acted like a madman. None recited political rhetoric, or made pointless threats. Simple instructions delivered in clear and precise tones seemed to be the rule.
One woman asked to go to the bathroom; the guard told her to use her pants, and then warned the passengers that any overt movement meant death. No one else asked to use the bathroom. No one talked.
In the first-class cabin, Rashid Mohamad closed the last of the collected passports and tossed it on the floor. The unconscious copilot remained in the cockpit. The stewardesses and the captain, their wrists bound, were on the floor in front of the first seats. Mohamad stood before them. To his left was Khamil.
Mohamad surveyed his prisoners. “Our requests have been made. As soon as they are complied with, you will be released.”
“And you will be dead,” J. Milton Prestone snapped.
The former senator had regained consciousness shortly after landing. He sat with his wrists still taped together.
“Perhaps,” Mohamad said conversationally. “But that is not your concern. Staying alive is. Should any of you decide to become a hero, all of you will die. There will be no exceptions.”
Mohamad’s eyes swept across each face, pausing only at a certain few. His gaze lingered on Cristobal Helenez, and then on Prestone. The silver-haired woman who had been Khamil’s seatmate, identified as Sylvia Mossberg by her passport, stared through glazed eyes. Mohamad wondered if her heart could take the strain.
“I will be going to the rear. No talking is permitted while I am gone.”
As he walked, he did not miss the way the gray-haired man, whose passport had disclosed him to be Jonah Graham, held his wife securely, meeting Mohamad’s eyes calmly and without fear.
It always amazed Mohamad how the ones who did not appear brave, were.
Mohamad did not notice Graham touch a leather-covered cigarette case in his breast pocket as he entered the empty middle section of the plane. The terrorist paused to look out one window. The tower was in plain view. The runways leading to it were deserted.
He was pleased. Everything was going as he had predicted. His demands had followed the rehearsed pattern, as would the negotiations that were to come. His mission would succeed, as long as the passengers did not become stupid. Sighing, Mohamad continued on to the coach section, where the smell of fear and sweat permeated the air like a foul perfume.
“I know that you are afraid right now,” he said. “If by chance you aren’t, I assure you, you have ample cause for fear. However, we are not the bloodthirsty people your newspapers make us out to be, and we would prefer that no harm came to any of you.”
A restless stir—like a ripple in a lake—followed his words. People looked hopefully at each other.
“No harm will be done to you,” he repeated, “unless your government refuses our requests—which are not unreasonable.”
“They won’t!” shouted a middle-aged man with coarse, bloated features. “They won’t give in to terrorists!”
“That would be a pity,” Mohamad said.
“You are not being rational,” a young man said in accented English. The youth, perhaps twenty, was Middle Eastern, a student. “Your fight is with the government, not with us. I and the other passengers are ordinary people. We are not the rich capitalists who are against your return to Palestine. You have the rich ones up front.”
“Your name?” Mohamad asked.
The young man paled. “Ba-Barum Kaliel.”
“Lebanese?”
The young student sat straighter. “I am from Jordan.”
Mohamad stared at him. “Barum Kaliel, you are an ignorant boy trying to bargain his life for those up front.”
A man in the first row shot out of his seat, reaching for the terrorist leader. With what seemed like an absent movement, Mohamad chopped down with his machine pistol. He caught his attacker on the forehead. The man let out a grunt as he hit the floor.
Before the passengers could react, the guards’ weapons moved to cover them. Mohamad bent over his attacker. Blood washed across the man’s forehead.
Mohamad took a roll of adhesive tape from his pocket.
“You two,” he said, pointing to the men who had been sitting on either side of his attacker, “bind his wrists and legs.”
Mohamad watched his men secure the attacker’s wrists “Pick him up. Put him inside.” He motioned toward the vacant midsection of the plane.
He told one of his men to watch them, and then looked back at the passengers. “What that man did was stupid,” Mohamad said. “It will be the last time any movement will be permitted. To show you we are not madmen, my attacker shall live.” He paused. The only noise in the compartment was the sound of the plane’s ventilation system.
When Mohamad judged his silence had made its point, he smiled at the hostages. “Because we do not wish to kill any of you, the next person who makes an overt move will have his Achilles tendons severed. He will never walk again.”
Chapter Seven
Hyte activated a stopwatch when Mohamad set the twenty-minute time limit. Eighteen minutes and forty seconds had passed.
Although the control tower room was air conditioned, Hyte’s shirt stuck to his back. A cold cup of coffee was in his right hand; he rubbed his tongue over his teeth, trying to wipe away the clinging acidic taste.
Hyte contemplated his next steps. “By the book,” he muttered under his breath. Going by the book was a multifaceted effort. First, he had to make himself sound believable and sympathetic toward the hijacker. Then he would have to make Mohamad believe that although Hyte was a cop, he understood what the hijacker was going through. At the same time, he had to talk the man into giving up.
; Special Agent Arnel hung up the phone. “No go. They won’t release the terrorists.”
Hyte knew that already but asked Arnel to try, hoping that the FBI man’s influence might help. Using the five men as negotiating pawns could get him the hostages in return.
Hyte thought of his daughter, sleeping in his bed. At least she was safe. He thought of the people on Flight 88. There were no extended families on board, only duplicated names.
Duplicated names usually meant couples. There were no notations of children. He considered that a break.
“They’re giving us no choice. We’ll have to use the Department counter-terrorist team or the government unit if they make it in time.” Hyte preferred the NYPD team.
“They’re eight fucking hours away!” Arnel shouted. The outburst was the first time the man showed any emotion. “You have to get the passengers out before your terrorist team goes in. Especially Prestone.”
“I intend to do just that,” Hyte said, his temper rising.
“Forty-five seconds, Ray,” said Sy Cohen.
Hyte exhaled. “The money?” he asked Cohen.
“They said they’ll be able to get it from the Federal Reserve Bank, if necessary. They also said it can’t leave the country.”
Nodding, Hyte met Cohen’s eyes. He knew the rules. If the hijackers took off without passengers, Air force fighters would intercept and destroy the plane. It was a contingency adopted several years before. Terrorists knew about it. That was one reason why hijackings coming into American airports were so rare. It was another part of the growing puzzle. This hijacking should never have happened here. But it had, so there must be a reason for it. A damned good reason, Hyte thought, at least from the terrorists’ viewpoint. What else was behind it, Hyte wondered, besides the obvious desire to free the five convicted terrorists and to get the money?
The radio came to life. “Lieutenant Hyte?”
Hyte went to the console. “Yes.”
“Your answer?”
Hyte closed his eyes for a moment. He had to work on Mohamad. “Rashid, I give you my word that if you surrender now, you and your men will not be harmed. Once you are in custody, you will get an attorney of your choice. You will be given a fair trial, a public forum to explain why you believed you had to hijack the plane.”
“Let me assure you, Lieutenant, the formalities of negotiation are pointless in our situation. I know every nuance and subtlety of what you are attempting. Let us dispense with them, because you will not wear me down. We follow a precise time schedule. There will be no changes. The first death was a crew member. You have one minute left to save a passenger’s life.”
Hyte studied his stopwatch. When twenty-nine seconds passed, he said, “Your demands will be met.” The next step in the negotiations was underway: Hyte had to make Mohamad believe he’d get everything he’d asked for.
“Excellent.”
“But it will take time. They have to get a bank opened. Five million dollars takes a while to count. The men in Ossining Prison will be flown here, the arrangements are being made.”
“That is only two of our requests,” Mohamad reminded him.
“We’re getting a camera crew ready.”
“And the announcements by your government?”
“They are under consideration,” Hyte said. It was his second outright lie. The announcements the terrorists demanded would not happen.
“You have three hours to comply with all our requests,” the terrorist said.
Hyte thought rapidly. Now that a time limit had been set, he had to try to change it. Win one concession and the possibilities for further concessions were good. “We need more time. It will take at least five hours to get your men out of prison.”
“It is a fifty-five-minute trip by helicopter.”
Shit! Hyte gritted his teeth. “That’s almost two hours. One to get there and one to get back. We need time on the ground to load them, and time to get their release activated.”
“Time is what I’ve given you. Three hours, Lieutenant. Remember, we have one of your statesmen. He is a very important man, is he not?”
“Everyone on that plane is important,” Hyte said, keeping his voice unemotional.
“That is a good thing for you to think. But untrue.”
“Not for me! I’ll get back to you when we’ve made the arrangements with the television crew.”
He shut off the mike and called his men to him. Charles Koenig, the head of Kennedy security, stood with Arnel just outside the semi-circle of policemen.
“Harvey, go down to the news people and brief them. Give them the usual routine: we are negotiating and everything looks hopeful. Then find a reporter we’re on good terms with and bring him to the ready room.”
After Bennet left, Hyte turned to Junior Atkins. “Has the counter-terrorist team been alerted?”
Atkins nodded. “It’s Captain Lacey’s squad. They’re waiting for the word.”
“Get him on the horn.” Hyte exhaled. Tom Lacey was the head of the counter-terrorist unit; his team was the best. He turned to the FBI man. “Will we get any help from your people?”
“I thought you didn’t want our help. Isn’t that why we were the last to be notified?”
“That was done on my authority,” Charles Koenig said.
Hyte watched Arnel’s gaze shift from Koenig to him.
“We’ll do the usual,” the FBI man said. “We’ll screen the passengers after they’re released. I’m here strictly for backup and any orders from Washington.”
Hyte nodded. Everyone would go through an intense security check to make sure no terrorist got away by impersonating a passenger.
“Lou,” Atkins called, “I’ve got Captain Lacey.”
Taking the phone, Hyte gave the head of the counterterrorist unit all the details. “I’ll need five men dressed in New York State prison uniforms to take the plane,” he said.
“Four and myself,” Thomas Lacey replied.
Hyte had expected that. “Have everyone ready. We’ll have to time it close. I’ll get back to you when I know more.”
“The commissioner,” Moran called, handing him the phone.
Hyte’s earlier call to the commissioner had been to relay the hijacker’s demands. Now Rutledge would want answers to the questions he hadn’t been able to ask earlier. “Yes, sir?”
Commissioner Rutledge’s voice was fierce. “What are the chances of getting the hostages off the plane?”
Hyte believed Rutledge was a good man. The PC had a nice relationship with the Department-something unusual for a civilian head of the NYPD without any police background.
“I don’t know at this time,” Hyte told him.
“That’s not good enough.”
“It’s the best we can do. We’ve got three hours to try and get some of the passengers out.”
“What about an extension?”
He wondered if the commissioner thought he was clairvoyant. “I don’t know. Their leader says he’s following a time schedule. We tried to stall on the prisoner release. He quoted helicopter flying time from Ossining to Kennedy.”
“Jesus!”
“Commissioner, there’s something screwy about this one.”
“All hijackings are screwy! I’ve put out a call to Chief McPheerson. He’s at one of those damned fund raisers…if you think it advisable, I can come out there.”
That was the last thing Hyte wanted. “That’s up to you, sir. We’ve got things under control, but if we have to take the plane, we’ll need the go ahead from you or the mayor.”
“It will be from the mayor. Jerome Rosenthal is on the way there. He’ll make the right recommendation to the mayor. What do you think our chances are?”
“This one’s hard to judge,” Hyte said honestly.
“You don’t think you can talk them out?”
Hyte thought back to the hijacker’s calm, confident words. “I’m not sure. Nothing about this situation is following the book, and the leader knows wha
t he’s doing. He’s a pro.”
“Do your best, and remember Senator Prestone’s value. I’ll inform the mayor of your diagnosis.”
When Hyte hung up, Harvey Bennet was standing next to him. “Did you find a news team for us?” Hyte asked.
“We lucked out,” Bennet said. “WTBC sent Dan Carson and his crew. He’s waiting for you downstairs.”
“Lou, Chief McPheerson,” Atkins called from across the room.
Picking up the phone, Hyte gave the recently appointed chief of department the same information he had given the commissioner. McPheerson told Hyte to do whatever was necessary to keep the hostages alive. “But don’t let those terrorist bastards pull your strings!”
Hyte wanted to tell the chief that Mohamad was pulling everyone’s strings. Instead, he hung up and turned to Sy Cohen. Cohen was Hyte’s backup on long sieges. They worked well together-they had ever since they’d become partners, eleven years before, when they’d spent two and a half years working out of a Precinct Detective Unit. “Take the mike while I’m gone.” He moved toward the door. “Arnel,” he called over his shoulder. “We need to speak privately.”
Arnel stepped closer to Hyte. “What?”
“Outside.” In the hall, he turned to Arnel, doing his best to keep his tone level. “I need your help.”
“For?”
“The truth. What the hell’s going on? These people don’t hijack planes into America. I keep asking myself why. I’m wondering how they knew a VIP was on the flight when, according to the Tangier authorities, Prestone didn’t anticipate being on that plane until a half hour before flight time. Are you ready to tell me about it?”
Arnel hesitated for a second. “All right. I just got confirmation that Prestone’s plane was sabotaged.”
Hyte stared into the agent’s hooded eyes, knowing that his next question was one he didn’t really want an answer to. “Why is everyone so much more concerned about Prestone than the others? Granted, he’s an ex-senator. But he’s not that important.”
