COPS SPIES & PI'S: The Four Novel Box Set

by David Wind

  Junior Atkins drove cautiously toward the plane. Hyte knew that the hijacker expected Hyte, or someone like him. An irrational spark of admiration rose. He quenched it with a dose of reality. The man was good, but he was a killer. There could be no admiration.

  Hyte thought about the little girl in the plane. A seven-year-old alone would be terrified. Then he thought about his daughter, Carrie, safe in bed.

  When the bus stopped fifty feet short of the plane, Hyte turned to Atkins. “Your job is to cover the passengers. Nothing else. Understood?”

  Atkins nodded. The lines at the corners of his eyes told of his tension.

  He and Billy Meadows stepped down from the bus. In full view of the hijacker who was standing on the upper step of the ramp, Hyte and the cameraman stripped.

  Hyte wore blue briefs. The cameraman wore white. They appeared luminous against the cameraman’s deep brown skin. Hyte refused to acknowledge his near nakedness. It was a vulnerability he was sure the hijackers were counting on. A man almost naked could be a man defenseless.

  He motioned to Meadows, who picked up the camera and pointed it toward the doorway. Hyte lifted the spools of cable and a large toolbox and started toward the plane. They moved to a position at the foot of the ramp.

  The terrorist looked down at them. When he was satisfied, he motioned to the passenger beside him. The man started down the steps. Behind him the next hostage emerged, and then the next. They moved with jerky, hesitant steps.

  While the cameraman filmed, Hyte studied each face.

  Fright was paramount; relief had not yet arrived. When the first passenger’s foot reached the ground, he sighed.

  “Move to the bus. Quickly!” Hyte ordered.

  Behind him, the next hostage followed more swiftly.

  Hyte counted each coach passenger and crewmember. Seventy-nine. The number was wrong. There were eighty passengers and five crew listed as part of the coach section. Were there more terrorists than he thought, or more dead passengers? Where was the child? Hyte looked up. Only the gunman remained in the opening. The last person off the ramp was almost abreast of him. It was a stewardess. Hyte stopped her.

  “The little girl?” he asked.

  Hyte watched the way her amber eyes darted fearfully back toward the plane. “She’s in first class.”

  “The hijackers took her?”

  The woman shook her head. “No, the captain put her there when he saw she was alone.” She drew in a shallow breath. “He thought he was doing something nice.”

  “Are there any more?”

  She nodded. “One man was hurt,” she whispered, then walked toward the bus. Hyte tapped Meadows on the shoulder and they started to the ramp.

  “Wait!” the gunman commanded.

  Hyte and Meadows froze. Three figures emerged from the doorway. Two men carried a third. He appeared semiconscious.

  It took two minutes to maneuver him down the stairs.

  “Shot?” Hyte asked, concerned by the man’s bloodied face.

  The man on the left shook his head. “He tried to rush one of them. They hit him with a gun.”

  The speaker was a young man. A student, Hyte guessed, of Middle Eastern origin. “Get him to the bus.”

  Hyte recalculated. The three brought the total to eighty-two. The girl would have been the eighty-third. That placed two of the terrorists as coach passengers. There would be two more terrorists from first class. All told, fourteen hostages remained with five terrorists.

  The gunman motioned for Hyte and Meadows to come up. Hyte held the cameraman back. He waited until the last three men were on the bus.

  “Okay, Billy. Shut off the camera and let’s keep it cool.” Meadows started up the steps. Hyte followed five feet behind with the cable in one hand and the toolbox in the other. Inside the toolbox was the portable field telephone. The gunman backed into the plane.

  Hyte saw plastique spread around the door. An electronic detonator was set in the beige strips. He felt the pulsing of his blood through the artery in his neck. Within the airplane was a concert of sound: the low whoosh of the ventilation system, the hesitant whisper of Billy Meadows’s breathing.

  Two men stood on guard before him. One held an Uzi.

  The other, a bearded man, held a Mac-10. There was more plastique molded to two emergency window exits. Well planned, well prepared, Hyte told himself again.

  The bearded man moved toward them. “Place your equipment on the floor and step back five feet. Keep your hands on the top of your heads. Do not move after that.”

  It was Mohamad’s voice, but the timbre seemed different in person. Hyte stared at the terrorist, memorizing his face. The plane was stifling.

  Mohamad bent over the minicam, inspecting it carefully before going to the cable coils and separating them. Then he opened the toolbox.

  Mohamad took out the field telephone, turned it over, and checked it carefully before putting it down. He took out the tools and inspected each one. Then he ran his fingers along the toolbox’s interior. Satisfied, he stood and faced the two men.

  “You may lower your hands. Bring the equipment forward. Suli,” he called over Hyte’s shoulder, “remain at the door. They will not try to shoot you.”

  Meadows picked up the camera. Hyte put everything back into the toolbox and followed Mohamad and Meadows forward, letting out cable as he moved. Another gunman followed.

  Hyte’s nerves hummed. He pictured the muzzle of the Uzi centered on his back. He knew how large an exit hole it would open in his chest, if the man fired.

  He noted two more sets of plastique charges rigged in the midsection of the plane, and guessed they’d rigged the cargo doors as well.

  Too damned thorough! Again came a reluctant spark of admiration. This time he accepted the feeling for what it was—admiration—not for the man, but the method.

  He looked at the cameraman’s back. Meadows was sweating as profusely as he was; but Meadows moved steadily forward.

  When they entered first class, the passengers turned almost in unison to look at them. Hyte took inventory: His calculations had been right— nine first-class passengers plus the crew and the little girl. He recognized the Grahams from Rosenthal’s description. He glanced at the little girl. Staring vacantly ahead, her mouth open and slack, she showed all the signs of psychological shock.

  Mohamad held his palm forward. “That will be far enough. Hook up the camera so it will pick up everything in front of it.”

  “Where?” Meadows asked.

  “Find a place,” Mohamad snapped. “Do it quickly.”

  “Can we hang it from one of those?” Hyte asked Meadows, pointing to the overhead storage compartments.

  Meadows studied it for a moment. “It’ll work. But I need something to hang it with.”

  “A belt?” Hyte suggested.

  “Two,” Meadows replied.

  Hyte looked at Mohamad.

  “There are canvas straps in the galley,” said one of the stewardesses. Hyte estimated her age in the late thirties. She was scared, but holding up well. Her training had been good.

  “Get it,” Mohamad ordered her.

  Hyte glanced at Mohamad, wondering if the terrorist was losing his calm. There were several valid reasons for his thought. Mohamad was facing new and unknown people. He had given up a large number of hostages.

  While they waited for the stewardess, Hyte bent over the toolbox.

  “Don’t,” Mohamad ordered in a calm voice.

  Hyte straightened. He looked at the terrorist leader. “The field phone?”

  Mohamad stared at him for several seconds. His eyes bored into Hyte. “Pass it down.”

  Jonah Graham caught Hyte’s eye. The older man’s right hand tapped lightly on the cigarette case in his shirt pocket. It seemed to Hyte that Graham was trying to give him a message. Unable to decipher it, he handed Mohamad the phone just as the stewardess returned with two canvas straps.

  “To use the phone—”

  Mohamad
cut Hyte off abruptly. “We use them all the time. We are neither stupid nor ill equipped. Get on with your work.”

  Hyte looked at Meadows. He had slipped the straps into the carrier. Hyte took a hole punch and two half-inch bolts from the toolbox and handed a wrench to the cameraman.

  After a minute and a half’s work, Meadows motioned with his head for Hyte to slip the camera into its new harness.

  “You can let it go,” Meadows said.

  Hyte released his hold. The camera swiveled left, stopped, swiveled right—a dying horizontal pendulum swing. The front hung slightly lower than the back. Meadows moved around it. Then the cameraman levered himself up to look through the viewfinder.

  “Hold the front up a half inch,” he told Hyte as he undid the bolt.

  While Hyte cantilevered the camera, Meadows made another hole and drew the strap up. After he bolted it, he motioned for Hyte to release the camera.

  “There is a microphone?” Mohamad asked.

  “It’s built into the unit.”

  “What else must you do?”

  “Rig the wire and test the camera.”

  “Get it done,” Mohamad ordered.

  Hyte took a large roll of two-inch duct tape. He and Meadows taped the wire to the carpet, following the center of the aisle. As they worked their way to the rear, Hyte again studied the layout of the plane. He calculated how much plastique they’d used, and noted the style of the detonators.

  It wasn’t going to be easy if they had to storm the plane. When they reached the rear door they stood, their knees covered with dirt. “Let’s check it out,” Meadows said to Hyte.

  They returned to first class. “I’m turning the camera on,” Hyte told Mohamad. “We need verification that it’s working.”

  Mohamad picked up the field phone and turned his back on Hyte. The terrorist spoke in a low voice. He turned back suddenly, staring at Hyte and the television technician.

  “Who are you?” Mohamad said into the phone.

  Hyte visualized Cohen talking in level tones, introducing himself. There would be no emotion from Cohen. No tension. He saw Mohamad relax slightly.

  “Very well. Is there a picture?” Mohamad was silent for a moment. Then he hung up. “It is working.”

  Meadows sighed. He stepped back.

  Hyte looked around again. His gaze paused briefly on Senator Prestone. The man didn’t look good.

  “You may go,” Mohamad said. It wasn’t a request.

  “And remember, we keep our promises. All of them.”

  Hyte motioned for Meadows to start out, but before Hyte could leave, Mohamad said, “Wait!”

  Hyte stood absolutely still, his eyes locked on the terrorist.

  “I want you,” Mohamad said, his eyes narrowing on Hyte, “to tell Lieutenant Hyte that I gave him the coach passengers. Tell him I am dealing in good faith, and I will accept nothing less! Tell him I anticipate his meeting all of my requests. Is that understood?”

  “I’m just a tech,” Hyte said, giving his voice a nervous edge. “Why don’t you call him yourself?” Hyte pointed to the field phone.

  Mohamad smiled. “The man I spoke with a moment ago said Hyte was…ah, unavailable. If I must use an intermediary, it shall be you. However, I would wager that by the time you return to the control tower, Lieutenant Hyte will be there as well. Don’t you agree?”

  He knows! Stick to the rules, Hyte reminded himself to act out Mohamad’s game. To admit who he was would be to play into the terrorist’s hands. “I’ll tell him. May we leave now?”

  Mohamad lifted his machine pistol, pointed it at Hyte, and nodded.

  Chapter Nine

  “That was a little too close,” Sy Cohen said. “I thought he was going to keep you on board.”

  Hyte waved off Cohen’s words. “He wanted me to know he wasn’t fooled by my act. He didn’t want a professional as a hostage. That would be a major risk on his part.” Hyte looked around the ready room. The television equipment was set up on the far wall. A thirteen-inch RCA monitor sat on a table. A Sony one-inch reel-to-reel video tape machine was next to the monitor with a separate audio control board hooked into the tape machine. A gaunt television technician hovered over the equipment. Hyte had decided to tape everything.

  The camera that he and Billy Meadows had placed in the plane was the type of mini-cam used for undercover investigative coverage. It featured a wide-angle lens and a highly sensitive miniature microphone that could pick up the sound of a pin hitting the floor; the picture tube designed for low-light situations.

  A second monitor resided on Hyte’s desk, giving him a complete view of the first-class cabin. A separate speaker, wired to the sound control board, had its volume set high enough to hear any sound inside the plane.

  At present, Mohamad stood against the front bulkhead. A minute before, he’d been pacing restlessly. Another terrorist stood off to the side. He was about three feet from Captain Haller, who was sitting on the floor in front of the lavatories, hands tied behind him. The other two terrorists were not on camera. Hyte guessed they were in first class, but behind the mini-cam.

  On Hyte’s desk was a diagram of the interior of the plane. He’d penciled in the names and locations of the hostages by using the passenger manifest and visual identification.

  Hyte looked at the third row. Jonah Graham was holding his wife’s hand. Across the aisle were the Moffertys. Behind the Moffertys lay the unconscious form of the copilot. The stewardesses were exactly where Hyte had seen them last, behind the Grahams.

  The little girl was still behind the stewardesses, huddled against the side of the plane, under a blanket.

  Hyte had spoken with Captain Lacey of the counterterrorist squad and had given him the locations of the hostages, explosives, and detonators.

  Lacey had been worried about the plastique. “We’ll have to have the door opened for us—from the inside,” he’d said. “Or we’ll have to blow a hole in the fuselage.”

  Hyte looked at his watch. There were two hours left.

  “Why didn’t they ask for a television set?” Dan Carson said. “Without a set, how can they know if we’re complying with their demands?” Carson looked from Hyte to Cohen, and then to Arnel.

  Sy Cohen shrugged. Arnel made no movement other than to raise his eyelids a fraction of an inch higher.

  Hyte had been working himself through the same question, worrying at it with every spare second he had. Now he took the time to think about the hijackers’ motives. Their main goal had to do with Prestone. Their other objectives were the five convicted terrorists and the money. He rubbed his eyelids. The stinging did not lessen. He was thinking in circles and knew it.

  Something was wrong. What?

  Out of the maelstrom of his thoughts, a vagueness solidified. One second he had nothing; the next, the answer was his. He lifted his head, opened his eyes. Oh, they were smart! They asked for a live feed, but knew it would end up as a looped circuit. If they had a television set, the only picture they would see would be the one of what they were doing. They were self-contained. They had no contact with the outside world. Their demand for public acknowledgement meant nothing, for it would be all too easy to simulate a newscast for them. Even their demand for amnesty was an expected gesture—it was an accepted part of a hijacking.

  “We don’t have to worry about political demands, or the amnesty. Mohamad’s plan is all nerve and egotism. The reason he hijacked the plane to New York, instead of staying in the Middle East, is that he wants to get his allies out of our prison, take our money, and use Prestone to get us to withdraw from any involvement in the peace talks between the moderate faction of the PLO and Israel. To do that, he must negotiate directly with us, not through a foreign government.”

  “Can you risk that?” Rosenthal asked.

  Hyte nodded. “That’s why they didn’t ask for a television set. He knows there won’t be a live feed. He wants the camera because he knows that whatever happens will eventually get on the tube. To
morrow, the next day, whenever. It’s a big story—it’s living history. The first time the public sees a hijacking from the inside. It’ll get out. That’s what they’re counting on.”

  “Possibly,” Arnel admitted. There was still no emotion on his face.

  Harvey Bennet entered the ready room. “The press wants you to talk to them.”

  Hyte looked at Rosenthal. “You go.”

  “They’ve had enough of me. It’s your turn, Ray.”

  Hyte glanced over his shoulder at the plane. He looked at the monitor. Nothing had changed. “Come with me anyway,” he told Rosenthal. Both men went outside.

  <><><>

  Only Emma Graham and three others remained in the VIP lounge. Two men and a woman. The rest had gone to the customs waiting area to greet their loved ones.

  When the announcement came that the hijackers were releasing the coach passengers, a couple standing next to her began crying. Earlier, she heard them telling an airline official their adopted daughter was on the flight. It was the first time she had left her country.

  Emma stared at the television set and studied the man standing next to Jerome Rosenthal. He was about the same six-foot height as Jerome, and she guessed he was in his late thirties or early forties. He had a prominent cleft in the center of his chin. His face was angular and etched with strength. He looked capable, this Lieutenant Hyte. He had a good rich voice. He spoke intelligently. It was obvious that he was well educated.

  He gave her a little more confidence. But she was still afraid for her parents. Turning, she went to the Trans Air ground attendant.

  “How far is the control tower from here?”

  He told her where it was. “They won’t let you in.”