by Zulu, Arthur
“We are about to ask you questions . . .”
“Tough questions,” corrected Eagle-Eye, looking sternly at the erring security official.
“I am sorry, sir. We are about to ask you some tough questions. It is our tradition here at JFK to caution our passengers not to give an answer directly. You are permitted a minute to meditate before you reply because whatever you say is recorded and might provoke a tougher question. Do you understand?” one of the officials asked Cheung and his agents. The silent group merely looked at one another again and nodded.
“No, someone has to answer yes,” said the official. “We don’t accept nodding of the head as an answer in JKF.”
“Yes,” replied Cheung.
“They understand, sir,” the airport officer said to his boss.
“Now, proceed to the question stage. Your first question . . .” said Eagle-Eye, hands in pocket, inclining his head to listen.
“Why are so many of you traveling together on the same day?” one asked.
“Good,” said Maj. Eagle-Eye, who did an about turn, strutted six meters away, and came back cocking his head for an answer.
“We are diplomats,” answered Cheung, trying the same trick with the FBI.
“That won’t sell here!” shouted Eagle-Eye. “In any case, that’s an inappropriate reply. Note it as an off-point answer,” he told his officers.
Someone was writing.
“Next question? Tougher,” he said again bending his head forward.
“You are nineteen in number. I thought you were twenty. Where is the twentieth person?” one asked.
“Very good!” Eagle-Eye interjected, marched away some six meters and came back to hear the reply.
“We are only nineteen,” answered Cheung.
“Note how he answered it. He didn’t say there is no twentieth person,” Eagle-Eye said to his officials.
Someone wrote.
“You earlier said this large crate contains medicines. What is the quantity of drugs in the box?”
“Excellent!” said the major who again strutted six meters away and returned waiting for an answer.
Cheung thought hard. What would he say? He did not really know. He never thought about weight. This man and his officers must be some devils.
“Need an extra minute?” Eagle-Eye asked him, still waiting.
“I don’t know, sir,” he finally said.
“Take note of that. He doesn’t know the quantity of medicines he is taking to China,” Eagle-Eye was pointing out to his juniors.
Someone took note.
“Now sniff it. Does it really smell drugs?” Eagle-Eye instructed his officers.
They did.
“Yes, it does,” said one of them.
“Bring in the sniffer dogs to be double sure.”
They led a dog to sniff it. The dog sniffed and barked.
“Okay. Take the dog away. They need so much medicine in China. Let’s find out the weight of this drug. Bring in the scale!” commanded Eagle-Eye.
The security officials brought the scale, lifted the crate onto it and read the result.
“It weighs 210 kilograms, sir,” said one of the officials.
Now, it was getting to the last procedure. The officers had one minute to answer the final test questions from their boss. This was not current affairs but was based on the result of on-the-spot interrogation—the most difficult stage.
“How many people are inside that box?” Eagle-Eye asked his surprised officials, and marched away. Cheung and his agents looked pale.
The security officers quickly put their heads together to find out the answer before he returned.
Eagle-Eye reached six meters and strutted back waiting for the reply.
His officers were still crowded together in their consultation.
“Need extra one minute?” he asked, hands in pocket, head cocked, waiting.
“Two,” said one of them finally.
“Sure?” Eagle-Eye asked.
“Yes, sir!”
“How did you know? Show me the math.”
“An average person weighs 70 kilograms. This box weighs 210 kilograms. Minus 70 kilograms being the weight of the box. So we are left with 140 kilograms—the weight of two average persons.”
“My training has not been in vain,” said Eagle-Eye. “See me in my office after work – all of you – for your promotion papers.”
“Yes, sir!” replied the junior officers smiling—the smile of bright kids. Which security official would pass through the hands of Eagle-Eye and not have the eyes of Argus?
He now turned toward Cheung and his bewildered operatives.
“Who are those two persons in there?”
“It’s a diplomatic crate with drugs, sir,” he calmly replied.
“That is your story. Diplomats do evil things with diplomatic crates and cite immunity. Next, you are going to say we can’t open it because of immunity. Not in JFK. Not a fly! This crate must be inspected. Before then, I would have to call Washington,” he said and now marched twelve meters away.
He stood, brought out his cell phone and started thinking of who to call. He was going to break protocol. He wouldn’t call Transport secretary. Who in Washington could grant him the permission to search a diplomatic crate?
An American Nobel laureate had been kidnapped. He had to call someone who understood security, national interest, and international politics. Yes!
He was dialing a number on his phone now. He was calling Madam Victoria Pennington, Secretary of State.
“Yes, Maj. Eagle-Eye. Immunity clause. Diplomats have immunity. You can’t search the diplomatic bag. You know these things, don’t you?” the Secretary of State was saying on phone, laughing. They all knew him. She knew her answer would not satisfy him.
“But it’s a large box, Madam Secretary, not a bag,” he replied, not wanting to give up. “Weighs 210 kilograms – weight of two persons,” he added.
“Those must be two large persons,” the secretary replied.
These people in Washington need math lesson, he said to himself. He will teach her.
“Not so, madam. That is the total average weight of three persons minus one for the box, leaving two,” he said, hoping she would understand the math.
“Well, Maj. Eagle-Eye, I understand. But we are searching for one person, not two, plus immunity, okay?”
“They look suspicious, Madam Secretary,” he replied.
Eagle-Eye would never give up. Moreover, the Secretary of State wouldn’t permit him to open the crate.
“You say they are Chinese diplomats. You know the three countries we are suspecting, do you not?”
“I know Madam Secretary, but you can’t trust Chinese. We noted three inconsistencies during the questioning process,” he pressed on.
“All right, let me put you on a three-way telephone discussion with the president.”
She dialed a number.
“Hello Mr. President. Our JFK security director seeks permission to search a Chinese diplomatic bag.”
“Oh! Is that Maj. Eagle-Eye?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Eagle-Eye replied.
“Immunity. Let them go!” said the president.
“Okay, I will write it in my note.” He wrote: “Immunity. Let them go!”
“Are you satisfied, Maj. Eagle-Eye?” asked the Secretary of State.
He was not. He remembered something.
“They are nineteen in number, Mr. President, one short of the Citizens Restaurant kidnappers’ story.”
“We know you are doing an excellent job at JFK. But immunity, let them go,” said the president again who did not want to risk another diplomatic row with China.
“I’m taking notes, Mr. President, Eagle-Eye said, writing: “We know you are doing an excellent job at JFK. But immunity, let them go!”
“Are you okay, Mr. Eagle-Eye?” the Secretary of State asked again.
“Yes, Madam Secretary, thank you. And thank you too, Mr. Pres
ident.”
“Well done, Maj. Eagle-Eye,” they replied, pleased to see him go.
Maj. Eagle-Eye now walked back, this time slowly, to the checking counter where his officers and the Chinese were still waiting.
“Do we allow them to board, sir?” one of the security officials asked their boss.
He did not reply. He did not tell them what the president said. He was still looking for faults.
“I saw you at Citizens on Saturday night. Didn’t you see me there?” he asked Cheung.
The Chinese knew that this cunning man was lying and was looking for an opportunity to entrap them.
“Where is Citizens?” he asked back.
“You must be smart,” Eagle-Eye said. “You must be clever to answer my question with a question.”
He was defeated now, completely.
“Can they go?” the official asked again.
Maj. Eagle-Eye didn’t answer, but instead reached into his pocket, brought out his diary and read: “Mr. President said: ‘Immunity. Let them go!’”
Smile returned to the faces of the Chinese secret agents.
Maj. Eagle-Eye felt like crying for the first time in his life. Politicians can spoil a good job. Why did he call the Secretary of State? Maybe he should have called the Secretary of the Department of Homeland Security.
Or maybe, he should have ordered for the box to be opened without calling anyone. And damn the consequence! He may perhaps have lost the chance of winning a billion dollars. Just maybe.
His officers were shuffling and stamping papers. They had impressed him today. The good news was that Washington knew they were doing a good job. They should be told.
“Let me read you the longer version of Mr. President’s instruction,” he said. “‘We know you are doing an excellent job at JFK. But immunity, let them go!’ That is what Mr. President said,” he added, distancing himself from the order.
“We are preparing their departure papers, sir,” one official said.
“How many crew members are traveling with them?” Eagle-Eye asked.
“Four.”
“That makes twenty-three.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Note it in your record and sign it.”
“I already did, sir.”
Eagle-Eye nodded, his hands folded across his chest and his eyes still fixed on the box.
Down the runway, the propeller of the special Chinese plane slowly began to turn to begin the non-stop trans-Pacific flight to Beijing.
Chapter 7
The Chinese airplane took off, flying at an altitude of 9,000 meters with a speed of 850 kilometers per hour over the vast Pacific Ocean. It is a great distance. From New York to Beijing is 11,019 kilometers.
Once they were airborne, Mr. Cheung and his agents quickly opened the crate. The doctor stood up. Professor Muse was half awake. The doctor gave him another injection. Not too long, he became fully awake. He was weak and had to be helped to his seat on the plane. They sat him between the two women that he knew– the ladies would have to finish their job.
Then there were wild cheers and back slapping by Cheung and his operatives.
Drinks flowed. Food was served. It was a merry company. They started to recount their ordeal in Chinese – eating, drinking, and cheering.
Professor Muse looked and wondered what was happening. He had not fully come to his senses. He only had faint memories.
The professor tried to recollect his last activities before he went to sleep: He dined with the president at the White House, went to Citizens and met Cramwell and two North Korean ladies, was drinking and talking, went outside to witness arrests, and was forced into a box.
It all seemed like a dream. Now, he was on an airplane with these happy drinking people.
“Eat your food, Professor Muse. You should be hungry,” one of the ladies said. She and the other were already eating theirs.
Yes, he was hungry. He seemed to have been reminded of it, felt his stomach with his left palm, and looked at the speaker on his right and the other lady at his left.
“Why? Are you not Huizhong and Qiaohui, the wise and skillful women?” asked the professor. He was regaining consciousness now.
“Yes, we are, at Citizens. Eat your food and take your drink. We are traveling on an airplane now,” she said.
“Are we going to North Korea?” he asked.
The two women laughed.
“No,” she continued. “We are going to Beijing.”
“Beijing, China? I haven’t got a visa to China. Who put us on this flight?”
“You don’t need a visa for China when you have two beautiful wise and skillful ladies with you. Think professor, do you?”
That was the time it occurred to him that it was not a dream, not a movie. This was real. He analyzed the situation the way he would dissect a poem and came to the shocking conclusion: I have been kidnapped by Chinese secret agents!
Who facilitated this? His mind first went to Cramwell. He felt betrayed. Why? Friends can be dangerous. Cramwell arrived early with these two ladies, planned his abduction, and faked his own detention in a gatehouse!
“But why am I taken to China?” he asked the ladies.
They laughed again.
“We are interested in the Hebrew prosody,” replied the second.
At that time, the professor remembered, put his hand in his pant pocket, and started searching for the piece of paper containing the poem.
“Don’t worry. We already have it—the two-line poem. You only need to tell us the oracular,” the lady said.
The ladies laughed again. They were learning Harvardspeak.
Professor Muse was dumbfounded. It was all so clear now. It was Cramwell’s handiwork. He remembered their first telephone discussion. Cramwell had sold him out!
He looked lustfully at the semi-nude ladies, but he could go no further. He was to see and not touch. All his bed fantasies for the night evaporated. And to think that the ladies bared almost their bodies to seduce and trap him? Fear women and live long!
The airplane shook.
“But I am not the composer of the poem. How can I know the oracular?” he said, trying to be clever.
“We are your friends, professor,” she continued. “Don’t play smart. We must warn you before we get to Beijing. We know everything about the Methuselah poem – from the discovery at the Aegean Sea, through the Mediterranean Sea search, up to Gibraltar to the Atlantic Ocean, and the two attempts to recover the film in a sunken United States Navy ship, up to recovery at the Arctic Circle, to Professor Daniel and his team at Stanford who did the translation, up to your interpretation in Washington. Just explain the poem to us and we will treat you like a king– better than the Americans. So eat and drink, professor. You are safe.”
The plane shook again.
Professor Muse was amazed at what they knew. He did not have half that information. These people knew so much about this project. He had been assured. He had no option than to co-operate.
Slowly, he began to eat his food. The ladies smiled at him. The other agents looked and laughed. They had caught a big fish!
The professor was amused that all these people had been flown in from China in a special aircraft to hunt for him because of a poem. He shrugged his shoulders. He hated spies. He continued eating.
The plane shook again.
The Chinese president and cabinet, including the security chiefs had been in a celebratory mood ever since Cheung notified them of their successful take off. So they were equally drinking and dinning in Beijing. They were sure to get this tree of life, therefore, sustaining the dreams of their ancestors.
Security at the Beijing airport had been beefed up. The landing of the aircraft was to be kept secret – nobody was supposed to see or photograph anyone in the group, including the treasured professor.
A large party had been arranged for the team on arrival. Nevertheless, they were still far off. The plane was yet to appear on the radar screen in Beijing ai
rport.
Meanwhile, the aircraft had been flying through stormy weather. The strong winds had been rocking it as it went. Only the pilot and co-pilot knew this. The jolly passengers knew nothing.
Apparently, the lashing storm had created a hole in the fuel tank, and it had been leaking not long after takeoff. They had enough fuel for the journey, but this leakage had depleted much of it.
The airplane was now flying over Midway Island near the International Date Line. That would have been the natural place to do an emergency landing. However, it was out of the way because it is a United States island. So the pilot kept going.
It shook again.
By now some of the passengers had begun to notice the rocking of the airplane. The pilots should be on top of whatever situation it was, they thought. Yet, the pilots were just keeping a bold face.
The situation worsened over the East China Sea. The plane appeared on the radar screen in Beijing then. The air controllers saw that the aircraft was in danger. The air force and airport personnel were preparing for the worst.
The worst came when the plane reached the Yellow Sea. A little hole had become a big one and the plane was roaring. The pilots informed the two air hostesses of the danger.
One of them stood and began addressing the startled passengers: first in Chinese, and then in English for the benefit of the professor. She was giving them emergency exit instructions.
The plane was about to crash . . .
There is a river which rises from the Tibetan plateau cutting across China and emptying itself into the East China Sea at the Chinese town of Shanghai. This is the 5,150-kilometer-long Yangtze River also called Chang Jiang—the third longest river on earth.
The river—and its numerous basins—is a major contributor to China’s economy. The Three Gorges along the river is a source of tourist attraction to tourists. Fishing is a common activity in the Golden waterway. To prove that he was man enough, 73-year-old Chairman Mao swam across the river at Wuhan in 1966.
Fishermen were in their fishing boats catching fishes at the Yangtze River Basin, the first turn of the river at Yunnan province. They looked up. A noisy plane was hovering above their heads. Before they could say “Golden waterway,” it crash landed on the basin. The bewildered fishermen abandoned fish catching and became fishers of men.
