by John Denis
Cody Jagger may have assumed McCafferty’s form and face, but he retained his own taste in women. Not even Stein’s genius could erase that. Jagger had rarely enjoyed success with truly beautiful and desirable women. His technique was to grab what he wanted and conquer it by sheer animal force. Of all the women Cody had known, his favourites were blondes built for comfort.
Sabrina Carver was dark, spectacular and, even in her uniform, expensive. Jeanie Fenstermaker was blonde, and a big, sexy girl behind her tinted shades.
Reverting to type, Cody grinned crookedly at Fenstermaker and said, ‘Don’t forget our dinner-date, Airman.’
* * *
McCafferty’s last conscious impression came at the outskirts of Manama, when Dunkels’ free hand advanced towards his face holding the same canister of knockout gas which had been used on him by the cab-driver.
The American awoke in a darkened room which, he later discovered, was in a house belonging to Achmed. For the mysterious Fayeed was not merely private secretary and principal aide to the Oil Minister of his native Bahrain; he was also distantly connected to Zeidan’s family, standing high enough in his favour to rate a rent-free villa inside the enormous grounds of the Sheikh’s home. As Achmed smugly described it to Dunkels, there could be few safer safe-houses throughout the length and breadth of the island.
To Mac’s astonishment, he had not been shackled, nor even tied, though he soon learned that this apparent oversight (or contemptuous neglect?) made no difference to his situation. The metal-framed window had been welded shut behind stout iron bars. A small window set high up on the wall had been jammed open to the extent of no more than three-quarters of an inch. There was no other ventilation, and just one entrance to the room; a closet door was set into the wall opposite the bed.
Mac pulled back the heavy curtain and peeped out. Through the violently hued scented blossoms trailing down the wall, a guard grinned up at him and waved a Kalashnikov rifle. McCafferty dropped the curtain back into place, then once more drew it carefully aside. The guard was still there. The gun was a Kalashnikov — a Russian infantry weapon, though freely available on the black market. And the man was not an Arab.
He heard the sound of someone opening the double-locked door. A strong beam of light swept the room, raking the empty bed, locating the only other furniture — a table, chair and wash-basin — and finding the prisoner standing before the window, shielding his eyes against the glare. Dunkels stepped in behind the torch, which Mac could now see was held by another man. The German snapped on the light-switch and ordered the guard, in a language unfamiliar to the American, to kill the torch. A third guard (armed, like Dunkels and the first man) sidled in and kicked the door shut with his heel.
‘We heard you moving,’ Dunkels said. ‘I see you’re none the worse for your — uh — experience. You may not believe it, but that actually pleases me.’
McCafferty spat out a globule of blood and made no reply. Dunkels laughed, and suggested that Mac might get used to the idea that he was worth more alive than dead. He could also speak freely in front of the guards, the German added. They did not understand English.
‘Worth more alive to Smith?’ Mac sneered. ‘If I am, you sure had a funny way of showing it back in the hut.’
Dunkels spread his hands wide in an elaborate shrug. ‘You’re still here, aren’t you? In one piece? Doesn’t that speak for itself?’
Mac grinned painfully. ‘It tells me only that you’re keeping me intact for reasons that suit you rather than me.’
‘Such as?’
To learn more from him about his role with UNACO, or on Air Force One, Mac hazarded. Or until whatever mad scheme Smith had hatched up for the President’s plane had come to its logical end — disaster. Or just to prolong the agony because Smith and Dunkels were grade ‘A’ bastards. ‘Any one of those reasons,’ Mac added, ‘or all three.’
Dunkels chuckled again. ‘Normally I’d agree,’ he countered, ‘because normally you’d be right.’
‘Not this time?’
The German shook his leonine head. ‘No, somebody else wants you alive. They’d like a chat with you too. In fact, they asked me to tell you.’
‘Did they? And afterwards? After they’ve finished their — chat?’
Dunkels shrugged again. ‘Who knows? You’re obviously valuable to them. They might get to like you.’
McCafferty looked long and hard at the sentries. He had been covertly observing them during his exchange with the German. He thought Dunkels might be telling the truth; they appeared to follow nothing that was being said. True, they had both laughed at times — but only when Dunkels laughed; and, comparatively speaking, a long time after they should have.
He returned his gaze to Dunkels. ‘So who are my newfound friends,’ he inquired acidly, ‘the ones who want so badly to chat to me?’
The German smirked. ‘Would you believe — the Soviets?’
Mac blinked and raised an eyebrow. Dunkels nodded enthusiastically. ‘Does Smith know?’ Mac asked. Dunkels smiled, very slowly. Obviously not, Mac thought. ‘And what’s in it for you?’ he pressed. Dunkels opened a hand and made scratching motions across the palm with his fingernails.
‘So you deliver me to them and cheat on Smith and they pay you lots of lovely dough?’
Dunkels nodded again. ‘You catch on, buddy,’ he grinned. He explained that, totally unexpectedly, the Russians had contacted him through an emissary at his hotel. He had already been paid sufficient money — in dollars — to persuade him that the Soviet offer was genuine.
‘It’s they who want to interrogate you, not me or Smith,’ he stressed. ‘You want to stay alive — play ball. You don’t have a choice, McCafferty. Get wise.’
He spun on his heel and left the room, the two armed men backing out after him. As the door was re-locked, Mac reflected on the two pieces of important knowledge he had gained … one of them horrifying in its implications.
If the false McCafferty was now controlled not by Smith but by the KGB, were they planning to use the ringer to double-cross Smith? And if so, could they then afford to leave the hostages alive?
McCafferty bit his lip and shook his head angrily at the sheer impotence of his position. He had priceless information within his grasp — yet he was locked up as tight as he would be if he’d been court-martialled and pulled five to ten in Fort Leavenworth.
That brought him to consideration of the second piece of intelligence Dunkels had unwittingly shown him. Not only could his guards speak no English; but, like the man he had seen outside his window, they were not Arabs.
What nationality were they, then? Mac wondered. And if he found out where they came from, could he use the knowledge?
Once again Jagger was helped by a twist of fate which he had first diagnosed as malign: yet the fact that he had encountered both stewardesses together, so forcing his hand, had actually saved him. They were standing close to each other, and as soon as the words were out and he saw Jeanie Fenstermaker’s generous mouth start to open in perplexity, Jagger switched his gaze to Sabrina Carver and repeated the injunction, ‘As I said, don’t forget our dinner-date, Airman.’
Now it was Sabrina’s turn to look bewildered. ‘You may have said it to me,’ she pointed out, ‘but you were looking at Jeanie. At least, the first time you were.’
Jagger stared at her. ‘I was?’ he queried incredulously. ‘Are you sure? Gee, I’m sorry — eh — Airman. It’s the tension of the job — you know? The spy business gets to you in funny ways. Sometimes it just doesn’t pay to be straightforward.’
Sabrina gave him a doubtful look and asked him if he would be fully recovered by the evening; just so that she could be sure she was still supposed to be going out with him. Jagger grinned easily and affirmed that he would be his old self again by the time they got to Geneva. He smiled even more broadly as he appreciated what he had said. ‘See you both later, then,’ he added, ending the encounter as speedily as politeness would permit.
> He walked quickly towards the front of the plane, still in something of a quandary. Since meeting Sabrina, he had rerun the McCafferty amours through his finely trained mind, and he was certain that her face had not appeared among the thumbnail sketches. So she must be someone McCafferty had literally only just met — and for whom he had formed an instant attraction. The trouble with that was that Jagger didn’t even know her name.
He reached the flight deck and casually leafed through his own security files until he came to the copy of Wynanski’s crew and passengers manifest. If the big blonde, whom the other had referred to as ‘Jeanie’, was Airman First Class Fenstermaker, Jean, then his date — less desirable because more inaccessible — must be Airman First Class Carver, Sabrina. Problem solved.
Not that it mattered, Jagger thought with a fleeting sneer. Neither of the girls would reach Geneva alive. Pity to waste Fenstermaker, though, he grinned to himself. She showed promise.
‘Private joke, chief?’ Cooligan inquired, spotting the sly smile.
Jagger pulled himself together. ‘Sorry again, Bert,’ he said, ‘I was looking forward to my date tonight.’
‘Ah, la belle Carver,’ Cooligan replied with relish. ‘You’ll give me a full report, of course.’
‘If you don’t see me at breakfast,’ he rejoined, ‘you won’t need a report. You can just use your imagination.’
Sabrina and Fenstermaker passed through to the stateroom at the exact moment that Sonya Kolchinsky, in the UNACO control room, saw the green dot of Air Force One shoot out a hesitant tendril on the wall map. ‘She’s away, sir,’ Sonya sang out to Philpott, nudging him gently. Philpott raised his eyes and heaved a huge sigh of relief.
‘Then drinks are in order, Sonya, my dear,’ he declared, ‘because for the moment we’re safe. Smith didn’t make his strike on the ground, where I expected him to, and if he’s going to do it while she’s airborne it’ll have to be some plan to beat the team we’ve got on board. So, for a while — let’s relax, shall we?’
He stood up and led the way into his office, turning only to remind Basil Swann that the inertial navigation system trace on the Boeing must be monitored at all times. ‘And keep in touch with General Morwood at the Pentagon,’ Philpott continued. ‘He’s cued into the actual radar-track through the radio link to Naples. That’s our double-check. Call me the moment you have even the slightest feeling of unease about anything. I don’t care if it turns out to be wrong. We have to watch this one like the proverbial hawk; there’s a great deal riding on it for UNACO.’
He and Sonya sank into deep armchairs, hers in the far corner of the room by the window, Philpott’s midway along the wall facing his desk. He sipped a Plymouth gin, with ice and water and a tiny white cocktail onion bobbing on the surface; it was an affectation he had borrowed from a very senior British sailor. Sonya drank a dry martini.
‘I wonder if we’ve been worrying too much about this one,’ Philpott mused. Sonya wrinkled her brow and made a fetching moue. ‘No,’ she decided, and took a longish pull at her drink. ‘As we agreed at the beginning, it’s got all the hallmarks of the big one for Smith. Unlike you, though, I didn’t favour a strike at Bahrain.’
Philpott stretched out his legs, regarded his gleaming black toecaps, and saluted her with his glass. ‘Geneva?’ Sonya nodded.
‘Well, we’ve taken every precaution,’ Philpott contended. ‘McCafferty’s been instructed to exercise special care right from the very instant of the approach to touch-down. The Swiss, like good little UNACO members, have been exceptionally co-operative, both in allowing our people access and giving them effective back-up — the airport, the drive to town, the hotel, the private dinnerparty — everything’s covered.
‘Every inch of the way has been vetted and will be under surveillance. Anyone scheduled to come into contact with our guests at any level has been scrutinised and passed — or otherwise; in which case they’ve been replaced. I honestly believe we have Geneva wrapped up,’ he ended, a complacent smile on his lips. He raised his glass again and toasted her impishly.
‘Always provided,’ Sonya said, ‘that Air Force One ever gets to Geneva.’
Philpott chuckled. ‘God damn it, Kolchinsky,’ he exclaimed, ‘I was just about feeling good on this one, and now you go and spoil things.’ He helped himself to another long gin, and flashed her a broad wink.
* * *
In the Boeing’s stateroom, Stewardess Carver made clear notes on her pad of the precise form of drink requested by each passenger. She ended up with Scotch narrowly winning over vodka, plus a pair of Jack Daniels and a genuine tea without milk or sugar. This would normally have represented another Jack Daniels, but Sheikh Zeidan ordered it for the twelve-year-old Feisal, so it really had to be tea.
‘OK,’ she said, smiling at the boy. As an afterthought she fished from her pocket a bar of chocolate which she offered to Feisal. ‘Helps to pass the time,’ she said brightly. The slim brown fingers of the solemn-faced little Arab boy remained daintily laced in his lap, and he looked neither at her nor at the chocolate. Then he said, ‘I regret that my medical advisers do not permit me to eat such things. But you could not have known that. You may leave.’ He spoke in perfect Southern Standard English, like a candidate for a job as a BBC announcer.
His grandfather, who was playing chess with Hemmingsway, leaned over and spoke softly to the boy in Arabic. Then he smiled apologetically at Sabrina. ‘At his age, young lady,’ he said in his rich, dark voice, ‘life is earnest indeed, not to be frittered away in mere living. Dignity is all when you are twelve. Nonetheless, what he said is true, though I cannot defend the way he said it. But my grandson does have a diabetic condition and so, naturally, cannot enjoy chocolate as other children do. It is a cross — if you’ll forgive the Christian allusion — which he has to bear.’
Sabrina flushed, momentarily unsettled. ‘I–I’m so sorry,’ she stammered. ‘Naturally I wouldn’t have suggested—’
Zeidan waved his hand in a gesture of tolerance and forgiveness, spiced with a soupçon of deprecation. ‘Please, of course not. But as Feisal said, you could not have been aware of his condition.’ He hesitated, and then ventured, ‘There is something, however, that you might be able to do for me.’
Sabrina assured him of her willingness, and Zeidan inquired if the aircraft carried a physician. Sabrina shook her head. ‘When the President’s on board, his doctor would normally travel with him, but this is a relatively short flight — so … Anyway, don’t worry about it. I am a qualified paramedic. If Feisal should need something, I’ll be glad to help.’
Zeidan smiled his thanks and said, ‘Perhaps, then, you would care to take charge of this.’ He picked up from the table before him a small tooled leather case and handed it to her. Sabrina opened its clasp, and saw the hypodermic syringes and insulin capsules. ‘I’ll be glad to, sir,’ she replied.
The ‘tea’ was served from genuine Chinese teapots — for appearances, as Wynanski explained — which were part of a set taken on at Bahrain. The ministers, Hemmingsway included, drank from delicate, paper-thin china cups, rattling now with unaccustomed chunks of ice, which had been diced into smaller, more manageable lumps by the acute Chief Steward.
The moguls, supplied with acceptable snacks by Airman Fenstermaker, whose superstructure earned admiring glances, settled down to talk oil. Jagger walked through the stateroom on one of his seemingly compulsive tours of the plane, and Sabrina gazed thoughtfully after him.
Unlike her colleague, she had not been wholly convinced by the attempts of the man whom she unhesitatingly accepted as Joe McCafferty to cover up his memory lapse in the rear passenger area. His explanation — the tension of the flight, the pressures of security — might excuse the faulty recognition, but Sabrina did not altogether accept it. She was not extraordinarily vain but, try as she might, she could not for the life of her see how anyone could confuse Jeanie Fenstermaker with Sabrina Carver.
She had casually quizzed Wynanski about McCaf
ferty, asking if the security chief was normally moody at take-off times. ‘No more than most,’ Wynanski replied, ‘but one thing’s for sure: when he’s on duty, Mac’s all business. No time for women — even one like you, the sap.’
Sabrina stood in a corner of the stateroom, a puzzled frown still clouding her face. She did not hear the soft step on the carpeted floor. Then a hand fell upon her shoulder. She jumped and wheeled round. ‘Penny for them,’ Cooligan said. She stammered an apology and confessed that she had been miles away.
Bert looked at her curiously, rubbing his chin. ‘Yeah,’ he drawled, ‘there’s a lot of it around. Seems to be an occupational hazard on this trip especially.’
‘What on earth d’you mean?’ Sabrina asked. Cooligan gave an embarrassed chuckle; ‘it was nothing really,’ he muttered, trying to play it down. Sabrina persisted, sensing something that could be important to her. Finally Bert confessed, ‘It’s just that I had much the same sort of trouble with my boss, Colonel McCafferty, on the telephone back in Manama.’
Sabrina felt the skin of her cheeks and forehead tighten. ‘On the phone? What — eh — what kind of trouble?’ Cooligan replied that it had not been anything serious. ‘I feel kind of silly talking about it now, but at the time it seemed, well, strange. He was so immersed in his thoughts that I might just as well have been talking to a brick wall.’
Sabrina weighed her words carefully. ‘Did he, by any chance, not quite — sort of — recognise you?’
Cooligan looked at her in surprise, then nodded. ‘That’s right. For a moment, it was like he didn’t know who he was talking to …’
* * *
On the flight deck, Colonel Fairman sat back in his seat and ordered Latimer to radio Naples for a position. The pilot spoke into his microphone. ‘Naples Control. Air Force One calling Naples Control. We are crossing 24 degrees East at flight-level 280 and estimating 22 degrees East at 31.’
