by John Denis
The voice of the controller at the Naples base came cradling back to them in measured, stilted English. ‘Rover, Air Force One, I have you on my screen. Call at 22 degrees East.’
A few hundred miles away, another aeroplane sat at the furthest edge of a runway which pointed like a finger at the Adriatic Sea.
All was dark around the unlit bulk of the plane, made darker by lowering clouds. The aircraft was little more than the suggestion of a shadow on the ground.
Suddenly the lights of a dozen motor-vehicles — cars, jeeps and a small pick-up lorry — flooded the scarred runway with radiance, picking out the gravel and dust motes dancing lightly among the weeds in the stiff breeze.
The aircraft’s engines boomed into life, and the Boeing taxied out into the pool of illumination.
SEVEN
There could be no mistaking the size, the conformation, the livery of the plane — the stars and stripes on the flag, the Presidential insignia, the ‘United States of America’ legend — nor the white fuselage, the blue-black nose and pale-blue underbelly and engine-cowlings, perched on the silver wings.
It was Air Force One. Or at least, as with Jagger’s resemblance to Joe McCafferty, to all intents and purposes it was Air Force One.
Which was good enough for Mister Smith, seated in his car at the seaward end of the runway, watching the mighty liner speed towards him preparing to take off.
Finding the airstrip — miraculously built in 1944 to a length of 4500-plus feet for the newly launched German ME262 jet-fighters — had been the first vital contribution of the Russians when Smith had invited the KGB into a tenuous partnership. For the airstrip — long since abandoned and overgrown — was on the flat, low-lying Dalmatian coast of Yugoslavia between Zadar and Sibenik, and Smith had become convinced early on in his planning that the theft of the President’s Boeing could only be achieved from an Eastern bloc state. And even post-Tito Yugoslavia was closed territory to Smith.
But not to the Russians. They had been able both to locate the sort of runway he needed, and to provide the help he would require to clear it and man it. The vehicles on the runway, and the men in their driving-seats, plus the sentries who even now guarded the real Joe McCafferty in Bahrain — they were all recruited from the same ultra-Left partisan group whose headquarters were in the nearby mountains.
Set up and funded by the KGB, they were pledged to return Yugoslavia to the orthodox Communist fold. By infiltration, acts of terrorism and agit-prop, and intimidation in the classic pattern, they were some way along the road to success. They would also provide the troops Mister Smith would use to keep authority at bay while he carried out the final phase of his plan — the collection of the ransom for the OPEC ministers. Though there had been precious few signs of interference from the authorities so far, Smith thought. The KGB again?
The aircraft had been obtained by Smith legally. It was indeed a Boeing 707, but not what the USAF would call a stratoliner. Instead, he had searched for, and found, an old cargo-freighter, its useful life now almost at an end. She suited Smith’s purpose to perfection; he had bought the plane cheaply, and had her resprayed and painted, though not restructured.
The Boeing passed Smith’s car dragging its gigantic shadow in its wake. The noise was horrendous, starting as a raucous whine and rising through a crescendo to a staccato rattle, then dying out over the water in a series of massive, reverberant booms as the liner left the ground and soared into the night.
Mister Smith stroked the knee of the girl beside him, his willing servant from the castle. ‘Now,’ he said in English, ‘it’s up to the Russians and their clever little friends in Italy. Why don’t we return and await developments, my sweet Branka?’
Apart from her name, the girl hadn’t understood a single word, but she smiled and covered his hand with hers. His intentions were plain enough, anyway …
* * *
The man code-named Myshkin paced the radio room in the Soviet Union’s Zurich embassy, listening intently to the running commentary from the operator, headphones clasped to his ears, who was translating from the Serbo-Croat of his informant in Belgrade.
Myshkin looked at his watch, and then met the eye of Axel Karilian, who had been bending over the radio operator, making notes on a pad. Karilian’s thick lips parted in a vulpine smile. ‘Congratulations, Comrade,’ he said, ‘everything is going according to plan … our plan, that is, though Mister Smith is still convinced it’s his.’
Myshkin’s eyelids in their slightly epicanthic folds quivered in agreement. It was a gesture, Karilian had noted, that often passed for extreme enthusiasm in Myshkin. Where other men might practically dislocate their necks in nodding vigorous approval, Myshkin would merely compress his prissy lips and flutter his eyelids. It was an oddly menacing habit; not feminine, as it might sound, but serpentine and secretive.
‘I must confess,’ Karilian admitted, ‘that I don’t much relish the idea of McCafferty being around a minute longer than is necessary for our purposes. He’s a constant threat to us. His capacity for danger will cease only when he is dead.’
Myshkin frowned. ‘I’m half inclined to agree with you,’ he said, ‘but McCafferty knows things which are important to us, both about UNACO, whom we can never really trust though we help support them, and most of all concerning the USAF, the Pentagon and Air Force One.
‘Do you realise what we have done, Axel?’ Myshkin said, his voice rising by a carefully adjusted semi-tone in something dangerously close to excitement. ‘We have captured a full Colonel of the United States Air Force without their actually realising it. We can hold him and milk him dry, and they may never even know we have had him.
‘After all, why should they? He’ll still be with them, effectively, as the sole survivor and undoubted hero of the Air Force One hijack — the man who defeated the master criminal that UNACO couldn’t catch.’
Karilian raised his bushy eyebrows at this. ‘Huh?’ he grunted. ‘Since when did that become part of the plan?’
Myshkin smiled, and not for the first time Karilian felt prickles of fear probing his body like acupuncture needles.
‘Moscow considers it advisable,’ he replied. ‘And why not? Should Smith get in our way, or prove to be an embarrassment, who says he necessarily has to survive? We don’t need him,’ Myshkin went on softly.
‘Jagger will have plenty of assistance, provided by us and responsive to our direction, so that when Smith least expects treachery — at the moment of his seemingly complete triumph — how easy it will be for Jagger to — um — dispose of him, and hand over the ransom to us. I’m sure the KGB will find equally practical uses for it — wouldn’t you say, Axel?’
Axel would. He chuckled warmly. Not because he wanted to, but because he felt he had to.
* * *
During the hours he spent in the darkened room, McCafferty had been allowed out only twice: once to relieve himself, and again, as night fell, to walk in the garden, always under heavy escort. Not just human escort, either: the Arab Selim kept an unkempt, savage Alsatian on a thick chain, long enough to wind several times round the man’s waist before clipping on to the collar of the fierce dog.
The villa, Mac saw, was a two-storey house set in its own defined plot of land within the palace grounds. Traffic noise indicated that it must be near a road, and he calculated that the high wall at the end of the garden formed the perimeter both of the villa and of the royal residence. His room — the only one with a barred window — was on the first floor, facing front.
McCafferty had spotted three other bedrooms and two bathrooms, and imagined the usual reception suite on the ground floor. The accommodation fitted the number of men guarding him: one on patrol in the garden, one outside his door — these were both as yet unidentified foreigners — plus Selim and his evil dog, and Dunkels. The guards, Mac thought, probably bunked in together.
However hard he tried, the American could see no way of escape. There were no unplugged loopholes, no weak links.
Wearily, despondently, still nursing his cuts and bruises, Mac returned from his second excursion and heard the door of his room double-locked behind him.
Then came another sound — a familiar one but not, he was positive, previously heard by him since his arrival at the villa. The telephone rang in the hall downstairs.
After a few moments, the key grated in the lock and the door swung open. Dunkels followed the same routine as before, allowing the guard’s torch to locate McCafferty, and then turning on the shaded light-bulb from the wall switch. Mac, for what the German called ‘security reasons’, was forbidden to touch the switch. He deduced that the house could be seen from the road, and Dunkels would not risk the chance that the American could use the light to flash an appeal in Morse.
Dunkels seemed in good fettle. ‘I have news for you, McCafferty,’ he announced. ‘You’ll be getting out of here shortly. Some — uh — “friends” of mine will come to take you away, by sea I gather, to a place which is, shall we say, more compatible to their interests. Also you’re to lose a couple of your faithful attendants. I’m told by Mister Smith that they’re needed back in — eh — back at our operational base, where someone’s shorthanded.’
With a sweep of his hand, Dunkels indicated the two guards, who grinned uncomprehendingly. McCafferty replied, in Russian, that he would be glad to see the back of them, since they stank like pigs and put him off his food.
Before Dunkels could stop him, the younger of the two guards sprang forward, bawled obscenities at Mac in his native tongue, and crashed his rifle butt into the American’s face.
Dunkels grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him away roughly. Mac had swivelled his head at the last moment and the Kalashnikov caught him only a glancing blow, but it was enough to raise fresh blood from an old wound and set his head ringing with pain. Stars exploded before his eyes, and he dabbed at his raw cheek with a soiled handkerchief.
He grinned crookedly but triumphantly behind the rag, though, for his gamble had paid off. He had banked on the sentries understanding either Russian or German since, from their speech and appearance, they seemed more likely to be Central European than to belong to any more remote ethnic group. And while McCafferty was nowhere near even Dunkels’ class as a linguist, he had long ago learned to swear succinctly in something like fifteen languages. For a constant world-traveller, it was convenient to know when foreigners were displeased with you.
The guard had played straight into his hands: the richly obscene oaths hurled at Mac were the only half-dozen words of Serbo-Croat the American knew, but now he could be certain of a Yugoslav connection.
Yugoslavia fitted the Boeing’s schedule, too, lying just off-course of the safest route Fairman would choose for Switzerland: overflying the friendlier states of Arabia into the Mediterranean, and up one side or the other of Italy to cross the Alps. If Smith wanted to snatch the President’s plane, McCafferty reasoned, then Yugoslavia, with its crypto-Soviet presence, would make an ideal launch-pad for the hijack.
Dunkels smoothed the ruffled feelings of the guards and turned back to the American, his face a mask of barely controlled anger. ‘That was smart, McCafferty,’ he hissed, ‘but whatever you’ve learned, the knowledge will do you no good. There’s still no escape from here and, as I said, you’ll be gone before long in any case.
‘However, since you appear to want to play games, we’ll leave you someone to play with. He’s very friendly, I’m told — as long as you don’t upset him.’
While Selim slowly unwound the heavy chain from his waist, one of the guards hammered a six-inch staple into the jamb of the door. Selim clipped the Alsatian’s collar to the hook, and leered at McCafferty. ‘The chain’s long enough for him to reach all over the room,’ the Arab said. ‘I wouldn’t move, if I were you. It’s long past his dinner-time, and we don’t seem to have any dog food left. I’ll leave the light on; then at least you’ll be able to see him coming.’
He slammed the door and locked it. The dog stood glowering at Mac, who lay rigid on his bed, fixing the animal with an unwavering stare. Finally the dog gave in, yawned prodigiously, and settled down on its stomach, chin resting on paws. Its eyes stayed open, and its tongue roamed over its sharp white teeth.
Mac heard the front door shut and a car start up. Dunkels’ voice came to him through the little fanlight. ‘Keep an eye on him, Selim,’ the German said, ‘I’ll take these two to the airport, and be back in half an hour or so.’
One guard remained, then, Mac reflected: the Arab. And his friend the Alsatian. He stirred restlessly, and the dog was on its feet in a flash, baring its teeth in a warning snarl.
If Mac was going to make a bid for freedom, he had half an hour — no more. And first he must deal with Selim’s dog.
* * *
Fairman fussed and fumed as the aircraft wound its undulating route to the west, following a wiggling snake trail which was anything but the arrow-straight path the Commander would have wished.
The Boeing was never forced to deviate outrageously, but when Fairman filed the flight plan he had been uncomfortably aware that he was permitted to overfly certain territories solely because of the passengers he carried, and denied others because of the plane he was flying. Indeed, if it had been merely the President of the United States on board, Air Force One would have had to follow a vastly different and even more complicated course.
The Boeing’s Commander swore mildly in sheer relief as the plane crossed the frontier into friendly Egypt. Latimer, the pilot, let the sardonic smile which had been marring his Italianate Renaissance good looks since take-off, stay on his face. He adjusted course for Suez, spanned the Canal keeping Port Said to starboard and Cairo to port, and sailed out into the Mediterranean over Alexandria.
He saw the waters gleaming darkly below him, and heard Fairman broadcast a brief scene-set to the EDPs in the stateroom, who seemed to be drinking tea like it was going out of fashion.
Latimer spotted Crete looming up to starboard, and altered direction to follow the flight plan: proceeding not up the Adriatic past the Balkan states, but flying over Sicily and taking the Mediterranean sea-route all the way up the coast of Italy, entering Italian air-space at Genoa and traversing Piedmont to begin the descent to Geneva.
The ‘identikit’ Air Force One, meanwhile, also had the hazy blur of Crete roughly in its sights to port as it sped down the Adriatic below the radar screen, on a course which would only briefly parallel that of the President’s Boeing — but it would be long enough for Smith’s master plan to work.
In a rest room cabin behind the flight deck of the genuine AF One, next to the forward galley on the starboard side of the plane, Cooligan, a brace of engineers and Jagger played five card draw poker for modest stakes. It was not something which McCafferty normally encouraged, yet — as Cooligan noted with surprise — the security chief himself had suggested the game. Another instance of untypical procedure by the Colonel to nag at the Secret Service agent’s mind … still, what the hell, he thought; anyone can have an off day.
Jagger got to his feet on a winning streak, and excused himself from the next hand. ‘Problems?’ Bert asked sympathetically. ‘Want me to join you?’
Jagger shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘just count me out. I don’t feel too easy about this one …’ (a ploy which he hoped would cover up what he knew had been erratic behaviour on his part) ‘… I know nothing can go wrong, but I think I’ll take a walk around, just to check up.’
‘Looking for stowaways, Colonel?’ ventured one of the engineers. The other comedian added, ‘Perhaps somebody got on while we were over Saudi Arabia — or was it Syria? They all look the same to me.’
The four men laughed, and Jagger easily strolled out, not quickening his pace when he reached the stateroom, nodding affably to an aide, and arriving at the rest room complex at the rear of the Boeing without encountering any other crew member except Jeanie Fenstermaker. She was en route for the EDP lounge with smoked salmon and asparagus twists,
encased in thinly sliced overcoats of fresh brown bread and butter. Jagger took one and ate it.
He locked himself in the tail-end toilet and stayed for five minutes for the sake of appearances, should he encounter Fenstermaker again too quickly. He slid the aerosol can into his pocket, flushed the toilet-bowl, washed his hands and stepped out through the door, almost cannoning off the busty blonde as she was making her way back to the rear galley, her tray empty.
‘Big appetites, huh?’ he grunted.
‘Seems so, Colonel,’ she responded. ‘Mind you —’ blushing becomingly ‘— I think they also like sort of seeing Sabrina and me as well. And there’s an awful lot of “tea” being served, Colonel. Sergeant Wynanski can hardly keep up with demand.’
‘Where’s Wynanski?’ Jagger asked casually.
Jeanie pointed behind her at the galley. ‘In back, as always, slaving over a hot canapé.’
Jagger grinned, glanced at his watch, and said, ‘Off you go then, Airman. Won’t do to keep the Ayrabs waiting, will it? Could flunk your chance of marrying a sheikh — or at least of joining a harem.’
‘Huh,’ Fenstermaker pouted, adding a disapproving sniff. Jagger waited for her to close the door, then tapped on it and said in a loud voice, ‘Pete! You in there?’
‘Who’s that?’ Wynanski queried. He shuffled over to the door and jerked it open, Jeanie at his elbow.
Jagger smiled with his teeth and said, ‘Got a present for you.’ Fenstermaker’s mouth was already opening in anticipation, so she collected a deep lungful of the knockout gas spray, and slumped to join Master Sergeant Pete Wynanski on the floor.
* * *
McCafferty moved his head to steal a glance at his watch, and the dog squirmed threateningly on its belly. Eight minutes had passed. Mac could wait no longer; if he was to act at all, it must be soon.
He sat up on the bed, and the dog rose with him, neck hair bristling, mouth open, wet lips pressed back over its teeth.
