by Ken Follett
After a moment Harry eased away from her and rubbed his shoulder where she had bitten him.
Breathlessly, she panted: “I’m sorry—did it hurt?”
“Yes, it bloody did,” he whispered; and they both began to giggle. Trying not to laugh aloud made it worse, and for a minute or two they were both helpless with suppressed laughter.
When they calmed down he said: “Your body is wonderful—wonderful.”
“So is yours,” she said fervently.
He did not believe her. “No, I mean it,” he said.
“So do I!” She would never forget his swollen penis standing up from the thatch of golden hair. She ran her hand over his stomach, searching for it, and found it lying across his thigh like a hosepipe, neither stiff nor shriveled. The skin was silky. She felt she would like to kiss it, and was shocked by her own depravity.
Instead she kissed his arm where she had bitten him. Even in the near-dark she could see the marks her teeth had made. He was going to have a bad bruise. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, too low for him to hear. She felt quite sad that she had damaged his perfect flesh after his body had given her such joy. She kissed the bruise again.
They were limp with exhaustion and pleasure, and they both drifted into a light doze. Margaret seemed to hear the drone of the engines all through her sleep, as if she were dreaming of planes. Once she heard footsteps pass through the compartment and return a few minutes later, but she was too contented to be curious about what they meant.
For a while the motion of the plane was smooth, and she fell into a real sleep.
She woke with a shock. Was it daytime? Had everyone got up? Would they all see her climbing out of Harry’s bunk? Her heart raced.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“What’s the time?”
“It’s the middle of the night.”
He was right. There was no movement outside, the cabin lights were dim, and there was no sign of daylight at the window. She could sneak out in safety. “I must go back to my own bunk, right now, before we’re discovered,” she said frantically. She began looking for her slippers and could not find them.
Harry put a hand on her shoulder. “Calm down,” he whispered. “We’ve got hours.”
“But I’m worried that Father—” She stopped herself. Why was she so worried? She took a deep breath and looked at Harry. When their eyes met in the semidarkness, she remembered what had happened before they went to sleep, and she could tell he was thinking the same thing. They smiled at one another, a knowing, intimate, lovers’ smile.
Suddenly she was not so worried. She did not need to go yet. She wanted to stay here, so she would. There was plenty of time.
Harry moved against her, and she felt his stiffening penis. “Don’t go yet,” he said.
She sighed happily. “All right, not yet,” she said, and she began to kiss him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Eddie Deakin had himself under rigid control, but he was a boiling kettle with the lid jammed on, a volcano waiting to blow. He sweated constantly, his guts ached and he could hardly sit still. He was managing to do his job, but only just.
He was due to go off duty at two a.m., British time. As the end of his shift approached, he faked one more set of fuel figures. Earlier he had understated the plane’s consumption, to give the impression that there was just enough fuel to complete the journey so that the captain would not turn back. Now he overstated, to compensate, so when his replacement, Mickey Finn, came on duty and read the fuel gauges there would be no discrepancy. The Howgozit Curve would show fuel consumption fluctuating wildly, and Mickey would wonder why; but Eddie would say it was due to the stormy weather. Anyway, Mickey was the least of his worries. His deep anxiety, the one that held his heart in the cold grip of fear, was that the plane would run out of fuel before it reached Newfoundland.
The aircraft did not have the regulation minimum. The regulations left a safety margin, of course; but safety margins were there for a reason. This flight no longer had an extra reserve of fuel for emergencies such as engine failure. If something went wrong, the plane would plunge into the stormy Atlantic Ocean. It could not splash down safely in mid-ocean: it would sink within a few minutes. There would be no survivors.
Mickey came up to the flight cabin a few minutes before two, looking fresh and young and eager. “We’re running very low,” Eddie said right away. “I’ve told the captain.”
Mickey nodded noncommittally and picked up the flashlight. His first duty on taking over was to make a visual inspection of all four engines.
Eddie left him to it and went down to the passenger deck. The first officer, Johnny Dott, the navigator, Jack Ashford, and the radio operator, Ben Thompson, followed him down the stairs as their replacements arrived. Jack went to the galley to make a sandwich. The thought of food nauseated Eddie. He got a cup of coffee and went to sit in number 1 compartment.
When he was not working he had nothing to take his mind off the thought of Carol-Ann in the hands of her kidnappers.
It was just after nine p.m. in Maine now. It would be dark. Carol-Ann would be weary and dispirited at best. She tended to fall asleep much earlier since she got pregnant. Would they give her somewhere to lie down? She would not sleep tonight, but perhaps she could rest her body. Eddie just hoped that the thought of bedtime did not put ideas into the heads of the hoodlums who were guarding her....
Before his coffee was cold, the storm hit in earnest.
The ride had been bumpy for several hours, but now it became really rough. It was like being on a ship in a storm. The huge aircraft was like a boat on the waves, rising slowly, then dropping fast, hitting the trough with a thump and climbing again, rolling and tossing from side to side as the winds caught it. Eddie sat on a bunk and braced himself with his feet on the comer post. The passengers began to wake up, ring for stewards and rush to the bathroom. The stewards, Nicky and Davy, who had been dozing in number 1 compartment with the off-duty crew, buttoned their collars and put on their jackets, then hurried off to answer the bells.
After a while Eddie went to the galley for more coffee. As he got there, the door of the men’s room opened and Tom Luther came out, looking pale and sweaty. Eddie stared at him contemptuously. He felt an urge to take the man by the throat, but he fought it down.
“Is this normal?” Luther said in a scared voice.
Eddie felt not a shred of sympathy. “No, this is not normal,” he replied. “We ought to fly around the storm, but we don’t have enough fuel.”
“Why not?”
“We’re running out.”
Luther was scared. “But you told us you would turn back before the point of no return!”
Eddie was more worried than Luther, but he took grim satisfaction in the other man’s distress. “We should have turned back, but I faked the figures. I have a special reason for wanting to complete this flight on schedule, remember?”
“You crazy bastard!” Luther said despairingly. “Are you trying to kill us all?”
“I’d rather take the chance of killing you than leave my wife with your friends.”
“But if we all die, that won’t help your wife!”
“I know.” Eddie realized he was taking a dreadful risk, but he could not bear the thought of leaving Carol-Ann with the kidnappers for another day. “Maybe I am crazy,” he said to Luther.
Luther looked ill. “But this plane can land on the sea, right?”
“Wrong. We can only splash down on calm water. If we went down in the mid-Atlantic in a storm like this, the plane would break up in seconds.”
“Oh, God,” Luther moaned. “I should never have got on this plane.”
“You should never have messed with my wife, you bastard,” Eddie said through his teeth.
The plane lurched crazily, and Luther turned and staggered back into the bathroom.
Eddie stepped through number 2 compartment and into the lounge. The cardplayers were strapped into their seats and hanging
on tight. Glasses, cards and a bottle rolled around the carpet as the aircraft swayed and shuddered. Eddie looked along the aisle. After the initial panic the passengers were calming down. Most had returned to their bunks and strapped themselves in, realizing that was the best way to ride the bumps. They lay with their curtains open, some looking cheerfully resigned to the discomfort, others clearly scared to death. Everything that was not tied down had fallen to the floor, and the carpet was a litter of books, spectacles, dressing gowns, false teeth, change, cuff links, and all the other things people kept beside their beds at night. The rich and the glamorous of the world suddenly looked very human, and Eddie suffered an agonizing stab of guilty conscience: were all these people going to die because of him?
He returned to his seat and strapped himself in. There was nothing he could do now about the fuel consumption, and the only way he could help Carol-Ann was make sure the emergency splashdown went according to plan.
As the plane shuddered on through the night, he tried to suppress his seething anger and run over his scenario.
He would be on duty when they took off from Shediac, the last port before New York. He would immediately begin to jettison fuel. The gauges would show this, of course. Mickey Finn might notice the loss, if he should come up to the flight deck for any reason; but by that time, twenty-four hours after leaving Southampton, off-duty crew were not interested in anything but sleep. And it was not likely that any other crew member would look at the fuel gauges, especially on the short leg of the flight, when fuel consumption was no longer critical. He loathed the thought of deceiving his colleagues, and for a moment his rage boiled up again. He balled his fists, but there was nothing to hit. He tried to concentrate on his plan.
As the plane approached the place where Luther wanted to splash down, Eddie would jettison more fuel, judging it finely so they would almost have run out when they reached the right area. At that point he would tell the captain that they were out of fuel and had to come down.
He would have to monitor their route carefully. They did not follow exactly the same course every time: navigation was not that precise. But Luther had selected his rendezvous cleverly. It was clearly the best place within a wide radius for a flying boat to splash down, so even if they were some miles off course, the captain was sure to head there in an emergency.
If there was time, the captain would ask—angrily—how come Eddie had not noticed the dramatic loss of fuel before it became critical. Eddie would have to answer that all the gauges must have got stuck, a wildly unlikely notion. He ground his teeth. His colleagues relied on him to perform the crucial task of monitoring the aircraft’s fuel consumption. They trusted him with their lives. They would know he had let them down.
A fast launch would be waiting in the area and would approach the Clipper. The captain would think they had come to help. He might invite them aboard, but failing that Eddie would open the door to them. Then the gangsters would overpower the F.B.I, man, Ollis Field, and rescue Frankie Gordino.
They would have to be quick. The radio operator would have sent out a Mayday before the plane touched water, and the Clipper was big enough to be seen from some distance, so other vessels would approach before too long. There was even a chance the Coast Guard might be quick enough to interfere with the rescue. That could ruin it for Luther’s gang, Eddie thought; and for a moment he felt hopeful—then he remembered that he wanted Luther to succeed, not fail.
He just could not get into the habit of hoping that the criminals would get what they wanted. He racked his brains constantly for some way of foiling Luther’s plan, but everything he came up with had the same snag: Carol-Ann. If Luther did not get Gordino, Eddie would not get Carol-Ann.
He had tried to think of some way to ensure that Gordino would get caught twenty-four hours later, when Carol-Ann was safe; but it was impossible. Gordino would be far away by then. The only alternative was to persuade Luther to surrender Carol-Ann earlier, and he had more sense than to agree to that. The trouble was, Eddie had nothing with which to threaten Luther. Luther had Carol-Ann, and Eddie had ...
Well, he thought suddenly, I’ve got Gordino.
Wait a minute.
They’ve got Carol-Ann, and I can’t get her back without cooperating with them. But Gordino is on this plane, and they can’t get him back unless they cooperate with me. Maybe they don’t hold all the cards.
He wondered whether there was a way for him to take charge, seize the initiative.
He stared blindly at the opposite wall, holding on tight, lost in thought.
There was a way.
Why should they get Gordino first? An exchange of hostages should be simultaneous.
He fought down surging hope and forced himself to think coolly.
How would the exchange work? They would have to bring Carol-Ann to the Clipper on the launch that would take Gordino away.
Why not? Why the hell not?
He wondered frantically whether it could be arranged in time. He had calculated that she was being held no more than sixty or seventy miles from their home, which in turn was about seventy miles from the location of the emergency splashdown. At worst, then, she was four hours’ drive away. Was that too far?
Suppose Tom Luther agreed. His first chance to call his men would come at the next stop, Botwood, where the Clipper was due at nine a.m. British time. After that the plane went on to Shediac. The unscheduled splashdown would take place an hour out of Shediac, at about four p.m. British time, seven hours later. The gang could get Carol-Ann there with a couple of hours to spare.
Eddie could hardly contain his excitement as he contemplated the prospect of getting Carol-Ann back earlier. It also occurred to him that it might give him a chance, albeit slender, of doing something to spoil Luther’s rescue. And that might redeem him, in the eyes of the rest of the crew. They might forgive his treachery to them if they saw him catch a bunch of murdering gangsters.
Once again he told himself not to raise his hopes. All this was only an idea. Luther probably would not buy the deal. Eddie could threaten not to bring the plane down unless they met his terms; but they might see that as an empty threat. They would reckon that Eddie would do anything to save his wife, and they would be right. They were only trying to save a buddy. Eddie was more desperate, and that made him weaker, he thought; and he plunged once more into despair.
But still he would be presenting Luther with a problem, creating a doubt and a worry in the man’s mind. Luther might not believe Eddie’s threat, but how could he be sure? It would take guts to call Eddie’s bluff, and Luther was not a brave man, at least not right now.
Anyway, he thought, what do I have to lose? He would give it a try.
He got up from his bunk.
He thought he probably should plan the whole conversation carefully, preparing his answers to Luther’s objections; but he was already screwed up to screaming pitch and he could not sit still and think any longer. He had to do it or go mad.
Holding on to anything he could grab, he picked his way along the rocking, swaying plane to the main lounge.
Luther was one of the passengers who had not gone to bed. He was in a comer of the lounge, drinking whiskey, but not joining in the card game. The color had returned to his face, and he appeared to have got over his nausea. He was reading The Illustrated London News, a British magazine. Eddie tapped him on the shoulder. He looked up, startled and a little frightened. When he saw Eddie his face turned hostile. Eddie said: “The captain would like a word with you, Mr. Luther.”
Luther looked anxious. He sat still for a moment. Eddie beckoned him with a peremptory jerk of the head. Luther put down his magazine, unfastened his seat belt and stood up.
Eddie led him out of the lounge and through number 2 compartment, but instead of going up to the flight deck he opened the door of the men’s room and held it for Luther.
There was a faint smell of vomit. Unfortunately, they were not alone: a passenger in pajamas was washing his hands. E
ddie pointed to the toilet and Luther went inside while Eddie combed his hair and waited. After a few moments the passenger left. Eddie tapped on the cubicle door and Luther came out. “What the hell is going on?” he said.
“Shut your mouth and listen,” Eddie said. He had not planned to be aggressive, but Luther just made him mad. “I know what you’re here for. I’ve figured out your plan, and I’m making a change. When I bring this plane down, Carol-Ann has to be on the boat waiting.”
Luther was scornful. “You can’t make demands.”
Eddie had not expected him to cave in immediately. Now he had to bluff. “Okay,” he said with as much conviction as he could muster. “The deal is off.”
Luther looked a little worried, but he said: “You’re full of shit. You want your little wife back. You’ll bring down this plane.”
It was the truth, but Eddie shook his head. “I don’t trust you,” he said. “Why should I? I could do everything you want and you could double-cross me. I’m not going to take that chance. I want a new deal.”
Luther’s confidence was not yet shaken. “No new deal.”
“Okay.” It was time for Eddie to play his trump card. “Okay, so you go to jail.”
Luther laughed nervously. “What are you talking about?”
Eddie felt a little more confident: Luther was weakening. “I’ll tell the captain the whole thing. You’ll be taken off the plane at the next stop. The police will be waiting for you. You’ll go to jail—in Canada, where your hoodlum friends won’t be able to spring you. You’ll be charged with kidnapping, piracy—hell, Luther, you may never come out.”
At last Luther was rattled. “Everything’s set up,” he protested. “It’s too late to change the plan.”
“No, it’s not,” Eddie said. “You can call your people from the next stop and tell them what to do. They’ll have seven hours to get Carol-Ann on that launch. There’s time.”
Luther suddenly caved in. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
Eddie did not believe him: the switch had been too quick. His instinct told him Luther had decided to double-cross him. “Tell them they have to call me at the last stop, Shediac, and confirm that they’ve made the arrangements.”
