3
Austrian Airlines Flight AUA158, an Airbus 321
Tom was one of those people who didn’t have the slightest problem being in a plane; even the strongest turbulence didn’t rattle him. The man in the seat next to him, however, wasn’t so lucky. On the corpulent side, he dug the fingers of one hand into the armrest and clutched a plastic cup of whiskey and cola in the other—judging by the color, more whiskey than cola.
“I hate turbulence,” the man beside Tom muttered, his eyes squeezed almost shut. Perspiration collected on his balding scalp; even his glasses were a little misted over. He lifted the cup to his lips, drained it in a gulp, and looked around immediately for the flight attendant. “My very own fear-of-flying cure,” he said, glancing at Tom. When he saw the flight attendant coming, he lifted the cup in her direction and pointed at it. When she returned with the requested drink, the man reached for it greedily, crushing Tom slightly in his seat.
“Denise,” Tom read on the flight attendant’s name tag. She was attractive, dark-haired, in her late twenties, and probably one of the very few women who actually looked good in the ridiculous, bright red Austrian Airlines uniform.
“Something for you, sir?” she asked Tom, with an entrancing smile. She had noticed the good-looking man with the collar-length, tousled, dark-blond hair and the three-day beard as soon as he boarded. She liked men with chiseled, almost cruel features, but who could still manage a charming smile.
Tom, arranging himself in his seat, declined politely.
“Perhaps a pillow or a blanket?”
Tom shook his head. “No, thank you.”
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you,” she said with another smile, and she grazed his shoulder gently with her hand as she moved on.
“The chick’s got her eye on you, big time. A blind man could see that,” the man beside him murmured, then slurped at his drink.
Tom ignored him. He leaned back and closed his eyes. The last thing he needed right now was a fling. He tried not to speculate about the man with the tattoo, but only partially succeeded. His vacation, the sun, the beach, the cliff diving, the Mexican women . . . all of it was pushed aside by the man in the VIP lounge. Tom unsnapped his seatbelt and headed for the toilets in the rear. The plane continued to be buffeted by turbulence. Both toilets were occupied, and Tom heard a man’s voice coming from inside one of them. He smiled. Since on-board Wi-Fi had become a thing, you could even indulge your cellphone addiction in flight. Tom couldn’t understand what the man was saying, though he was talking very loudly. He was speaking Farsi, or maybe one of the Arab languages. But Tom did pick up a name: François Cloutard. After about two minutes, he heard some rattling, then someone hurriedly opened the door.
A man, in his early thirties and probably Middle Eastern, stepped out. He was visibly nervous. Sweat beaded his forehead. “Excuse me, sir,” the man stammered in broken English, pushing past Tom. Tom entered the toilet and locked it behind him. He braced himself against the small washbasin and looked at himself in the mirror. He liked what he saw. He splashed water on his face to freshen up, and his mind returned once again to the man with the tattoo. When he went to dry his hands, he discovered that the paper towel dispenser was empty. He reached inside as far as could to see if there was perhaps one paper towel left over, but his fingers touched something tacky. He withdrew his hand, baffled, then proceeded to remove the cover from the dispenser. Inside he discovered a large strip of double-sided tape, to which a few remnants of plastic film still clung. Bemused, he looked around the tiny cabin and noticed that all the fresh paper towels had been stuffed in the trash.
His heart began to beat a little faster. Was this really what it looked like? Had someone planted something there in the toilet for the man before him to find? Had he blundered into the middle of one of the spate of hijackings that had happened in the last few weeks? As a Cobra, he’d spent a lot of time on planes as an air marshal and had always been bored to tears. No one hijacks planes anymore, he’d thought many times. But maybe he was wrong.
Slowly, he opened the door just a crack and looked down through the plane. Everything seemed normal. But he jumped when the man seated beside him abruptly jerked the door out of his hand and stood in front of him. “Other people have to use the can, too, buddy.”
Tom did not return to his seat immediately, but instead strolled on into the front section of the plane, toward the cockpit. He tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, just a guy wanting to get the blood circulating in his legs. He stretched, and as he did so he looked back down the rows of seats until he located the man from the toilet in row 18. He was obviously on edge, looking around constantly and making eye contact with another man two rows behind him. Both were wearing hooded sweatshirts, and each had a fanny pack that he was fingering nervously. Nobody else seemed to notice, but Tom had been trained to spot just this kind of detail.
In the front section of the plane, Tom grabbed Denise by her arm and steered her into the kitchen, where they could talk without being seen. He held his Cobra ID up to her face.
“Look, I’m not on duty, but I’m a Cobra officer and an air marshal. In 18C and 20D there are two men who I suspect are about to try to hijack this plane. I think someone’s smuggled weapons on board for them.” The flight attendant looked at him, aghast. She seemed frozen. “Do you understand what I just said?”
She nodded, trembling.
“I have to speak to the captain,” Tom said.
A second flight attendant stepped into the kitchen. “What’s going on here?”
Tom let go of Denise, flashed his ID at the second flight attendant and raised a finger to his lips. Denise disappeared without another word and returned a moment later with the captain. All four crowded into the small kitchen space, out of sight of the passengers. Tom explained the situation, then gave precise instructions to the captain and both of the flight attendants.
“Are you out of your mind? We can’t do that,” the captain whispered vehemently.
“Trust me. It will work, and no one’s going to get hurt,” Tom said calmly, a mischievous smile on his face. It made life interesting, now and then, to sidestep standard procedure. The captain thought about it for a moment, then nodded hesitantly and returned to the cockpit. The door closed and was locked from the inside.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts. The turbulence we’ve been experiencing is about to get a little worse. The flight attendants will now be collecting the trash. Please raise your tray tables and return your seats to the upright position.”
“Are you sure you’ve got this?” Tom asked, peering intently at Denise. Without waiting for her answer, he said, “Okay. Go!”
Denise took the meal trolley and pulled it slowly toward the rear of the plane. She took up position two rows behind the dubious passengers and began collecting the trash from the seats farther back.
Tom disappeared into one of the two toilets at the front of the plane. He messed up his hair and pulled his shirt partly out of his pants. He had taken a miniature bottle of whiskey from the kitchen and now poured most of the contents over his clothes. Then he gulped down the last few drops, sat on the toilet and waited.
Not five minutes later, exactly what he had prophesied came to pass. The two men had finally worked up enough courage. They jumped to their feet and pulled their weapons.
“This is a hijacking!”
A shocked murmur ran through the passenger compartment, then screams, panic. Passengers burst into tears. Denise ducked behind the meal trolley. The terrorists waved their weapons and shouted aggressive slogans in Arabic. Tom stood, opened the toilet door, and staggered out. One of the hijackers had a large jackknife in his hand, the other a small .22-caliber pistol. Tom stumbled toward the man with the pistol, who simply stood and gaped at him, perplexed. Tom stopped one row in front of the hijacker and braced himself on the armrests left and right, playing the ro
le of drunk in Oscar-worthy style. Then everything happened at once; the two amateurs didn’t know what hit them.
Denise had released the brakes on the meal trolley. Her colleague at the front knocked on the cockpit door and a heartbeat later the nose of the plane dipped sharply. Passengers squealed in fright. The meal trolley, free to roll, slammed into the back of the knifeman, knocking him down. The jackknife flew from his hand and disappeared beneath the seats. In the same instant, Tom grabbed the hand of the man with the pistol, twisted it unnaturally and slammed him in the nose from below with the ball of his hand. The man let out a scream and dropped the gun. Tom jerked him to the floor and sent him to sleep with a strike to the head. Meanwhile, one of the passengers had jumped up and was pinning the other hijacker to the floor.
Applause, cheers and whoops of relief rang out. Tom bound the hands of the two hijackers with heavy-duty cable ties. The things you find on planes, he thought as he zipped them tight.
He hauled the men to the front of the plane and searched them, but found nothing of interest apart from an iPhone and two passports, obviously fake. The phone was locked, but when he went to unlock it with the thumbprint of the unconscious hijacker, he paused. The man had a tattoo on the inside of his forearm—the same as the tattoo that Tom had seen less than two hours earlier on the arm of his parents’ killer.
What was going on? What had he stumbled onto? He had to find out more about the hijacker. He pressed the man’s thumb to the sensor and quickly picked through the phone. At first glance, he found nothing out of the ordinary. He quickly took a photograph of the tattoo, then heard a woman’s voice behind him:
“Hey, Mr. Cobra. Thanks for saving our lives.” Tom decided on the spot to take the phone with him rather than hand it over to the amateurs at the airport. He dragged his eyes away from the display, slipped the phone into his pocket and turned around to Denise.
“My pleasure. Can you tell the airport police about our two patients here?” he said. Denise nodded and reached for the telephone handset.
When the plane landed, the two hijackers were first taken into custody by the airport police. Only then were the passengers allowed to disembark. As they passed, they gave Tom a nod, a handshake or a heartfelt hug of thanks. In between Denise came to him and whispered in his ear, “I’m done for the day. I’d like to say thank you myself, but in private. Do you have any other plans today?” she asked, before planting a shy kiss on Tom’s cheek as unobtrusively as possible. The man who’d been sitting next to him grinned and gave him two thumbs up.
4
Port of Varna, on the Black Sea, Bulgaria
A dilapidated cutter chugged sedately into the freight port in Varna. It motored past the artificial headland with the luxurious Black Sea yachts, navigated between two enormous oil tankers and made for a small landing stage, almost crushed by two ocean-going behemoths. On land, the cutter was already expected. The ship tied up and the captain left the small bridge. The sun burned mercilessly overhead, and the three waiting men were glad to be able to board the cutter and find a little shade. On their way to one of the filthy cargo holds, they ran into the skipper. His body odor took their breath away. They made no claims of consistency where their own personal hygiene was concerned, but the captain was in a league of his own. A brief greeting, and one of the men handed the captain an envelope. He flipped it open, saw the wad of hundred-dollar bills, and grinned broadly, showing the gaps in his teeth.
“Ispol’zovat’ sebya,” he said, pointing to a large wooden crate, and left them to it. He had a big evening ahead of him, but first he had to decide: just drink himself senseless, or stay sober enough to take two women for the night? Such a choice of luxuries was clearly too much for him.
Removing the nails and opening the crate, they found a flight case packed in foam, about three feet long, two wide and a foot deep. At first glance it made little impression; only upon closer inspection did it become clear that this was no normal flight case. You could drive a bulldozer over it, go at it with a sledgehammer, or blow it up with dynamite—none of it would have much effect. The state-of-the-art fingerprint scanner was another sign that it contained something very exclusive indeed.
One of the men wiped his oil-smeared thumb on his jeans and pressed it to the sensor. He lifted the lid, looked inside for a moment, nodded, and closed it again. He took out his phone and tapped out a short message, which reached its intended recipient a few seconds later and a thousand miles away.
His two companions nailed the crate shut again, carried it off the boat, and heaved it onto the bed of an old army truck. One of them climbed up beside it and the tarpaulins were pulled across and lashed in place. The man with the phone took his place behind the steering wheel and they drove out of Varna, heading west.
5
Glastonbury Abbey, Somerset County, England
Hellen de Mey felt the same thing whenever she came to Glastonbury, a peculiar energy that she could not explain. She knew all the mythical stories about Glastonbury, of course, all the tales about King Arthur, Merlin and the Knights of the Round Table. And she also knew the most fantastic story of all: that Joseph of Arimathea, who had taken the body of Jesus down from the cross and buried him, was said to have left the Holy Land some time later and visited this place. But first and foremost, she was a scientist, an anthropologist and archaeologist.
“So forget the damned fairy tales!” she suddenly said aloud to herself, and she shook her head.
Taken aback, a young couple just then standing at the site of King Arthur’s tomb turned and looked at her. Hellen grimaced and raised her hands in a “sorry” gesture. Why do you always get so impulsive here? That’s not like you at all, she thought. She walked on through the ruins of the old abbey and looked up at Glastonbury Tor, a tower crowning a small hill just outside the town. She could not explain what it was about the place. All that was left of the old abbey were a few foundations that only hinted at the former glory of the structure. A gust of wind ruffled her blond pageboy haircut. She ran her fingers through her hair, lost in thought. Completely absorbed, confused by the emotions—so unusual for her—that she felt toward a historical site, she did not even notice the woman who had already completed her third circuit of the ruins, and who seemed to be paying no attention to them at all. The woman had dark, almost ebony skin, the same color as the black pantsuit and tight-fitting black coat she wore. Her eyes never left Hellen.
The woman had already completed her most important task for the day. She knew Hellen, knew who she was and why she was there.
Although the spring sun had already gained some strength, Hellen shivered. She looked at her watch, zipped her outdoor jacket up as high as it would go, and made her way to her actual destination, the real reason she had come here: the quiet garden in St. Margret’s Chapel, just a short distance from the abbey.
She strolled past the two small ponds and through Abbey Park, then turned along Magdalene Street. Something caught her eye in the window of a small antique shop called “The Startled Hare Antiques & Curiosities.” It was an image of Saint George fighting the Black Knight in the abbey. That legend was why she had come to Glastonbury: could it really be true? Or was it just another of the many fairy tales and legends that swirled around Glastonbury Abbey? She would find out the truth soon enough.
“I hope so, anyway,” she heard herself say. She had spoken aloud again, and shook her head several times, annoyed to be talking to herself. She still didn’t notice the woman following her a hundred yards behind.
After a short distance, she turned left into a narrow lane; a moment later she found herself in what is known as the “quiet garden.” A smile crossed her face. The quiet garden was not particularly special, but she loved its cozy atmosphere. A breath of wind carried the intense perfume of the flowers to her nose, but there were no exotic plants, no artfully designed flower beds, nothing in any way out of the ordinary . . . and yet it was a peaceful place, a haven of tranquility and contemplation in the
heart of the touristic hustle and bustle of Glastonbury.
Hellen looked around, seeking Father Montgomery. She had agreed to meet him there in the garden, but apart from Hellen herself, nobody was there. She glanced at her watch: 4:12 p.m. Maybe the priest was still praying inside the small chapel?
“Father Montgomery?” she said, more to herself than actually calling out to him. She stopped at the chapel door and listened. Nothing. Apart from a car passing out on Magdalene Street, there was no other sound. She waited a few seconds until the car had passed, then called out again, a little louder. “Father Montgomery?”
If he’s praying in the chapel, he must have heard me, she thought. She was now standing directly at the chapel door, which was almost closed. No movement. No reply.
“Father Montgomery? It’s me. Hellen de Mey, the archaeologist.”
Nothing. She hesitated. Should she just barge into the chapel and disturb the priest’s prayer? She wasn’t religious herself, but she respected the faith of others. She knew perfectly well the kind of problems you could face if you were too much the scientist and turned up your nose at religion.
Hellen’s hand pressed lightly against the door and she called out Father Montgomery’s name once more. The door swung open surprisingly easily, revealing the simple, sparse interior of the chapel.
It took a few seconds for Hellen’s eyes to adjust to the dim light, but when she saw Father Montgomery, her breath caught in her throat.
The priest lay on his back on the floor, his eyes wide open and a bullet hole in his chest, from which fresh blood still oozed. A truck bumped loudly down the street in front of the garden, making her jump. She jerked her head around—abruptly, she felt as if someone were standing behind her. But she was mistaken.
The Sacred Weapon: A Tom Wagner Adventure Page 2