Shirleen leaned back in her chair and said to Stacy, "Remember what it was like when we were young and out getting some?"
Stacy snorted. "Speak for your own self, white girl. I ain't married."
"What happened to that cute fireman you were going with, honey? The one from Baltimore."
Stacy drew on her beer before answering. "He put out the fire with his little bitty hose."
"You!" Shirleen laughed.
"Word, girl," Stacy said. She looked down the table where Karen sat and muttered, "Bitch."
Shirleen followed her look down the table. "That's a 'political' girl if I ever seen one." She looked at Stacy, who made no effort to hide the disgust in her face. "What's up between you two, anyways?"
Stacy looked over at Charley, who looked tired, laughing with Luann and Don. "That little bitch..."she started, trying to stop herself. "That little snitch is ratting us out to Dinkey," she hissed.
"What!" Shirleen looked around and leaned in closer to Stacy.
"She's taking notes on us all and turning them into Dinkey, helping him build a case against Charley," Stacy said.
"Get out. She seems ambitious, but that's just stupid! She thinks nobody will find out? She'll get a bullet in the head for that!" Shirleen said in disbelief.
"Well, I heard it. Charley is gonna talk to her...but I might just send the bitch home anyways. Take her gun and her creds and pack her sorry ass off back to her pimp Dinkey. I ain't lying. I'll put that bitch on a plane so fast she won't know what happened, and I'll drag her down to the General's office myself when I get back!" Stacy voice rose, and several heads turned to look at her. Karen quailed at Stacy's fierce glare when she looked up.
Shirleen elbowed Stacy. "Have some respect for Charley, Stacy. If he says he's gonna handle it, let him handle it. And hold your fucking voice down."
Stacy continued to glare at Karen, till Karen flushed and dropped her eyes. Harold looked quizzically down the table, and then turned to Karen and asked her something.
Stacy looked over her shoulder and found Charley looking at her. He caught her eye and shook his head in warning. She nodded and leaned back in her chair. "Yeah," she said in a calmer voice. "You're right, Shirleen. I ought to get laid and blow off some steam." She called down the length of the table to Don. "Hey, pencil dick! Yeah, you, the Navy SEAL...I'm coming for you tonight, white boy, and you better be ready!"
"It's gonna be crowded in my room, baby, but I'll squeeze you in," Don retorted.
"Leave me a spot on your face, white boy," Stacy said calmly, and everyone except Karen and Harold broke into laughter.
***
Mad Max Onofrey and his back-up, Warren Horton, shouldered their way through the crowd of Germans and foreign flight crews packing the Basler's bar and ordered two frosty mugs of pilsner. From their vantage point at the bar they had a good view of the marshals in the back room. Max caught Joan's eye from across the room and waved to her. He grinned and said to his partner, "I'm on point, brother."
Warren, a stocky blond fire-plug whose last assignment had been running the weapons pool at the JFK Special Warfare Center, shrugged and fell in behind his partner.
Max swaggered up to the table and said, "What's this, a tour group? Are you all flight crew?" He looked at Jon. "Or flight attendants?"
Joan looked him up and down and said, "I remember you...at the cab stand, right?"
"I knew you wouldn't forget me. Must be fate. I told my partner here that I was going to meet the mother of my children tonight. Isn't that right, Warren?" Max said.
"Who are you?" Jon interrupted, his face red.
"Max Von Sydow, Aramco oil. I don't own it, they just send me out into the sticks to find it. My assistant Warren Foote." Max held his hand out to Jon, who ignored it. "I'm sorry," Max said, "Am I intruding?"
"Yeah..." Jon began.
"No," Joan said. "Sit down, join us."
"Really? You don't mind? Thanks," Max said, pulling up a chair. Warren settled in behind him, nodding to the marshals. Several of the flight attendants made eyes at Max as he settled in. Don and Charley watched with amusement as Max started in on Joan, who was attentive and interested. Jon fumed and turned away to stare into his beer mug.
Don started to hum the theme from Star Wars. "Looks like the return of the Jedi, don't you think, Charley?" The drape of Max's jacket over his right hip would conceal a pistol quite discreetly.
"What are you talking about, Don?" Luann asked. She was a little drunk and having a great time. She and Don had a fling a few years ago; she'd enjoyed it. Old enough not to fool herself about catching or even wanting to catch Don, she was still young and good-looking enough to relish another vigorous sexual encounter with the athletic SEAL. She had plans for him tonight. She had always liked and been attracted to Charley, but knew in the intuitive way of a woman who has had children that Charley wouldn't be a light and easy lay. She didn't want, and she knew he didn't want, any emotional entanglements. She draped her arm around Charley's neck and laid her other hand on Donald's knee. "What's he talking about, Charley?" she said.
"It's an old joke, honey," Charley said. "Don't pay him any attention."
***
Ahmad Ajai wrote clearly and quickly, in neat block letters, the draft of his operational plan. A military technique that suited his orderly and logical approach, it helped to formalize his thinking and structure the components of his operations. He wrote and rewrote his orders, carefully destroying the drafts, for he had discovered that the process of revision often brought out the most important nuances of his planning. One of his lieutenants, Gamal Ayoush, a man on the Israeli's most wanted list for the murder of several Israeli settlers, came into the office, a sheet of paper in his hand.
"We have their hotel locations," he said. A few phone calls, asking for Mr. Nelson or Mr. Dey, had given them the locations of the team members.
Ahmad Ajai looked up and nodded.
"We have the equipment ready to be emplaced. When you so direct," Ayoush said. He was impatient and ready to get on with things. This would be his first hijacking, and he was not used to such a long pre-operational isolation. Ahmad Ajai saw that in him and had in fact selected him for that violent impatience. Ayoush would be the nominal leader during the preliminary stages of the hijacking; he would be the man giving direction to the hijackers while killing the marshals and then controlling the passengers and the flight deck. Ahmad Ajai would remain quiet, still, and hidden among the crowd until the marshals were dead or captured, the passengers thoroughly cowed, and the cockpit firmly under their control.
"It will be soon," Ahmad Ajai said softly. "How are the others?" He reached for the pack of Marlboros on the table and lit one. He offered the pack to Ayoush, who refused.
"They are ready now. We are all ready. The equipment and weapons are ready; what we know of the support is ready. What will you tell us today?"
Ahmad Ajai weighed the man carefully; the statement was just short of open insolence. "I will tell you to continue to be patient. I will tell you that it will be soon. I will tell you to train even harder, to test yourself mentally. This is different than what you have done before, my friend. You must have the patience of a hunter in wait. This is not for us to enter shooting; we must be still and wait. You need to learn that." He was gentle in his criticism with the man. Ayoush would be drawing the lion's share of risk and exposure in the most dangerous part of the operation, and his violence was essential in that early phase.
The younger man heard the warning note in Ajai's voice, and the respect as well. He nodded his head in acknowledgment. "Please excuse me. The isolation has been hard on me."
"Yes, on all of us. You are doing well, Gamal. You are very important, in fact central, to the success of this plan. Sit for awhile, and let me talk of it with you."
Ahmad Ajai gave an overview of his operational concept to the younger man. At the end, Ayoush said, "It seems perfect in concept. The timing, in particular, is perfect. How do we ensur
e that, though?"
"With deception. It will cost people, but they are not our people."
***
WASHINGTON, D.C.:
Simon Dinkey sat in Al Garber's office, his leg draped over one arm of the overstuffed chair against the wall. "I'm beginning to think this whole thing is a figment of Dey's imagination," he said.
Al Garber glared across his desk at Dinkey. "Get your fucking leg off my chair, Dinkey," he said evenly.
Dinkey straightened up in surprise.
"Let's get something straight, since it's just us two guys, and I don't record conversations in my office," Garber said. "The only reason I tolerate you is because you have a function, albeit a limited function, in the mission around here. I could care less about whose ass you kiss, or who you have lunch with, or who you go running with. I frankly doubt that you're going to be around here long enough to be my boss, and if that unlikely scenario arose, I already got one pension, and I'd go and take it. I'm telling you, straight out and plain, so that there is no misunderstanding between us: stop playing this bullshit on Charley Dey. I'm telling you now, I will do everything in my power to sink your ass if you don't knock it off today. Period. We have people at risk out there and your behavior increases that risk. Are we clear with each other, Dinkey?"
"I think you misunderstand..."
"Are we clear?" Garber snapped.
"Perfectly," Dinkey said, standing up. "I'll take my concerns elsewhere, since you're not interested in dealing with them."
Garber watched him go out of his office, then took a breath to calm himself. It had been a long time since he had lost his temper, but the truth was, it felt pretty damn good. He had wanted to tell that prick off for awhile. Al leaned back in his chair and looked out his window. Between the gray buildings, he could see a distant slice of green lawn and a few birds. He needed to spend some time outside, maybe get some golf in with his wife. He took another deep breath to shake loose the last vestiges of his anger, and then laughed at himself. He wasn't going to lose his anger till that son of a bitch Dinkey was gone. Dinkey's vendetta against Charley Dey had caught the attention of several of the supergrades, and despite Dinkey's narcissistic belief to the contrary, he had no support there. General Stone, as formidable a patron as could be had in the labyrinth of bureaucratic infighting, was still an appointee who could be replaced with a stroke of a pen. Dinkey had hitched his cart to Stone's rising star, but in doing so managed to alienate most of the other Security administrators -- many who had been marshals with Charley before taking a promotion out of the marshal program. Al had gone through in the second air marshal class, and had flown a few missions with Charley before taking the job in Intelligence. The constant travel and the edge he carried from it was too much like the time he had spent on the Presidential Protection Unit. His long suffering wife Christine had borne him three children and kept the home fires burning throughout his entire career with the Secret Service. She put her foot down when he started pulling three week marshal missions around the world. The overtime had been great, but he agreed with her, so when the chance came to fly the desk in Intel, he took it.
"You're doing the right thing," Charley had said. "You've got a great wife, great kids, and you've done your time and then some, Al. Go for it. We need a shooter and a looter to get the Intel shack in order."
That had been good advice. Al was proud of the work he had done with the intelligence division. He was a realist with lots of time on the block who knew about the back door channels in the intelligence world, and how often critical information was either relayed or denied because of personalities, friendships, and feuds between people or organizations. He'd mended the rift between CIA and FAA caused by his agency's poor handling of the intelligence data forwarded from CIA. The strict policies and training he had implemented showed their worth in a radically improved relationship and better Intel for his shooters.
But Dinkey and his goddamn game playing...Al was not going to let Dinkey's backstabbing antics endanger the work he had done, or the people in his charge. He wasn't quite sure yet how he was going to handle it, but it was going to get handled. He was going to be here the day Dinkey was shown the door.
***
FRANKFURT, GERMANY:
It was a big mixed crowd that closed down the Basler Eck. The marshals, the flight attendants, the pilots, and the two "oil surveyors" made quite a scene exiting the restaurant. Hans stood at the door, waving at everyone, a damp towel laid over his shoulder. His normally dour face was creased with pleasure; these customers had left a lot of money on the table tonight.
Charley strolled along at the rear of the crowd; he noticed that the two young "oil surveyors" lagged behind with Joan and one of the flight attendants, a willowy blond from New York. The louder of the two, Max, was a pretty good operator; even though he was making big time with Joan, he still kept good situational awareness, with periodic scans of his environment. His back up man, the stocky Warren, floated to the rear and left of his partner. Charley filed that observation away; he was always looking for good learning points. He would use those two as an example of how tactical training could be a giveaway. The two of them were obviously used to working closely together. Their spacing, which remained constant no matter how they moved, and their constant visual scanning, 360 degrees high and low, gave off a vibe which said "trained killer" to a skilled observer.
Don and Luann strolled along, her hand tucked into his arm, looking surprisingly like an old married couple as they eased along the sidewalk, oblivious to anyone else. Harold was talking animatedly with Dyer Shaw, who had struck out with the flight attendants. Karen was hanging back away from the crowd, carefully avoiding Stacy and Shirleen, who were deep in conversation.
"Hey Karen," Charley called softly. She turned around, surprised that he was calling to her. "Walk with me a while," he said.
She hesitated, then paused for him to catch up.
"It's nice out here, isn't it?" Charley said. "Seems warmer than it should be, for spring."
"I'm a little cold," Karen said. "I should have brought a sweater."
"Yeah, that's a good idea. You can get a little collapsible windbreaker to tuck in your pocket, those are handy," Charley said.
"Where can I get one of those?"
"There's a little travel store in the terminal. I'll take you by there tomorrow afternoon."
"Thanks," Karen said. "I still don't know my way around."
"That's true," Charley said. "You want to tell me about what's going on with you and Simon Dinkey?"
Karen flushed so quickly and deeply that it was as though someone had flashed a red light in her face. She inhaled sharply and, for a moment, looked as though she were going to burst into tears.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she stammered.
"Hey Karen," Charley said in a calm, almost bored voice. "You're an adult and I'm an adult. Right now, we're two peers, two fellow employees, two fellow air marshals. Please don't bullshit me."
Karen came to a stop. She looked down at the ground, and then at the backs of the other marshals as they moved away. Charley stood and looked at her calmly. She was struggling, her chin trembling like a teenager's."Charley..." she said, fighting back tears. She took a deep breath and calmed herself. "Look, I'm sorry. He came to me and told me that it was important, that it was something on-going. I swear I didn't know what was going on, I thought it was part of my job. I didn't have anything to do with that scene at Customs." She looked up at him and squared her jaw. "I swear."
"What kind of information was he asking for, Karen?" Charley said. He looked closely at her, trying to sort out her truth.
"Mostly about you, about whether you were following the regulations, the procedures, all the stuff you taught us in basic," she said. "I went to him, before we left on this mission and I told him that it wasn't right, that I felt like I was spying..."
"You were," Charley said.
Karen flinched. "...and that I wasn't going to do i
t anymore."
"Really," Charley said coolly.
"I'm sorry! What else can I say? I didn't know any better, Charley," Karen was pleading now to the stone-faced Charley.
"Karen, you need to understand something," Charley said in his soft instructor's voice. "A team like this is built on trust. We have to trust each other. I have to trust you to watch my back and to do what needs to be done when it comes time. You have to trust me to do the same. We have to believe in each other all the time so that we can believe in each other when it comes time to do the deed. Do you understand that?"
"Yes," Karen said miserably.
"Why would you want this job, to put yourself at this risk, if you're not willing to work to be trusted?"
"Because none of you are willing to give me a chance. Because if you just gave me a chance I could show you that I could do as good a job as anybody," Karen snapped.
"You've had the same chance everybody else has, Karen. And you've been doing just fine, at least as far as your work performance goes. Until this."
"Charley, look, please," Karen pleaded. "It's over, I don't have anything else to say. I want more than anything else to be on this team. Please, just give me a chance and don't send me home."
"I wouldn't do that, even if I was team leader right now," Charley said. "You're going to have to work about ten times as hard to make up the trust you've damaged, not just with me, but with the rest of the team. There's no such thing as a secret in the cadre. Everybody talks, you know that."
"Who else knows?"
"Steve, Stacy, me, Don, probably a few others now." Charley patted her arm. "Live and learn, Karen. You got used by a guy who's a champion user. Now you've got to recover form it."
Karen looked hopefully at him.
"Let's get back. We've got work to do," he said.
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