Air Marshals

by Wynne, Marcus

  John recovered quickly. "I heard you were low on Johnny Walker, Eli, and I thought I'd give you the opportunity to earn some in a honorable fashion instead of stealing it off the flight attendants."

  "Now, you show your stuff, Mr. Bolen. You have potential! My compliments to Mr. Loveless on the selection of his protégés! Give me this name and passport number, and I will see what I can do for you!" Cohen dropped his feet to the floor so hard that his secretary peered in.

  "Is everything all right, Eli?" she asked sweetly.

  "It's fine, little dove. It's fine. Go, make yourself beautiful for me."

  "You don't know Donald Gene Nelson by any chance, do you?" John asked.

  "I know the man well. He stole my first secretary from me and I have never forgiven him."

  "That's Donald Gene."

  "Let's see, Abraham Rosenbaum, that's a good Jewish name," Cohen mused. He pulled the keyboard of his desktop computer to him, typed in a password at the prompt, then entered the name and the passport number into the computer. "This should take a moment only," he said. He tapped his fingers, then sat up right. "Are you sure of this number?" he said tersely.

  "Yeah, that's what she got off him. Why?" George asked.

  Cohen ignored him, punched in a different sequence, and watched as a photograph assembled itself on his monitor. He spun the monitor around to face George and John. "This look anything like your player?" he said.

  The photograph was of a much older man than had been described, balding, with pure white hair.

  "Not what we got," John said.

  "I'd be surprised if it was," Cohen said. He opened a drawer and pulled out a Browning High Power pistol. "This concerns the State of Israel, now."

  "What are you talking about?" John said.

  Cohen stood up and stuffed the High Power into the front of his pants and pulled his shirt over it. "Rosenbaum's been dead for five years, victim of a bombing in Tel Aviv. So's his passport."

  ***

  "There is no threat to this flight," Harold said to the assembled cabin and flight crew in the first class section. "This is just a routine repositioning flight for us. As you may already know, we have been working here, some of us, for the last six weeks. We're going home now. Our replacement team is on it's way over. There's nothing to worry about. Most of you have flown with us before, so you know the drill: treat us just like any other passengers. You can offer us liquor but we'll refuse; don't block us in with the meal carts; if you see anything going on you feel we should know about, please find one of us and let us know. I'll be up in first class, and there will be several marshals upstairs outside the cockpit door. Feel free to speak to any of us."

  "You sure you're going to be awake? You look like ten miles of rough road," drawled one of the flight attendants in a honey-thick Georgian accent.

  "Yes," Harold said snappishly. "I'll be awake. You don't need to worry about that."

  Don winked at the buxom southerner. "If I fall asleep, I want you to wake me up, honey child."

  She grinned and licked her lips. "You're old enough to be my daddy, Mr. Air Marshal."

  "Girl, have some self-respect. The way that boy gets around, he might be your daddy," Stacy said. "Let's get this airplane going! Stacy needs to get home!"

  ***

  Lenny Amirkahs looked up at the massive 747. From a distance it was easy to overlook how huge the plane was; when you stood beneath one and saw the massive bulk of it, it seemed a miracle that it could lift into the sky. He and the rest of his crew had already swept quickly through the plane, double checking for cleaning and doing the redundant security sweep required by the special security measures. He concealed the packages he brought on board with him under the seats on the list he'd been given. They were carefully tucked away behind the life jackets in the pockets underneath the seats. He had seen his "cousin" load the suitcase onto the baggage belt, and had seen the suitcase go into the belly of the aircraft. His job was done.

  The rest of the crew joked as they straggled along the tarmac back towards the break room.

  "A good thing we did that check early," one of the cleaners said. "They have those damn US air marshals on board. They always check for security more on those flights."

  "Really?" Lenny said.

  ***

  "We're short meals again," Kirsten snapped. She was the lead flight attendant, a short intense brunette from Cleveland, Ohio.

  "They're coming," one of the flight attendants said. "Here's the truck now."

  "Someday they'll have everything set up when we get on board, and I won't know what the hell to do," Kirsten said. She watched the catering truck back up beneath the right forward door. The truck's extension bed rose up on lifters level to the door. She popped open the galley door and said to the caterers, "It's about time!"

  A young woman pushed a meal cart off the truck-bed and into the door. The cart clipped Kirsten's leg. "Hey, watch it!" Kirsten snapped. "Don't you know what you're doing?"

  "I am sorry," the woman said. "I'm new today, just filling in."

  "Well, watch it," Kirsten said. "Here let me get that." She began steering the cart into the slot it belonged to in the galley.

  "I need the toilet," the woman said.

  "Oh for Christ's sake!" Kirsten said. "Around the corner." The woman caterer brushed by her. "She's probably never seen an airplane lav before," she said to the flight attendant helping her. "C'mon, let's get this loaded."

  Inside the lavatory, the woman knelt and opened up the cabinet where the trash bin sat. She pulled out the trash bin, and in the small nook behind it, set two small packages she'd concealed in her pants. She replaced the bin, flushed the toilet, and walked out.

  "Very nice," she said.

  "If you're done touring, maybe you can take these carts out. Think you can handle that?" Kirsten said.

  The woman pushed the carts out onto the gantry, and the lift descended into the truck bed.

  "We're getting a real poor start," Kirsten said. "I'll be ready for this flight to be over."

  ***

  "So he may be on the plane already?" Cohen said.

  "We've got passengers loading right now. We can go on board and take him off. I'll have to get the Polizei up there right now," George said.

  "Why bother?" Cohen said. "We are three, we can get an air carrier representative to go with us, say that there is a question about his ticket, take him off...then we can get the Polizei involved if we need to."

  "Roger that," John said. He waved for his shooters to fall in on him.

  "This is not fucking Beirut, this is Frankfurt, and we're not crashing onboard with a bunch of gunfighters to take this guy off the plane. I'll call the Polizei to meet us at the gate." George pulled out his cellular phone and hit a speed dial. "Dieter, this is George. Get a couple of Polizei to meet us at Gate 52C. Right." He closed the phone and hurried. "They're going to push back in a minute. Come this way," he said, ducking through a side door. "We can get around the screening checkpoint this way."

  "Ah, this is just like the old days," Eli Cohen said, hurrying behind. "So, John Bolen, do you play poker?"

  ***

  Karen worked the door by herself. Harold was supposed to back her up, but he'd already sat down, kicked off his shoes and had the flight attendant bring him a glass of orange juice. Dyer Shaw sneered at her from his seat in Business. Ray Rydell, who sat across the aisle, stood up, shaking his head in disgust. He brushed past Karen and said, "I've got your back, Karen." She nodded gratefully. Ray stepped through the galley and to the far side of the aircraft and leaned against the bulkhead where he could watch the passengers enter. Karen was more tired than she could remember ever being in her life. The fatigue of a marshal mission was a cumulative one; the long hours, the stress of traveling and maintaining the edge, disrupted sleep patterns, the interpersonal tensions. She took a deep breath and held it for a few heartbeats to clear her head.

  ***

  Ahmad Ajai walked down the aisle in co
ach, handing a few select passengers each a presentation carton of Johnny Walker.

  "Hey, if you're giving those away..." said a young soldier, grinning up from his coach seat.

  "I'm sorry," Ahmad Ajai said, smiling. "I have only enough for my friends."

  He returned to his Business seat and set the carry-on bag with its single remaining Johnny Walker bottle beneath the seat in front of him. He fastened his seatbelt loosely around him. The other passengers were doing likewise, settling in comfortably, putting away bags. The flight attendants moved from seat to seat checking seatbelts and closing overhead compartments. The front passenger loading door was still open; a passenger service representative stood beside it with a long, curling sheaf of computer printout, the passenger manifest, in her hand. The Business Section was full. Ajai looked up at a disturbance in the passenger door, and saw George Baumgarner, the airport security liaison, two men he didn't know, and two German Polizei. Ahmad Ajai stiffened, then forced himself to relax. He had prepared for this contingency. The men came down the aisle towards him. Several of his hijackers shifted in their seats, and he prayed with all his might that they would stick to the discipline he had instilled in them for just this scenario.

  One of the men, a tough looking young American in a leather jacket, was on the far aisle across from him, while Baumgarner and the other man, led by the Polizei, came up the aisle directly to him.

  "Excuse me, Mr. Rosenbaum?" Baumgarner said to Ahmad Ajai. "There's a problem with your ticket, I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."

  "Certainly," Ahmad Ajai said calmly. "Is there a need for the police?"

  "No, it's just procedure, Mr. Rosenbaum," George said. "Please come with me. Is this your bag?" he asked, pulling down the slim briefcase.

  "Yes," said Ahmad Ajai.

  The other man reached down and took the duty-free bag and peered in.

  "You have good taste in whiskey," Eli Cohen said, noting the tension in the man when he heard the Israeli accent.

  The armed men moved in around Ahmad Ajai and hustled him off the aircraft.

  "We already got his bag pulled," George said to the lead flight attendant. "Tell the captain we're sorry for the delay, and he can push back now." George brushed by Karen with a wink, and stopped for a moment to speak to Harold, who had gotten up when he heard George behind him.

  "We've got somebody with a bad passport," George said. "No positive ID yet, but it might be one of the players who've been working you guys. If we get something hot, we'll radio it to the pilot and have him relay it to you. You do your job, you hear me, Harold?"

  "You don't have to tell me that, Baumgarner," Harold said, his voice full of resentment. "We've got things covered."

  "Then get gone," George said. He turned away and followed the others off the aircraft.

  "You don't want to double check the pax, maybe pull the bags?" Eli Cohen asked.

  "No need, we've had special measures on. Everybody went through screening. That plane is as good to go as we can make it."

  "I'm glad you are so confident," Cohen said. He patted Ahmad Ajai on the shoulder, feeling the tension in the man. "So, Mr. Rosenbaum, where in Tel Aviv do you live?"

  "Actually, I live in Haifa."

  Cohen laughed merrily. "Oh, silly me. I must have gotten that confused."

  ***

  Gamal Ayoush watched with barely concealed rage as Ahmad Ajai was taken off the airplane. Ajai had warned him of this. Ajai was the only one known to the Western intelligence services, and the possibility existed that he might be identified by someone. So now Ayoush was in charge. Several of his fighters nodded in his direction. He broke eye contact with them and stared straight ahead. He'd have to pay careful attention now. Once the plane was in the air he would make sure there was no turning back. Ahmad Ajai could hold out; the Americans and the Germans would not torture him. It would take them hours to determine who he actually was, if in fact they could. That would be enough time.

  ***

  Kirsten looked up as a handsome Arab man in his thirties poked his head into the galley.

  "You'll have to return to your seat, sir. We're about to push back," she said.

  "Sure," the man said with a friendly smile. He held out the picture ID of a captain with Saudi Royal Airlines. "I'd like to pay my respects to the captain. I fly 747s too."

  "I'm sure that after take-off the captain will be glad to speak to you, sir. But I'll have to ask you to return to your seat. We're running a little late, and as you know, that departure time is important." Kirsten smiled sweetly.

  "Of course. Please let the captain know that I'll come by to pay my respects once we're airborne and at our cruising altitude. Thank you."

  "You're welcome," Kirsten said. After he had gone, she said to the other flight attendant, "He was nice. Not your normal sky-god captain."

  "Not his airplane," the other said. "He's probably just as big an egotistic prick as any other on his own plane."

  The women laughed.

  The pilot returned to his seat in First Class next to HD. He nodded to HD, who had his earphones for his Walkman plugged in. The country music he had playing was loud enough for the pilot to hear. The pilot was in a good position. He and the men behind him would seize the First Class section at the base of the stairs that led up to the cockpit and the Business Section. He had flown Air Iran 747 cargo planes before -- they were similar to the C-130s he'd flown for the Iranian Air Force.

  He stretched out his legs and made sure his seat belt was fastened. He prayed silently not to give himself away, and mentally rehearsed the movements he needed to kill this air marshal beside him.

  ***

  Upstairs Don and Charley and Joan settled into the Business Class seats right outside the cockpit. There were sixteen seats up stairs: four rows of two seats on each side of the aisle, a small galley, a lavatory right outside the cockpit door and the cockpit itself. The stair well from below wound around and came up into the aisle across from the small galley. Don sat in the front most seat on the left side, where he watched the stairs and the cockpit door. Charley sat across the aisle and one seat back of him, Joan on the same side as Don, all the way in the rear, her back against the wall. They all had passengers seated around them. There were five empty seats.

  The flight attendant checked everyone's seat belts. She caught herself as the plane lurched, then began to roll smoothly away with a ponderous grace. The plane pushed back from the gate and then taxied directly to the runway. The six terrorists upstairs peered out the small windows at the runway passing beneath them.

  ***

  In First Class four terrorists tried to get comfortable in their seats. HD was engrossed in Waylon Jennings's latest tunes, oblivious to everything else around him. Karen was tense and sick from cumulative fatigue. The slow, steady acceleration down the runway pressed her gently back into her seat. She felt the lift in her stomach that meant wheels up. She looked past the man sitting beside her out the window. The man, dark-complected with a heavy five o'clock shadow, seemed distracted.

  "This plane sure is quiet on take off, isn't it?" Karen said to make conversation.

  The man looked at her and shrugged. He turned away and stared out the window.

  ***

  The Polizei interrogation room was crowded with George Baumgarner, John Bolen, Eli Cohen, the Delta station manager and a full contingent of German BND plainclothes officers from the counter-terrorism unit. The man they called Mr. Rosenbaum sat quietly at the table in the center of the room, his hands crossed, his feet flat on the floor.

  "There must be a mistake," Ahmad Ajai said in a reasonable voice. "Some kind of mix-up with the record. Obviously I am not dead."

  "Not yet. But the day is young," Eli Cohen said coldly. "The Abraham Rosenbaum whose passport you carry, cleverly altered, by the way, has been dead since a cowardly fuck of a bomber killed him at a bus stop in Tel Aviv. Your photograph was inserted into the passport by someone who is very good indeed at that sor
t of work. That's not cheap or easy to come by. So why don't you save yourself grief? Surely there is a simple explanation, yes?"

  "How long for the prints?" George asked.

  The BND officer in charge, Gunther Dieckschau, growled in his gravely voice, "Soon, George."

  John Bolen said, "We had them couriered down to the embassy. The Bureau liaison there is sending them electronically to DC." He didn't mention that a matching set was going to the CIA Counter-Terrorist Unit, who maintained their own off-line database of fingerprints. John and his shooters had added fingerprints to that data base: off dead terrorists for cross reference to open incidents as well as off suspects in operations still running.

  "Not long for us," Eli said.

  Ahmad Ajai stared at the table in front of him and smiled calmly, a way he felt not at all. He knew he was done, but he still hoped for the success of his operation. The plane was in the air now, and things would begin to pick up momentum the way a stone gathers speed on its long fall from the mountain to the valley below.

  "May I have a cup of coffee?" Ahmad Ajai asked politely.

  ***

  ON BOARD DELTA FLIGHT #107, FRANKFURT TO DULLES:

  The fourteen remaining hijackers ran through their mental checklists. They checked their identical CASIO plastic watches, coordinated with a time hack and an alarm set to alert them at the proper time. On the screens that dropped from the bulkheads a movie told them of the aircraft safety features.

  The air marshals watched the safety movie as they had time and time again. The more conscientious marshals checked out the passengers in their assigned sectors. Stacy looked forward from her seat in the front of Coach to where Shirleen was sitting in the rear of Business. Shirleen looked back, caught her eye and winked. Young Ray worked several seats ahead of Shirleen. Stacy could just see the back of his head as he scanned his assigned seats.

  "What a job," Stacy thought. "I got to get into a different line of work." She pulled out a copy of Elle from her carry-on and flipped through the pages.

  Two rows behind her, the man from Beirut watched her, as he had watched her do her Mae West routine in the terminal. His elbow pressed the length of his body-heat warmed plastic knife tight against his rib cage.