by Walter Wager
"What are you talking about?"
"Ten years for manslaughter. You'll get your fucking number. You'll be wearing it."
"That's preposterous. I don't make the rules, Captain."
"But you'll do the time," he predicted. "When those pictures of the heaps of bodies hit the newspapers, somebody's going to jail—and it won't be any admiral. You're it, lady."
Silence.
"It might be fifteen years," he threatened.
She coughed uneasily before she replied.
"Since it's an emergency," she said stiffly, "I could check with the FBI while we run the probe. If they authorize use of their number, you'll get the results."
"Right away," he pressed. "I'm ready to roll the tape of the man's voice we need identified. You record all your phone traffic, right?"
"Roll your tape," she ordered curtly.
He placed the receiver next to the cassette player and started it. While the tape rolled, he asked Wilber for the numbers of the phones in this office and The Cab. As soon as the terrorist's first conversation with Annie Green ended the detective turned off the player and recited both numbers to the Sea Sweep officer so she could call back.
"Thank you, Captain," she said in a tone of frigid hostility. "You realize that we may not have that man's voice in our audio file. Even if it's there, the distortion of a voice delivered over a telephone line could make identification impossible."
"Give it your best shot."
"We always do," she replied righteously and hung up.
As Malone put down the phone, he wondered whether he'd just lost the element of surprise. Number One was a professional at this game and a careful planner. If he knew the FAA system so well, he'd probably scouted the offices too. This room or phone could be bugged.
Number One might have heard the call to Sea Sweep.
He could be listening now.
There was no time to search for cunningly concealed microphones. Malone had other things to do, all desperately urgent. He decided to do them elsewhere.
"Let's go," he said abruptly and started toward the doorway.
"Where? Why?" Wilber asked. "I'd like to know what the hell's going on here."
"I'll tell you when I find out," Malone promised. "Right now I've got to talk to somebody downstairs. Come on."
They took the elevator to the ground floor and hurried through the swirling storm across the open bridge to the International Arrivals Building. Both men were brushing melted snow from their faces as they passed the federal narcotics agents on the balcony.
When Malone and the FAA executive reached the top of the stairway, the detective looked down at the noisy crowd in the large chamber below. He scanned the journalists and Hassidim, the Russian woman's family and scores of others here to meet inbound travelers.
"There's our somebody," Malone said and pointed at a well-dressed man in the throng.
He was standing where he often stood—near a television news crew. He looked assured, sincere and maturely handsome. Barely five feet nine, he radiated the authority of a big man.
"That's Senator Bono!" Wilber exclaimed.
"Has been for eleven years. Where's the toilet?"
"In the right corner there, at the back."
"Meet you inside in three minutes," the detective said and hurried down the steps. He zigzagged through the crowd warily, trying to avoid any press people who might recognize him. When he spotted a lanky Associated Press photographer who knew him, Malone instantly turned his head.
He found himself looking at Bono's "media assistant" five yards away. Sidney Stern's brow was furrowed in concentration and he was walking quickly. When Malone gestured to him, the publicist waved back but didn't slow down until the detective blocked his way.
"Nice to see you, Captain," Stern said mechanically as he tried to pass. Malone didn't let him.
"I have to talk to him right away," Malone announced.
"If you'll call the office in the morning—"
"Now, Sidney. It's life and death for a lot of people ... in this state . . . tonight. He can help save them."
"This is for real?"
Malone nodded.
"We're fighting the clock," he warned the balding press aide. "I'll meet him in the john in two minutes."
"The john?"
"Don't argue with me, Sidney. Do it!"
Senator Joseph Bono entered the men's lavatory of the JFK International Arrivals Building a minute and forty seconds later. Stern was with him. Bono glanced around the toilet, shrugged and looked Malone squarely in the eye.
"Life and death for a lot of people?" he asked bluntly.
"Including Mrs. Olitski," Malone replied. "You might help save them."
"I'm listening."
Malone described the crisis and Number One's demands.
"Unbelievable!" Bono said softly and shook his head.
"Don't take my word for it," the detective told him. "This is Pete Wilber. He's federal. He runs the tower here."
Wilber gave his FAA identity card to Bono, who studied it carefully.
"It's true," Wilber blurted. "I don't know how they did it, Senator, but they did."
Bono sighed as he returned the ID card.
"How can I help?" he asked.
Malone took a quarter from his pocket.
"Phone the White House immediately," he said and handed Bono the coin. "If we don't nail these bastards in time, we have to deliver the people they want. Four of them—Farzi, Arroza, Lloyd and Sanchez—are in federal custody in Manhattan. Ask the president to rush them out here at once."
"The president may not do it," Stern warned. "He just made one helluva speech against any deals with terrorists."
"And I supported his position the next day," Bono recalled soberly.
"Life and death" Malone challenged. "Will you make the call?"
Senator Joseph Bono looked at himself in the big mirror, adjusted the knot of his tie and turned to his media expert Stern scooped a handful of change from his jacket and gave the money to his employer.
"It costs more than a quarter to call Washington," Stern said.
"You're pretty damn sure of yourself, Sid," Bono told him.
"No, I'm sure about you, Joe."
"It'll work" Malone predicted. "The president will listen to you, Senator. You're his friend."
"Presidents don't have friends," the graying politician replied. "I'll call him though. Anything else, Captain?"
"We'd like to keep this situation secret as long as possible."
The senator shrugged and smiled.
"Business as usual, Sidney," he said cheerfully. "Let's go talk to the president and con the media."
Bono and Stern left first and went to the nearby row of phone booths. While the senator was speaking to a senior White House aide a minute later, Malone and Wilber were going up on the escalator. The detective looked down and frowned.
"So much for secrets," he said ironically.
More people were surging into the International Arrivals Building. There were at least a score of them—all but one male and most of them in uniforms. They looked bulky in their bulletproof vests. Five carried submachine guns, while others held shotguns and sniper rifles with the assurance of familiarity. Among those bearing walkie-talkies was a tall and muscular black man who was clearly in command: Lieutenant Benjamin Hamilton of the Port Authority Police.
The initial reaction of the startled civilians was shock. Guns, even in the hands of the police, meant danger. What kind? How serious? For several moments the crowd grew much quieter. Then there was a rising surge of sound as scores of worried people asked those questions aloud.
Other shaken men and women stared silently at the heavily armed Port Authority force. It was the submachine guns and bulletproof vests that chilled the waiting relatives and thrilled the press people. These police were clearly equipped for battle.
With whom?
Why?
The reporters reacted instantly to the sight of H
amilton's combat-ready unit. Aroused by the prospect of a major shootout that would make a much "hotter" story than some old woman rejoining her family, graduates of distinguished journalism schools shoved people aside and bulled forward to demand answers from Hamilton.
He knew what he had to do.
He had to keep the secret for as long as possible.
Hamilton ignored the shouted questions as if he didn't hear them. He looked straight ahead as he led his unit toward the elevator. Avoiding eye contact, Lieutenant Benjamin Hamilton coolly pretended that he didn't see the arm-waving reporters. He didn't blink or break stride when two of them called out his name.
Irritated but undiscouraged, the television crews, radio teams, print journalists and photographers all pressed forward through the crowd. Hamilton hurried on steadily, moving ahead with a graceful style that made Frank Malone wonder where he'd played football. Hamilton was almost at the elevator when a pretty Haitian woman backed into his way, forcing him to stop. The surging media mob closed in immediately.
17
SOME FOUR MILES SOUTHWEST and three thousand feet up, Kenji Tokoro squinted as he tried once more to peer through the billowing white wall of tumbling snow. The earnest copilot of the Japan Air Lines cargo plane had flown through plenty of bad weather before, but nothing quite like this.
It was quiet in the cockpit of the big Boeing.
For a moment Tokoro felt isolated and uneasy.
Then he turned his head, just two inches, to sneak a discreet look at the middle-aged man in the seat beside him. Tokoro had great respect for Captain Shigeta. It wasn't only because the bespectacled commander of the 747 was an older person, although that was not unimportant. Captain Shigeta was also a very experienced and excellent flier.
There was no uncertainty in his face, Tokoro thought admiringly. As usual, Captain Shigeta was serene and in complete control of the situation. Neither the blinding storm nor the unusual communications problem ruffled him. It was definitely an honor to fly with such a mature man who exemplified Japanese dignity, patience and efficiency so well.
Tokoto felt proud and reassured as he turned his head away.
There was nothing to worry about with Captain Shigeta in command.
Flying a thousand feet above the Japanese 747, the senior pilot of TWA 22 Heavy from Los Angeles wasn't nearly as contented. His stomach, bloated and burning, was bothering him again. Bitterness about his damned alimony payments had been gnawing at Lawrence Pace's belly for months, and the hot sauce that he'd carelessly tossed on the chimichangas at lunch in the Mexican restaurant near Burbank had obviously been a mistake.
Being stuck up here in this lousy snowstorm only added to the TWA pilot's discomfort and tension. It could have been worse, he reflected sourly. Having been bothered by similar gastric distress several times recently, the practical captain of the L-1011 was ready to cope. He had the solution in his pocket.
Of course, he didn't want the others in the cockpit to see him take out the bottle. There was no telling what sort of stupid gossip might start if they noticed him swallow the tablets. They might not believe that these were just an ordinary antacid remedy, and there could be troublesome rumors that fifty-one-year-old Lawrence Pace had an ulcer or shaky nerves. Envious of his seniority, the younger crewmen might say almost anything.
Pace knew that he wasn't sick. He took good care of his body—aside from an infrequent lapse with Mexican food— combining a balanced diet of sprouts, wheat germ, bran, fish, and fresh vegetables and a meticulous program of daily exercise. He opened the small bottle in his pocket, shook out two tablets and warily raised them to his lips.
As he began to chew the tablets, he looked across and saw his copilot watching. Had he noticed? Annoyed, Captain Lawrence Pace wanted to swear.
In the Pentagon's Operations Center, General Sloat did.
"Son of a bitch!" he cursed into the phone. "An hour to get the bird airborne?"
"And at least forty-five minutes more to fly to Kennedy, which could be real hairy with all those planes up there playing blindman's bluff," the colonel at Langley Air Force Base warned.
105 minutes, Sloat thought and looked at the wall clock.
It showed 8:31.
The E-3A from Langley couldn't reach JFK before 10:16 at the earliest, and that could be too late.
"What do you say, General?"
Sloat hesitated. There would be a terrible loss of life— and political hell to pay—if an E-3A crammed with Top Secret gear collided with a civilian airliner.
"General?"
It could all be for nothing. Nobody knew what kind of jamming the terrorists were using. Malone's idea might not work anyway.
"What's the word, General? Go or no?"
"Go!" Sloat said defiantly.
105 minutes.
Maybe they could save a few of the trapped planes.
That would be better than none at all.
18
WATCHING from the balcony, Malone saw Hamilton speaking to the encircling ring of journalists. After about twenty seconds, the Port Authority lieutenant suddenly turned and pointed directly at Frank Malone.
What was Hamilton doing?
The reporters looked up at Malone. Three photographers swiftly squeezed off pictures of the detective, and a pair of television cameramen raised their minicams to videotape Captain Frank Malone through power-zoom lenses.
What was Hamilton telling them?
The Port Authority lieutenant stopped talking and waved pleasantly up to Malone. It was a startling but friendly gesture that called for a response. Malone forced himself to smile as he waved back. When Hamilton resumed speaking and tapped his wristwatch, the circle of reporters opened to let him proceed to the escalator.
"What the hell was that all about?" Malone asked as Hamilton led his heavily armed unit onto the balcony half a minute later.
"The routine security test that the FAA called for tonight," Hamilton answered evenly. "You know, the one that you came out here to observe."
"Oh, that one. Is there anything else I'm going to do?" Malone asked while they walked toward the control tower.
"Not till nine forty-five. That's when we're supposed to brief the press on how well the exercise went."
"Very creative," Malone said admiringly.
"You helped. Their seeing the city's top antiterrorist cop lent credibility to my fable."
Then Malone remembered, and sighed.
"Your fable could have bought us over an hour," he thought aloud.
"Could have?"
"More cops, a lot more than a test would need, are on the way."
"It really wasn't that good a fable," Hamilton said with a shrug. "How much time have we got before they arrive?"
"Not enough. It's going to get messy downstairs."
"Jesus!" Wilber blurted. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to nail Number One and get those planes down,"
Malone answered.
They were approaching the two federal narcotics agents. T. J. Gill and the slim woman with the Bloomingdale's bag scanned the platoon of Port Authority police warily, worried that the uniformed intruders might make always edgy dope dealers cut and run. Gill frowned as he whispered to the female operative. Then she stepped forward to ask the question.
Frank Malone spoke first.
"Terrorists," he said bluntly as he strode past.
Only her eyes showed her surprise—and anger.
"DEA on stakeout," Malone told Hamilton and Wilber while they walked on toward the bridge. "It's big. I made seven or eight more downstairs."
Salvos of wind-driven snow silenced Malone as soon as they stepped onto the stormswept span. When they reached the shelter of the ground floor of the control tower building, they stamped their feet and brushed the wet flakes from their outer garments.
The guard behind the desk peered at them in amazement.
He'd worked at the Kennedy Tower for nearly four years, and he'd never seen any Port Authori
ty police in this kind of battle gear. These men looked like an assault unit, one of those SWAT teams who appeared on television. Here they were, live, only a few yards from him.
They seemed very big in their bulky flak jackets, and dangerous. The guard felt uneasy. Then he recognized Benjamin Hamilton's familiar face.
"Is it a drill, Lieutenant?" the guard asked uneasily.
Hamilton shook his head.
"This is for real," he replied.
"Shit," the man behind the desk whispered.
"Just go about your business," Hamilton ordered and turned to his team.
"Sergeant, seal off this building. Nobody comes in from the arrivals terminal."
Then Wilber pointed at the glass doors at the other side of the lobby. Beyond those portals was a bridge to the airport's chapel.
"And nobody from there either," Hamilton added.
At that moment, they saw a dark figure on the span to the house of worship. In instant reflex, five submachine guns swung to cover the faceless stranger beyond the doors and half a dozen police reached for their pistols. The quickest— the first to draw—was Frank Malone.
The heavyset man who entered was dressed in black.
Fedora, overcoat, pants, socks, shoes—all black.
The police stared for several seconds.
Then they lowered their weapons.
"Sorry, Father," Hamilton apologized to the priest. "We thought you might be someone else."
"Is something wrong?" the cleric asked earnestly in a deep bass voice.
"I'm afraid so," Hamilton answered. "For your own safety, it would be wise to leave this building immediately."
The priest studied the armed men and sighed.
"We live in violent times," he said slowly. "Well, if you should need me, I'll be downstairs in the terminal."
The clergyman walked out into the storm. Then Malone realized that he still held his .38 Police Special, and returned it to its home in the shoulder holster. For a few seconds he wondered what his devout mother would say if she'd heard that he'd pointed a loaded gun at a Catholic priest.
Crossing the span to the International Arrivals Building, the man in black allowed himself to smile. It was all right to do so in the swirling snow. No one could see. He knew he had to be extremely careful about showing his pleasure. It could be dangerous for people in his business to reveal any of their emotions. That was something Willi Staub had learned a lot of corpses ago.