58 Minutes (Basis for the Film Die Hard 2)
Page 22
"That's the Hassidim. It's their music."
"Not the music. Fun. You were just having fun with the prince, weren't you?" the Port Authority lieutenant asked.
"Omar?"
"He's the only damn prince we met tonight."
"Seemed like a decent guy," Malone said and relit his cigar.
"I'm talking about the other guy, that al-Khalif," Hamilton announced as they zigzagged through the crowd.
"He's definitely indecent."
"You wouldn't really shoot him, would you? It was just a threat to scare him, right?"
Malone's head was bobbing to the powerfully rhythmic music.
"Catchy, isn't it?" he said.
"You didn't answer my question."
"Cultural diversity," Malone said warmly. "One of the things that makes America great."
"For God's sake, Frank!" Hamilton protested.
Now they entered the lobby. Everything was happening there. Everything and a half. Families were weeping in relief. People were shouting in joy. Reporters were yelling questions over the uproar. Police were cursing the blinding lights of the television news crews. Politicians were beaming as they basked in the attention, and the Kiev Grandma looked happy but a bit bewildered.
And the music was very loud. The Hassidim were singing, dancing, celebrating this night's divine deed as they had celebrated all the others. It wasn't only the Hassidim. A dozen Haitians had joined the passionate dancing, three booted Texans, a score of other people. Malone grinned as he saw Senator Bono pile into the line. There were the two Coast Guard helicopter pilots, several Asians, a blond woman in $18,000 worth of mink, four nuns, and Samantha Wong. Even the earnest Associated Press photographer whom Malone had avoided earlier was out there, doing his best with the unfamiliar steps.
Now a TV news producer spotted Malone, shouted in triumph.
Then he pointed and yelled to his crew.
"There they come, Frank," Hamilton warned.
"Here we go," Malone replied.
The camera team surged forward and hit a wall of people.
And more people.
And still more.
Dancing, hugging, sobbing, laughing—and utterly indifferent to the possibility that Western Civilization might collapse if that television crew didn't reach Frank Malone.
Two other people did.
His daughter and Annie Green worked their way around the outer edge of the joyous crowd and reached him at the door from the building. Malone pushed the portal open, and they all slipped out into the night.
"Kate's been telling me about California, Frank," Annie Green said.
Malone realized that she knew.
She was aware of the separation, maybe more.
"There's no snow in Malibu, Daddy," the child said.
Malone looked out at the storm.
"I think it's slowing down," he judged.
"But we'll still have a white Christmas," Kate Malone said hopefully.
"I guarantee it," her father replied.
Annie Green couldn't help smiling.
"I'd better get back to The Cab," she said.
"Now it's my turn to thank you," the detective said. "I'll do it more thoroughly on Saturday, of course."
"Saturday?"
"We're having lunch on Saturday," he announced. "Pick you up at twelve thirty sharp."
"You don't know where I live."
"I'm going to find out, Annie," he said meaningfully. "Twelve thirty, don't be late."
Then Captain Frank Malone put down his daughter's suitcase and kissed an FAA watch supervisor. When she stepped back she was glowing.
"Saturday," she agreed.
"And I'll see you whenever you have that critique," he told Hamilton.
"Listen, Frank," the Port Authority lieutenant appealed.
"You're a good cop, Ben," Malone said.
"You're not so bad yourself," Hamilton answered.
They grasped each other's hands in silence.
Then somebody came from the terminal, releasing another burst of infectious music into the winter night.
"Definitely catchy," Frank Malone said as he picked up the suitcase. He began to hum the melody as they started for his car. By the time they reached the vehicle, his daughter was humming it, too. As he started the motor, Frank Malone thought about what had happened this cold and stormy December night.
The terrorists' perfect attack on the perfect system.
The AWACS plane that arrived from some secret mission over the North Atlantic that the air force still wouldn't discuss.
And Annabelle Green. Oh yes, Annabelle Green.
It was going to be one extraordinary Christmas.
He guided the sedan out of the parking lot, and when they reached the highway he accepted his daughter's suggestion that they go on to songs whose words she knew. They sang the carols all the way into the city.
Author's Note
The author wishes to thank the individuals at the Federal Aviation Administration, the U.S. Air Force, the Coast Guard and public relations staff of Pan American Airways who provided so much factual assistance and helpful advice.
The technology described in this novel is based on their knowledge and guidance. Air traffic control experts have told the writer that there are, in addition to the equipment described in this book, other "systems" that should prevent the sabotage and crisis set forth in this work of fiction from happening.
I would certainly hope so. To add a minor contribution to air safety, these "systems" and how they work were not included in 58 Minutes.
w. w.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1987 by Walter Wager
978-1-935169-03-1
Designed by Jack Merserole
This edition published in 2012 by Graymalkin Media
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Contents
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2
3
4
5
6
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10
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12
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41
Author's Note
Copyright Page
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