Air Force One is Down

by John Denis

  Feisal eased his slim body out of the hole and found himself looking down the sheer side of the mountain. He gulped and withdrew his head, then glanced up, and to both sides. The fissure ran out in the mouth of the cave above the castle, and the boy scaled the remaining distance easily. He was now virtually on the castle roof, and he stepped gingerly on to one of the pyramid towers, from where he could see the cliff, the road and the valley beyond, and just caught sight of the sloping eave in front of the sentry-slit in his own room.

  He edged round the other face of the pyramid and descended to a flatter part of the roof. Looking up, he saw a flag-pole projecting from the top of the tower, its fastening rope trailing from the bare stem.

  The boy smiled, and was about to remount the tower when the sound of voices reached him from below. Feisal knelt and crept to the very rim of the castle. The voices came from a ventilation-port set high into the wall of what he judged to be the trophy room, where the hostages were imprisoned. Mister Smith was speaking.

  ‘… so it would appear, gentlemen, that your respective governments care less for your lives than for the comparatively trifling sum it will cost to save them. At any rate, I can place no other construction on their request for a two-hour delay. I cannot believe they would be so foolish as to contemplate tracking us down at this place, since by so doing they will inevitably sacrifice all of you. Therefore, I repeat, I can only assume they are weighing your lives in the balance against a mere fifty million dollars in diamonds.’

  Smith had separated the ministers from the crew, who were valueless to him. He had Dunkels at one shoulder, Jagger at the other, both armed with Schmeisser machine-pistols, and Fayeed leading a guerilla group which commanded the rest of the trophy room.

  Hawley Hemmingsway, easily the tallest and strongest man in the room, folded his arms and said, with a disdainful sneer, ‘Maybe they just don’t relish having to deal with scum like you, Smith. That would at least be understandable.’

  Smith regarded him with tolerant amusement, but the shaft had struck home. Smith never suffered criticism easily; it was part of the megalomaniac’s armour that he must always be supremely right, above reproach, fêted and admired for the aesthetic beauty of his crimes. Above all, though, he prided himself on his iron control, which rarely deserted him and which was needed now to suppress his rising anger. He was framing a suitably tart reply when Sheikh Zeidan saved him the trouble.

  The old Arab raised a cautionary hand and growled to Hemmingsway, ‘Easy, my friend, easy. Patience. You would not, would you, trade insults with a rabid dog? No, you keep your counsel and remove yourself from his solitary path.’

  Smith’s teeth clenched and his eyes bored into Zeidan’s, but he could not hold the cripple’s burning, scornful gaze. But Hemmingsway, the Boston aristocrat with six centuries of traceable English and colonial blood in his veins, had never needed to curb his temper with such creatures as he saw before him.

  He unfolded his arms and let them swing easily at his side, breathing noisily through parted lips, his eyes wild, the very marrow of his culture and civilisation affronted. ‘I thank you for your advice, Your Excellency,’ he said, ‘but I have spent large portions of my life dealing with vermin such as these at various levels in war and politics. It is as well to make them completely aware that men such as you and I and your colleagues cannot, will not, be intimidated. We cannot and will not be used as pawns in the games of these sordid mercenaries, sold over their sleazy counter as merchandise to provide money for prolonging their disgusting lives, to give them—’

  ‘Why don’t you just button your lip, like the man says.’ The dry, softly-spoken words from Cody Jagger, cut through Hemmingsway’s outburst and laid an aura of menace over the room which had not been there before. Dr Hamady looked for the source of the sound and visibly quailed when he met Jagger’s cold stare. Dorani plucked nervously at Hemmingsway’s sleeve, but the American shook him off. Sheikh Arbeid tore his gaze away from Jagger’s, then met other eyes everywhere he looked … dead eyes, of eagles, deer, boars, great fierce dogs; accusing and unforgiving eyes.

  It was breaking-point for Hemmingsway, though. Where Smith possessed at least the responsibility and lustre of command, Jagger, the renegade American, the traitor for gain, was so far beneath Hemmingsway’s contempt that what little control that was left to him snapped.

  ‘You, McCafferty,’ he breathed, ‘you … without you none of this would have been possible. You sold yourself and your country and your honour to this pack of lice to line your pockets and crawl away into whatever sewer will have you.’ Flecks of foam appeared at the corners of his mouth and he took one, two steps towards Jagger, until they were separated by no more than ten feet.

  ‘Come back, Hemmingsway,’ Dr Hamady pleaded.

  ‘No nearer, pal,’ Jagger said. ‘I’m telling you.’ But Hemmingsway did not even hear them. He was shaking now with fury, and his eyes and senses could only encompass the man standing before him.

  ‘That you should presume even to speak to me is so loathsome to me that I could vomit at the mere thought of you,’ he stormed. ‘Compared with you, Smith is a knight in shining armour. If it’s the last thing I do, McCafferty, I will see that you suffer for your treachery. I will ensure that you pay for soiling the uniform you still wear. Because do you hear, you filth, you trash … do you? I’m going to tear your body apart with my own hands –’ another step forward, ‘I’m going to rip—’

  Without aiming, without even moving, Jagger tightened his finger on the trigger of the machine-pistol and sent a stream of slugs into Hemmingsway, who was still coming at him, arms outstretched. One of the hands flew off, severed at the wrist; Hemmingsway’s face disappeared, its contours and definition merging into a mash of blood and bone; his trunk was almost bisected as the bullets cut through him and the clamour and gunsmoke assaulted the senses of every man in the room.

  Smith had made a feeble attempt to restrain his ringer, but it would have been unavailing, for Cody Jagger was a man of the jungle; he had no conscience, no finesse, no scruples. And no control, since he had never needed to exercise any. Hemmingsway had genuinely believed he had dealt with the worst kinds of men, but he had never encountered Jagger’s type, the totally amoral creature of the twilight underworld.

  When it was over, Smith laid his hand on Jagger’s arm and kept it there, looking into the ringer’s face with a calm, level gaze until the killing-light died in Cody’s eyes.

  ‘So, gentlemen,’ Smith said gravely, turning his false and handsome face back to the Arabs, ‘it has come to this. You have insulted my honour, and that of my men. I am, though you will not accept it, a man of honour. I did not plan this … you can have no conceivable doubt of that. Yet maybe it will serve as an indelible warning to you and to those governments who have so little regard for you that they have failed to take me seriously.

  ‘As I have told you –’ and his voice dropped so that they had to strain to hear him ‘– as I told you I am a man of honour. I keep my word. I gave my pledge to Malcolm Philpott of UNACO that if your nations did not find the ransom due to me immediately and inform me of it, I would execute one of you every three hours.

  ‘I should, perhaps, tell you now that it had been my intention to dispose of Mr Hawley Hemmingsway precisely at noon. By his own actions he has deprived himself of an hour of life. Such men are fools. You, I believe, are not.’

  Smith swung on his heel and walked out leaving the hostages frozen in their horror like a ballet tableau trapped in ice.

  Feisal clung to his tower and fought back the tears as the enormity of what was happening in the trophy room floated up to him on the light breeze. Then he completed his mission and used elbows, arms and hands to ease himself back down the fissure.

  His legs appeared through the gap in the ceiling, and Cooligan shouted, ‘Drop, sonny. I’ll catch you.’ Feisal did as he was told. Bert carried him to the bed, and Sabrina bent over him anxiously. The boy’s colour was high, and swea
t dewed his brow. Sabrina gave him a further injection and forced him to eat some gruel and black bread. Gradually, as before, the fever subsided.

  Cooligan had been waiting patiently for the boy to recover, for both he and Sabrina had heard the shooting, and guessed that Feisal might be able to fill in the details. The Arab gasped as he choked on the food, and Sabrina patted his back and wiped his mouth. ‘Tell us, Feisal, if you can,’ she said gently.

  He sat up, holding on to Sabrina’s arm. ‘They killed him, Sabrina, they killed him,’ he sobbed.

  ‘Who?’ asked Cooligan.

  ‘Mr Hemmingsway, the American gentleman.

  There was a terrible quarrel between Mr Hemmingsway and Mister Smith, and Grandfather told Mr Hemmingsway to be quiet, and then someone else spoke, and Mr Hemmingsway t–turned on him, too, and called him things, and—’ his voice trailed off.

  ‘And what?’ Sabrina pressed.

  ‘And – and the other man shot him. He must be dead, I know. There were a lot of bullets. It went on for so long, and there was a time when nobody spoke, and then Mister Smith said he had been going to kill Mr Hemmingsway anyway, but not y-yet.’

  Cooligan let the boy lapse into snuffles in Sabrina’s arms. Feisal sniffed and blinked and said, ‘I know what you want me to tell you, Mr Cooligan. And I will, as far as I can. The man who killed Mr Hemmingsway was, I believe, Colonel McCafferty. I cannot be certain, but that’s the way it came to me up there on t-top of the castle.’

  The agent straightened up. ‘It doesn’t … it just doesn’t … feel right. I know Mac’s sold himself out, but God he’s no killer; not from anger or revenge. It – it doesn’t gel. Could you have been mistaken, Feisal?’ The Arab boy shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

  Cooligan pursed his lips and stroked his chin. ‘That settles it then,’ he continued slowly, ‘when I get out of here, the first thing I’m going to do is put that hellhound where he belongs … six feet under with the man he murdered.’

  Only then did Sabrina, still cradling Feisal in her arms, feel the rope coiled tightly around his body. She fingered it wonderingly, and he allowed her to unloose it.

  Cooligan dashed to the bed and grabbed the rope. ‘Where did you find it?’

  Feisal explained that it had been attached to the flag-pole. He considered the rope would be long enough to permit Cooligan to drop to a lower level and make his escape. ‘You can get through the viewing slit—’ he pointed at the external wall. ‘They have put no iron bars on the window here because they did not contemplate anyone being foolish enough to risk climbing out. But of course, if you have a rope?’ Feisal had clearly recovered some of his aplomb, and was feeling in a didactic mood. Cooligan needed no second bidding.

  He crossed to the wall-length window-slit. ‘No time like the present,’ he muttered, casting around for something to use to break the glass …

  At Zagreb Airport, Philpott was met by a cadre of anxious Yugoslav officials led by the Deputy Minister of the Interior. ‘My government,’ the politician announced, ‘wishes to do everything in its power to bring this matter to a satisfactory conclusion. As a loyal member nation of UNACO, we are dedicated root-and-branch to the extermination of criminals such as this Smith, and the extinction of international terrorism.’

  ‘Very decent of you, Minister,’ Philpott replied, guessing that Myshkin had already been busy. ‘I assume, then, that you will be prepared to offer me all the facilities I need to take Smith’s stronghold by storm?’

  ‘Eh – do you know where he is, Mr Philpott?’ Philpott confirmed that he did. The Minister queried whether a large assault-force would be wise.

  Philpott grinned, guessing that the Deputy Minister did not really wish to involve the Yugoslav armed forces in an action where they might possibly encounter Russians. He assured the politician that he, too, considered a small UNACO force would be able to penetrate Smith’s lair while keeping a lower profile than a frontal-attack group could. ‘May I have transportation, though?’ he pressed.

  ‘But assuredly,’ the Deputy Minister cried, ‘one of our most reliable helicopters is waiting for you at this very airport. It is yours to do with as you will.’

  He pointed to a far corner of the field, where a reliable helicopter sat preening itself. Philpott learned that the pilot would have charts to cover the area of Smith’s hideaway – wherever that might be – and any other location. Philpott expressed his thanks and began to make his way to the aircraft when he heard his name called. UNACO were on the telephone, the Deputy Minister said, with an urgent message.

  As soon as Sonya came on the line, Philpott knew from the tone of her voice that she had unpleasant news. ‘Smith’s issued his instructions for the ransom collection,’ she said when he had established his identity. ‘I’ll give them to you now, shall I?’

  ‘No,’ Philpott returned, ‘let’s have the bad news first.’

  ‘Bad news?’ she echoed. ‘Well, yes … there is some … Malcolm, he’s killed Hawley Hemmingsway.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Philpott groaned, ‘I never thought he would actually do it. It’s my fault, Sonya; I gambled with poor Hawley’s life.’

  She reproached him for blaming himself, making it clear that Hemmingsway had not been executed according to Smith’s announced plan. ‘He didn’t do it personally. His radio message said Hemmingsway had been shot for being uncooperative and insulting Smith’s integrity.’

  ‘Who did the shooting?’

  ‘They didn’t reveal that.’

  Philpott sighed grimly. ‘Then Smith let it happen,’ he pronounced, ‘because I’m still willing to bet it was part of his scheme. He may not have been able to prevent it, but I doubt if he tried very hard. It must have fallen very nicely for him that one of his men went ape.’

  Sonya let the comforting silence go on, then broke it to tell Philpott that Smith had now promised to kill all the hostages, Arabs and AF One crew members, if any rescue attempt was launched.

  ‘I think he means it, Malcolm,’ Sonya whispered. ‘I think he knows somehow that we may be closing in on him. He’s been told of McCafferty’s escape from Bahrain, and he must suspect the truth: that Mac followed the German – Dunkels, is it? – to the castle. He knows you’re in Zagreb – the Russians must have let on – and he probably imagines you’re on your way to the castle with a large force. I believe he’d rather everyone died, himself included, before he’d consider surrendering.’

  Philpott chuckled drily, without a trace of humour. ‘Large force,’ he muttered. ‘A middle-aged has-been and a knocked-about flier. I ask you!’

  THIRTEEN

  Branches flailed at the head of Philpott’s knocked-about flier as he cursed for the hundredth time after falling for what seemed to be the thousandth time. If McCafferty had not been too drastically knocked about before, he was now receiving more than his fair share.

  His plan, which he still followed, had been to approach the castle not from below or from the level of the road, but from above. As Mac had ruefully admitted to himself, bidding farewell to his sad-eyed donkey, that meant climbing the mountain. He had taken the lugubrious animal up as far as he dared if he was to avoid either being spotted from the castle or thrown off the donkey’s back, for by now they were struggling up near-vertical slopes.

  Finally the donkey snorted and brayed his refusal to go any further, and McCafferty could not altogether blame him. He watched the donkey slide and plunge back down the mountainside and hoped the animal would still be around when he needed it later for his rendezvous with Philpott. He was not burdened with his back-pack either, though he trusted that the now positively wealthy postman’s daughter would not yield to temptation and search it.

  So he had continued on foot, hanging for dear life on to the stunted shrubs, wiping dust motes from his streaming eyes, and being slowly flayed by the trees. He had brought a pair of two-way radios and selected and assembled for armament, a sub machine-gun with a leather sling and as he climbed it began to weigh on hi
s back like a Howitzer. At last he reached a ledge wide enough to allow him to lie at full length and get his breath back. He sat up, soothed his aching muscles, zipped his anorak against the sharper chill of the air, and looked down upon Castle Windischgraetz.

  The castle was even more spectacular from his lofty perch, which gave a true bird’s-eye view of it. He noted the twin courtyards and the chasm which the drawbridge would normally span, and the wooded country over to his left, the trees clustered thickly at the point where the hillside rose shallowly from the track, then thinning out a few hundred yards higher until, at his level, they were practically non-existent.

  Mac found that his ledge circumvented almost the entire mountain, and he decided to take the opportunity and oversee the castle and all its grounds. He followed the curve of the castle as it hugged the convex bulge of the mountain, and noted the Kamov still sitting on the jerry-built launch-pad, its rotors spinning. To the left of the castle from the American’s viewpoint lay a large car-park reaching back to the mountainside. It was tree-shaded, and the trees then wandered up the gentle slope. It was there that McCafferty first saw the running man.

  He adjusted his field glasses and was so intent on focusing on the darting, crouching figure that the significance of the Kamov’s whirling blades didn’t strike him until the little helicopter had actually taken off and started to buzz the inclined woodland. At the same time, Mac became aware – and cursed himself fluently for not noticing before – that men were searching the lower slopes of the hill below the castle, with the helicopter snarling over them like an angry gnat.

  But their quarry – and who could it be but the running man? – was above the castle. One up to the escapee, Mac thought, for the man must have got free from the castle … and now the hunt was up. McCafferty at last trained his binoculars on the fugitive, but even before identification became certain, he knew it was going to be Bert Cooligan …

  The agent had tied the rope securely to the kingpost of the eave and lowered himself to the next level – a balcony outside an unoccupied room. He signalled to Sabrina and she unhooked the line and threw it down to him.