by David Wind
“We’ll see.”
Emma walked toward the door. Before she reached it, the couple who had been so relieved that the terrorists were freeing their newly adopted daughter returned to the room. The woman’s face was tear streaked. Her husband held her shoulders tightly. Following behind was an airline official who tried to calm them.
“She’ll be all right. Really, she will,” the man said.
The distraught father whirled on the speaker. “What the hell was she doing in first class? She was supposed to be in the coach section! We paid for a coach class ticket, not first class!”
The airline official shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Seeing the panic on their faces, Emma knew she couldn’t stay in the lounge any longer. She had to get into the control tower, to be near her parents.
Emma forced away her debilitating fears in an effort to think more clearly. There had to be a way! Then, she remembered.
In a Gucci card holder in her purse, pushed out of her mind by her worry for her parents, was an outdated identification card showing her to be a member of the mayor’s staff. It had been true, once. Two years ago, she was the co-chair of the Mayor’s Coalition for Urban Business Revitalization. A fancy term for bringing businesses back to the slums. Emma was sure that the official-looking card would, at a quick glance and with the right phrasing from her, gain her admittance to the ready room. It had to!
<><><>
“That’s all I can say for now. I’ll reiterate that the situation is hopeful. Except for the one shooting, the hijackers have made no other threats.”
“Lieutenant,” shouted a reporter in the back of the crowd. “What about the girl? Why wasn’t she released?”
Hyte cut him off. “No more questions for now. You will be kept abreast of the situation.”
Hyte turned, taking Rosenthal with him. From the side of the pack of reporters, a woman broke free. “Jerome!” she called.
Rosenthal tensed. “How the hell...
Hyte looked at the woman. She was tall, graceful, and attractive: Her proud bearing told Hyte that she was used to getting her own way. The determination in her brown eyes was accented by the precise cut of her clothing.
When Hyte and Rosenthal paused, the reporters surged forward like a defensive line on a quarterback blitz. Rosenthal reached out and propelled the woman ahead of them. Once inside the building, Rosenthal stopped.
“I asked you not to come here.”
“I couldn’t stay in the lounge,” she said, her shoulders squared, eyes challenging Rosenthal and then Hyte.
Rosenthal exhaled sharply. “Ray, this is Emma Graham.”
Hyte allowed none of his surprise to show. “Miss Graham,” he said.
“How are my parents?” she asked.
“They seem to be doing all right.”
“How can anyone be doing all right in that plane?”
“They have no choice.”
“I want to see what’s going on.”
“Emma—”
Hyte cut Rosenthal off. “Miss Graham, I wish that was possible, but it isn’t. We’re crowded, and you would be a—”
“Distraction?” she challenged.
Studying her, he sensed deep-rooted strength. He liked what he saw. “No. You’d be an inhibition.”
“An inhibition? You mean that you don’t know any of the passengers personally, so you’re emotionally removed from them if you have to take the sort of action that puts them in danger?”
Smart! “Yes.”
“Jesus, Ray,” Rosenthal said.
“It’s all right, Jerome,” Emma said. “I prefer the lieutenant’s honesty to half-truths and reassurances.”
Very smart.
“What are my parents’ chances?”
“I won’t guess.” Hyte held his hands before him, palms up. “If everything continues the way it has—good.”
“Is that a big ‘if’’?”
“Uncertainty is always a factor in hostage situations.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. I appreciate your frankness.”
Her eyes turned soft. Her tongue flicked out to moisten her lips.
The movement fascinated Hyte.
“Get them out, Lieutenant. Please,” Emma Graham said.
“We’re all doing our best,” he told her as the security office door opened and Sy Cohen poked his head out.
“Ray, he wants you.”
Hyte had no doubt as to who the ‘he’ was. He turned to Rosenthal. “Jerry, she can’t go back there alone. Have one of the uniformed men take her to the terminal.”
“Is there someplace here where I can wait?” she asked. “I need to be near them, and I won’t be a bother.”
Hyte glanced at Rosenthal. The mayor’s special assistant nodded once. “There’s an employee lunchroom on the second floor,” Hyte said. “Take her there.” He turned to Emma. “The waiting won’t be easy.”
Hyte went to the door, stopped, and then glanced back at the handsome woman. “Miss Graham.”
“Yes?”
“When I was in the plane, your father kept tapping his chest. Could it mean something? Was it some sort of signal or message?”
Her features reflected puzzlement. “Not that I know of.”
“I just wanted to check. Thank you.”
Inside the ready room, Hyte picked up the phone. “I’m here, Mohamad,” he said as he watched the hijacker on the monitor.
Mohamad’s head snapped up. He stared at the camera.
“Do you see me?”
“I see you.” Hyte didn’t like the hijacker’s tone. “It is hot in this plane. We are beginning to wonder if you are playing games. Where is our money?”
“Being counted. Five million dollars takes time.”
“Lying takes time also. Are you lying to us, Lieutenant? I think you are.”
“To what purpose? Your hostages are more valuable than the money.”
Mohamad aimed his black machine pistol at the former senator. “He is. Yes. And this one, too,” he added, pointing the weapon at the Portuguese financier. “Aren’t you?”
Everyone in the command post watched the scene on the monitor. Cristobal Helenez held the hijacker’s gaze for several seconds before his head bobbed.
Then the terrorist looked at the camera. “This night will be remembered for a long time, by your people and mine. The world will see that we are not afraid to do what is necessary in our battle to regain our homeland. Where are our brothers?”
The question, coming so suddenly on the heels of Mohamad’s harangue, caught Hyte off guard. “On their way.”
“They should have been here already.”
“We discussed that. It takes time.” Hyte looked at the wall clock. They had an hour and twenty minutes. He found it hard to believe that only a few minutes had passed since he’d left to talk to the press.
“The trip takes two and a half hours including your extra unnecessary time. Do you think us fools? Where are they?”
Hyte turned to Cohen. “Give me an estimate.”
Arnel spoke first, glancing at the notepad in his hand.
“According to your time schedule, your mythical helicopter just passed Tarrytown.”
Hyte uncovered the mouthpiece. “The helicopter is approaching. It will be here in accordance with your time schedule.”
“Our patience is running out,” Mohamad hung up the field phone.
The sound of metal striking metal came through the TV camera’s speaker not unlike a gunshot. Hyte turned to Atkins. “Tell Captain Lacey to be ready in fifty minutes, if not sooner.”
Joseph Moran came in from the back door and went over to Hyte. “Lieutenant, the reporters want to interview the passengers.”
Hyte didn’t think it would matter, and it would help take some of the pressure away from the command post. “I don’t see a problem. Arnel?”
The FBI agent went to a phone. He dialed and spoke in a low voice. When he hung up, he nodded. “One news team. Po
oled tape feed to the others. The interview done in the customs area.”
Moran went outside to relay the information to Bennet and the reporters. Hyte stopped him. “What about the injured man?”
“He’s okay, Lou. A mild concussion. The doctor patched him up and he’s resting in one of the customs offices.”
Hyte looked at the monitor. Mohamad paraded back and forth in front of the passengers. Hyte knew Mohamad’s movements were calculated to bring fear to the hostages. Every few moments Mohamad would stop, scan the hostages’ faces, and then point the machine pistol at one of them.
Presently, Mohamad turned from the stewardess he was threatening, and moved on to Michael Barnes. He aimed the pistol at the redheaded hostage.
Hyte studied the terrorist’s moves. He knew Mohamad would do whatever was necessary to pull off his mission. Hyte also believed that if Mohamad did not get what he wanted, the terrorist would kill the hostages. In fact, Hyte thought, if it came to killing them, part of the terrorist’s plan would succeed. For with the deaths of the hostages, would come Senator Prestone’s death. By killing Prestone, he would temporarily interrupt the peace talks; if not completely sabotage them.
He knew, deep inside, there was more involved in this situation than just the deaths of the hostages. What more, exactly?
He was certain there would be no extensions in this negotiation, and, therefore, no room for error—their timing accurate to the last possible second.
He felt something trying to rise into his consciousness.
Intuitively, he knew it was an answer to the puzzle, a clue to what was really going to happen.
He pursued the evasive tendril of thought, but it remained elusive. He stopped chasing the thought before frustration could take over.
He watched the hostages, felt their fear.
It will come, he told himself. It has to!
Chapter Ten
Jerome Rosenthal left Emma Graham in a small lunchroom. An old black and white television was on a wire stand in one corner. There were three white Formica tables. Four chairs surrounded each. A variety of vending machines lined one wall.
She turned on the TV, seated herself at one of the tables, and watched the black and white pictures for half an hour. All the stations were covering the hijacking, airing the interviews with the released hostages in between quick recaps of the story.
While she watched and listened for any mention of her parents, the only reference to the remaining hostages was the speculation of the fate of the adopted seven-year-old girl.
Then another interview came on. The reporter was standing next to a young man of Middle Eastern origin, who introduced himself as Barum Kaliel.
Emma watched the interview carefully. It helped to keep her dark fears at bay.
“You did not see the crew member shot?” the reporter asked.
“No. We were all in the back.”
Emma listened to the peculiar way in which the man emphasized certain words and softened others. His accent was Semitic.
“What about the man who attacked the hijacker?”
“He was a fool. He could have gotten us all killed. I tried to reason with the hijacker,” Kaliel said. “I know their mentality, for I am from that part of the world. But he wouldn’t listen to me.”
“What did you say to him?” the reporter asked.
The camera went in for a close-up of the student’s face.
Emma saw that his skin wasn’t as smooth as she’d first thought. His cheeks were pitted, his lips full.
“I told him that he had no quarrel with us. That we were like him. We understood his cause. His fight was against the governments and the capitalists who run those governments. He should release us. After all, he was holding the rich capitalists up front, wasn’t he?”
“You cold-blooded bastard!” Emma said.
<><><>
“The money’s on the way. Fifteen minutes,” Rosenthal said, hanging up a phone. “The major has spoken with General Emmett at Maguire Air Force Base. Two fully armed F-16’s are on standby.”
Hyte slammed the desk with an open hand. “It’s all so fucking easy when it’s done on the phone.” He shook his head in an attempt to clear his rage. He had fourteen lives to save; the mayor was worrying about money. No, that wasn’t accurate. The orders about the money came from the federal government. The mayor had no choice about that.
“You must get the passengers out before the plane takes off. When it’s airborne, they’ll intercept it. If the terrorists won’t land, the jets will shoot it down,” Arnel said.
Hyte pointed to the monitor with a finger that trembled with suppressed rage. “They’ll never let all the passengers go. They’ll let some out, but Prestone won’t be among them. They know you won’t shoot the plane down with him on board.”
“Lieutenant,” Rosenthal said formally, “if you can’t get the hostages free by talking them out, the mayor will order an assault on the plane.” The words rolled easily off the mayoral aide’s tongue. He was presenting a fact. Everyone in the room knew it whether they liked it or not.
“Fuck you,” Hyte said in an all too calm voice, “and fuck the mayor.”
Mohamad’s voice burst from the speakers. The field phone rang. “Where are our brothers?”
The anger of moments ago helped turn Hyte’s mind cold and calm. He picked up the field phone. Easy, he cautioned himself before speaking. “They’re almost here.”
“We are tired of waiting. You are all liars. You are all taking orders from the Zionist pigs. For that, there is a price to pay. Tonight you will pay that price.”
Hyte decided on a calm rejoinder. “Your people are on their way, as we promised, and—”
“No! I talk-you listen! The Palestinian people are strong. We have declared Jihad against the Jews who have stolen our land. We shall push them back to the sea. We will not stop until every last Jew has been eradicated from the face of the earth!”
He refused to accept Mohamad’s descent into political and religious irrationality. The man was a professional, not a fanatic. “The money will be here in fifteen minutes,” he reiterated, his tone placid.
“Along with our brothers?” Mohamad asked, bending forward toward the camera.
“As I told you, they’re on the way.”
The terrorist’s features relaxed. A half-smile formed.
“Are they?”
“Yes, they—”
“Watch your television!” Mohamad ordered. “You are trying to stall!”
Hyte grinned. Mohamad was indeed an expert at mind games; the timing between rationality and rage well planned.
“We’re not stalling,” Hyte protested. “It takes time. You gave us three hours. There’s still a forty-three min—”
“Quiet! Watch!”
Hyte watched the monitor while Mohamad stepped up to Cristobal Helenez. Raising the black pistol, he aimed it at Helenez’s head. The distance between the weapon and the man’s forehead was six inches.
“This man,” Mohamad proclaimed, “is guilty of crimes against the Palestinian people. He has given financial and economic aid to the Israelis. He has opened factories in Palestine where Israelis work while my people live in squalor and die of sickness in refugee camps.”
He waved the gun. “But this man is devious. There are no records showing his corporations fund these factories—he has camouflaged his books so as not to reveal the loans made to the Israeli banks. Yet, you did not hide them well enough. We learned of them because we are everywhere! Everywhere, although you people choose to deny this.
“He is a rich man. Very rich. He is also a Zionist minion. Just as you are, Hyte. Like you and your men and all the policemen who try to stop us.” Again, the pistol waved. “He lied to us, just like you have been lying to us. The helicopter should have been here by now. For your deception, Lieutenant Hyte, I sentence him to death!”
“Mohamad!” Hyte shouted into the field phone, the desperation in his voice not feigned.
> Mohamad lifted the field phone to his ear. “Isn’t that right? Aren’t you deceiving us?”
“They’re almost here.” Hyte felt Sy Cohen’s hand on his shoulder, reminding him that he was not alone. Hyte nodded at his friend and took a deep breath.
“But they aren’t here, are they?”
“Just a few more minutes and your people will be with you. Wait, Mohamad. We’re doing what you’ve asked for. We told you how much time it would take. We haven’t changed your schedule—we haven’t asked for more time.”
“Too late,” Mohamad whispered. He dropped the phone. The sound echoed eerily through the audio speaker. Hyte clenched his hands into impotent fists as he watched the scene unfold.
Mohamad centered the pistol on the Portuguese financier’s head. Helenez’s wife screamed. The back of her hand covered her mouth.
Then Hyte saw a movement behind Mohamad. His breath caught. Haller had risen; the pilot’s face was tense. “No,” Hyte whispered ineffectually, “it’s a game. It’s a—”
Haller lunged, his head lowered, his hands still tied behind him. Screams and cries sounded from the speaker.
From the captain’s left, the second hijacker swung his Uzi. The stock caught the captain on the shoulder, knocking him off balance. He spun, missing Mohamad and falling into the aisle.
Mohamad recovered quickly. His machine pistol aimed at the pilot.
When they hauled the captain to his feet, Mohamad looked at the camera. He shook his head sadly, like a teacher who had caught a student in the middle of a prank.
A shiver rippled through Hyte. Mohamad’s eyes were angry. Hyte wondered if the terrorist leader would keep to his plan, or if the captain’s attack justified a change in strategy.
“That was very stupid,” Mohamad said into the field phone. “Don’t you agree that the captain was stupid, Hyte?”
“Don’t,” Hyte pleaded.
Mohamad raised the pistol. He aimed it at the captain’s head. Hyte saw Mohamad’s jaw tense.
“I’m not filming this!” Hyte said. A muscle ticked angrily just below the skin on his left cheek.
Mohamad kept the pistol at Haller’s head while he faced the camera. “Yes, you will. You couldn’t shut the camera off if you wanted to—this is your opportunity to study us. To better prepare yourselves for the next time. It won’t work. We are unpredictable because we must be.”