Depraved Indifference (2 page)

“Oh, God, the kiss of life?” he asked, glancing out. “Anything for the airline, but keep the barf bag handy if I have to do 20 fucking C. My God, hijacked, and I've only just begun to live. Well, how do you like that! You think we'll be on TV?”

Daphne giggled in spite of herself. Jerry would do fine, even if, as she expected, Alice Springer went to pieces. “Sure, prime time. If we survive.”

“Oh, we'll survive, Daphne. I just had a sixty-dollar razor cut. Life couldn't be that cruel.”

Flying a commercial jet doesn't take much when things are going well, although from time to time a pilot will earn twelve years of pay in twelve seconds. Flight 501 was on autopilot at 28,000 feet over western Pennsylvania. The pilot, Arthur Gunn, was explaining to Bill Connelly, his copilot, how a real estate mutual fund worked when the flight deck door opened and Alice Springer appeared in the doorway.

“Hey, Alice, what's happening?” Gunn said cheerfully. “The plane still flying back there?”

Alice took a deep breath. “Uh, Captain, there's a man here who says he has a bomb on board.”

Gunn scowled. “Damn, Alice, that's not funny. I thought they taught you jokes like that were off limits.”

“It's not a joke, pilot,” said Djordje Karavitch, pushing forward. The cockpit of a 727 is not designed to hold four people, and Alice Springer was jammed up against the copilot seat as Karavitch leaned over Gunn's upturned, startled face.

“Who the hell are
you
, buddy?”

Karavitch kicked the cockpit door closed with his heel.

“My name is Karavitch. What the girl says is true. My friend is holding a powerful bomb, and we will explode it if our demands are not met.”

Gunn looked over at Alice, who nodded. The pilot took in the stewardess's face for the first time. The bright, American-girl look had collapsed into something like the pinched worry of a mother whose children are still trapped in the burning tenement. Gunn looked at Karavitch: was this the kind of man who would kill himself and sixty people to make a point? Yeah, he sure was. Gunn cleared his throat.

“OK, you're in charge. As long as nobody gets hurt, right?”

“Very good, Captain,” said Karavitch, smiling thinly. “I require two things at once. First, I wish to make an announcement over your radio to the New York City police and the FBI. You will make sure I am connected properly. Next, you will immediately change your course. This plane is going to Montreal. There you will refuel.”

“And then … ?”

“Then we will go to Gander in Newfoundland. And then we are going to Croatia.”

Connelly, the copilot, spoke up. “Croatia? The Middle East. You're some kind of Arabs, right?”

“No, not Arabs. Croatia is in the Balkans.”

“Yeah, Bill,” said Gunn, “it's up by Lithuania, near Russia.”

Even after thirty years in the United States, Karavitch continued to wonder at the profound ignorance and innocence of Americans. Croatians had ten centuries of history etched into their bones with the strong acid of massacre and betrayal. To him, Americans were gaudy, cheap shadows, like the images on television. He smiled again.

“I think we will have a geography lesson soon, but for now you need only to find Gander, Newfoundland. And do what is necessary for the radio, so that I can speak.”

He gestured to Alice Springer. “You. Out! Make yourself useful. Tell the man with the bomb that all is well. And bring me a scotch whiskey and ice.”

Gunn was about to object that alcohol was not permitted on the flight deck before he realized that it wasn't his flight deck anymore. That more than anything else started the cold chill moving up from his belly and out along his arms. “Bill, you might as well plot us up a course for Montreal,” he said to the copilot, struggling to retain the insouciant down-home twang used by all professional pilots. “I'll get this guy patched in on the radio.”

Back in the galley Alice Springer closed her eyes, leaned against the wall, and tried to stop shuddering. Daphne West stood with her arm around the younger woman and made meaningless “there there” noises, trying to exhibit a confidence she did not in the least feel.

“Daphne, I've got to go back there and tell the man with the, you know, with the …”

“The bomb? Yes, what do you have to tell him?”

“That the plane, is, is hijacked, and we're going to Montreal, so he won't … But I can't! There's three of them in the last row right. Oh, and they've got a woman with them too. The guy on the aisle has the b-bomb. Daphne, he
scares
me.” She was clearly about to burst into tears. Daphne clutched Alice's shoulder harder and guided her firmly into the forward lavatory.

“Listen. I need you in one piece on this. Lock yourself in, have a good yell, throw up, whatever. Then get your face back on and come to work. We start meal service in ten minutes.”

That done, she marched down the aisle to where Pavle Macek sat. For an instant she had to suppress a giddy impulse to laugh. Sitting with his legs primly together and the thing on his lap, he looked like one of those cartoons of men on a bench outside the patent office clutching weird devices. He tensed and glared at her. She wondered again why men of a certain type made that ridiculous jaw-clenching, eye-popping grimace to show that they were tough guys who wouldn't take any shit off a woman.

The four terrorists leaned forward slightly, like the family of a miser about to hear the lawyer read the will. Daphne thought madly, what if I said, “Captain Gunn says, go fuck yourselves and we'll be landing in Milwaukee at 11:50 Central”? What she did say, coolly, was, “I'm supposed to tell you that we're going to do what you want.”

The three men broke into grins, and the little one let loose a high giggle. They began chattering in their foreign language. Daphne West turned and went forward. She was angry and trying to keep it off her face. Daphne knew men, having been around the block a few times, as she put it. Although she had never met Pavle Macek, she knew him; she had twisted away from that type over millions of air miles. A shitheel like that, thought Daphne, might beat up a woman, might rape, might kill. But she doubted very much if he would detonate a bomb that was resting on his crotch.

2

“O
K, LET'S HEAR
it again,” Elmer Pillman said. He was a special agent in the FBI's New York office, with responsibility for skyjacks and counterterrorism. The two other FBI agents in his office were his deputy and a junior agent named Joseph Stepanovic. The senior man was grave and solemn; Stepanovic was mainly scared.

The switch was hit on the tape recorder. Once again the voice of Djordje Karavitch filled the corner office, clear and powerful through the radio static:

“Today the Croatian people have struck the first blow in their crusade for freedom and independence. Shock troops of the Croatian National Freedom Party under the command of General Djordje Karavitch have seized control of an American airliner by means of a powerful bomb, which we have on the plane. The United States has deserved this from the support and money it has given to the terrorist communist regime in Belgrade, whose troops are even now crushing the Croatian people in their bloody grip. The worldwide offensive by the Croatian National Freedom Party will not spare any nation that supports the usurper Belgrade regime in its suppression of the legitimate national aspirations of the great Croatian people: democracy, independence and freedom to worship in their historic faith.

“We do not fear death. The freedom fighters of Croatia have never feared death, not against the Romans, the Serbs, the Turks, the Hungarians, or the communists. If our demands are not met, I warn you seriously, we will not hesitate one instant to destroy this airplane and everyone aboard it. And there are other bombs, many other bombs. There is one in locker number 139 in Grand Central Station.

“As our demands are met, we will reveal the location of the other bombs, perhaps before they explode, perhaps not. It will be unfortunate if innocent people are harmed, but this is a war we are fighting. Tens of thousands of innocent Croatians have been butchered by the communists and their jackals, and the world has ignored their cries. No longer! With this offensive we move Croatia once again into her rightful place among the nations. The world will pay attention, or blood will run in every city, in every country.

“I have given orders that this airplane fly to Montreal for refueling. It would be foolish of anyone to try to stop this. At that time, we will issue further demands.

“Long live Croatia. Victory to the Croatian National Freedom Party!”

Then there was the sound of static, followed by the hiss of blank tape. One of the agents thumbed the machine off. Pillman rolled his eyes and scowled. He was a squat, frog-faced man with a gray crew cut, and his expression made it seem as if the frog had just missed a fat bug. He said, “Ah, crap! Croatia, my ass! OK, let's get a copy of this tape over to NYPD, or the assholes'll claim we're not cooperating on a matter of grave danger to the public. Offer them our bomb people, whatever, not that they'll accept. And make sure we're covered on the Canadian side too.” The deputy got on the phone and spoke softly, relaying the orders.

Pillman spoke in a loud voice to no one in particular, “Who the hell are these jokers?”

Joe Stepanovic coughed nervously, fiddling with the folder on his lap. He was responsible for keeping watch on the dozens of Eastern European emigré political groups active in New York, a shadowy activity that the FBI did not advertise. These groups, after all, considered themselves to be part of the great anti-communist crusade. More important, any number of conservative American political figures agreed with that assessment. Or pretended to. Thus the FBI had to exercise a certain caution in watching them. It fed them money—not enough to invade Hungary, but enough to keep them solvent—and attended (in the person of Joe Stepanovic) their numerous meetings, rallies, and parades. Stepanovic took pictures with his miniature camera and took down names in his notebook. The point of this was ostensibly to spot the occasional ringer or provocateur, or better yet, uncover some ringer with connections to the CIA. But the Bureau did not consider these groups a threat. Their members were aging, their numbers were thinning with the years, and they were, of course, safely on the right side of the political spectrum.

So ordinarily Stepanovic had an easy, low-profile task. With his fluency in several Slavic languages, farmboy looks, and ready purse, he had no difficulty in gaining entry to even clandestine councils of East European emigrés.

Now he was high-profile and not liking it.

“Joe,” said Pillman, remembering why Stepanovic was in the room, “you know this guy, Karawhatsis?”

“Yes sir, Karavitch. Yes sir, umm …” He opened his file, shuffling the papers. “Djordje Karavitch, born 1907, Zagreb, now Yugoslavia, father a minor Austrian official, mother from a small land-owning family, Jesuit education, dropped out of University of Zagreb after two years, member of Eagles, a Catholic youth organization, political involvement with Croatian Peasants Party. After the German invasion he—”

Pillman broke in, “Could you put it on fast-forward, Joe? What's he been doing recently?”

“Oh, sure,” Stepanovic said, shuffling papers again. “Recently? I would say, recently, he's been doing … well, nothing.”

“Nothing? What do you mean? What about this organization, this Croatian National Freedom bullshit? Where are they coming from? Are you inside there, or what?”

Stepanovic's prominent Adam's apple rippled as he swallowed hard. “Ah, what I mean is, sir, that as far as I can tell, there is no such organization. That tape was the first time I ever heard of it. Karavitch is not what you would call a leader in the Croatian community here. He's not on the politically active list, I mean, so how could I …” His voice trailed off as he gestured with his sheaf of papers.

“OK, Joe, just fill us in, whatever you know,” said the deputy.

“Well, it's not much. Entered the country in '48, from Trieste, under the Displaced Person's Act, got a job as a building superintendent in Brooklyn, which he still does, and also manages some buildings in Brooklyn and the Lower East Side. U.S. citizenship, 1955. In 1956, sponsored immigration of a Pavle Macek, also from Trieste. In 1964, married Cindy Wilson, American, age 23. Member of the usual Croat fraternal organizations, active in St. Gregory Catholic church. Nothing much else. Oh, yeah, last year, 1975, sponsored immigration of Milovan Rukovina and Vlatko Raditch, Yugoslav nationals. That's it.”

Pillman lit a Tiparillo and leaned back in his leather swivel chair, regarding Stepanovic through the acrid smoke. “So tell us, Joe, this guy is such a good citizen, how come the taxpayers want you to watch him at all? What's his angle?”

Stepanovic essayed a slight smile. “He doesn't need an angle, sir. He was on a watch list when he came over, which is standard for people who were political on the other side.”

“Yeah, in '48 maybe. But, hell, you know damn well we can't keep tabs on every Eastern European who gets into the country. What I want to know is how come he's on a watch list
now
?”

“Um, that I don't know, sir.”

“You don't know?”

“No, sir. Anyway, it's not like he's under surveillance. We just sort of keep tabs, where he's living, who he hangs out with, political activity, contacts with known agents. Like that.”

Pillman brought forth a particularly hideous scowl. “Like that, huh? Well, since this son of a bitch has just hijacked an airplane and planted Christ knows how many bombs, maybe you should make it your business to find out why the FBI has been interested in him for almost thirty years. How about that? And how about getting a look at his place before the cops arrive and screw things around?”