Queen Victoria's Revenge (3 page)

“It is here, boys, all of it.”

There were one or two enthusiastic shouts that quickly died away and it was back to business again.

“Hold this,” the leader said, thrusting the bag once more into Tony's reluctant arms. “Up forward with it—you go with him, Jorge. Put him in the flight deck. Let's move these people out.”

Urged on by the prodding muzzle of Jorge's pistol, Tony worked his way forward through the ebb and surge of burnoosed figures. Moist dark eyes stared with fright in his direction, bird-like voices tremoloed incomprehensible remarks. The gun moved him on. At the far end of the cabin a brace of rest rooms framed the door to the flight deck. Two more of the Cuban-Arabs guarded the doorway, a study in contrasts. The one on the right, to whom Jorge was talking, was a small man with tiny feet. His companion stood well over six feet tall and had shoes like canal boats. A turn of cloth covered most of his face, just revealing the blue eyes set in a patch of dark skin.

“In here,” Jorge ordered, opening the door.

As soon as he did this things became very busy very quickly. A handful of red-uniformed men waiting inside struggled for an instant in the doorway, then burst through and fell upon the skyjackers. They were armed with an assortment of tools, hammers and wrenches, and gained an upper hand by the suddenness of their attack. Two of the Cubans were instantly on the deck, overwhelmed, while strong hands tore at their weapons. It might have ended there except for the intervention of the tall skyjacker. He had taken his own attacker out at once with an arm across the throat, followed instantly by a knee in the belly. Even as the wrench was falling from limp fingers, and the unconscious figure dropping toward the deck, his assailant was moving on. With the butt of his gun he caught one man a wicked blow in the skull, turning instantly to kick the other under the chin. Before Tony could move or even think of taking a role in the brief and nasty encounter, it was over, the massive survivor swinging his weapon obnoxiously over the heaped and groaning bodies, turning toward Tony expectantly as though looking forward to polishing him off as a final course.

“Como puede ver, yo no estóy haciendo nada, nomas estóy viendo,”
Tony said, smiling hopefully and clutching the bag of money to his chest. Further than ever from his beloved Braques and Breughels. The skyjacker leaned forward, as though intent upon a little additional mayhem, but stopped when there were angry shouts, and pained screams, as two more of the skyjackers pushed through the crowd of passengers. The gray-haired man, apparently the leader, took in the situation at a glance and sorted it out with sharp orders. The three uniformed attackers, obviously the flight crew, were pushed, groaning or inert, back into the flight deck along with Tony and his suitcase of money. A guard entered with them and stood with his back to the closed door, the twitching muzzle of his submachine gun menacing them all.

“Tegon ordenes de matar a cualquiera persona que me de molestias,”
he said with snarling sincerity.

“Te creemos, te creemos,”
Tony answered, putting down the money and turning to the groaning survivors. The nearest one, a chubby pink man with thinning hair, opened one bloodshot eye and moaned horribly.

“He says he'll kill anyone who tries this again,” Tony said brightly.

“Don't need a translator for that, buddy.” He touched his jaw and examined his palm gloomily for traces of blood. “Who are you?”

“Tony Hawkin of the FBI.” Said that way it sounded very impressive.

“Well
good
for you. I'm John Waterbury, copilot. Is that the ransom money?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks for small blessings. Those nuts were ready to kill us or I wouldn't have let the captain talk us into trying to crack out of here. Here, help me with him, he doesn't look so good, Waldo, get the first-aid kit.”

The flight engineer, Waldo, a thin and gloomy man—who now had good reason to be gloomy, if not thin—pulled out the box under the watchful eye of their guard. “Looks pretty sick to me, Tubby,” he said.

Waterbury must have been used to the nickname for he made no protest but quickly, and efficiently, attended to the unconscious pilot on the deck. The captain was a burly, middle-aged man with the build of an ex-football player. He lay, breathing hoarsely, with blood running from a nasty-looking wound in his scalp. Tubby quickly swabbed and applied a padded bandage, then wrapped it in place with lengths of gauze. When he had done he cracked a glass cylinder of ammonium carbonate under his nose. The captain's nostrils twitched under the attack of the pungent ammonia fumes and his eyes snapped open. He looked around at all present, then fixed his gaze on Tony, the downed tackle ready to play again.

“I am Captain Sterling Haycroft in charge of this aircraft. Who are you?”

“Hawkin of the FBI. I've brought the money.”

“We were concerned that they might not come through. These are very desperate men.”

“That must have been realized or the money would not have been rounded up so quickly.”

“Does that gorilla behind you speak English?” Haycroft spoke in the same tone of voice, not looking at the guard.

“I have no idea.”

“It would be nice to know. Watch him, Tubby, and let me know if he twitches or changes expression because I am going out of here in a minute and report to the head skyjacker that this thug not only looks like Castro but he is a well-known pansy communist and sexual pervert hated by all animal lovers in the civilized world.”

“The FBI has him in their dangerous communist files,” Tony added enthusiastically, “and the ASPCA is also keeping a close watch on him.”

“Let's not overdo it, Hawkin. Tubby?”

“He twitched a bit when you mentioned the name of you-know-who, but other than that he looks pretty bored. He's been picking his nose and shows more interest in his treasures than the conversation. I have a feeling that he either does not speak English or is the world's greatest actor.”

“We'll take it as operational for the moment that he doesn't. Can you tell us what is happening, Hawkin? Everything on the radio has been in Spanish, then they pulled one of the radio circuits after we landed. All we know is that we were cleared for landing here at Dulles and if a ransom wasn't delivered upon arrival we would be shot. Nothing else.”

“I have it here,” he patted the suitcase. “Two million in fresh greenbacks. They are disembarking the passengers now and—I'm sorry to say this—they will keep holding the crew as hostages.”

Haycroft nodded unsmilingly. “We didn't expect anything different. At least the passengers are being off-loaded. I see the tanks are being filled—do you know our destination?”

“No, they haven't said a thing about that.”

“All right. When you get back to the FBI tell them…”

His urgent message remained unspoken. The door opened and a skyjacker poked his head in and jerked his thumb at Tony.

“Venga aquí, policia, y no se le olvide lo contante sonante.”
Tony grabbed up the bag hurriedly.

“I have to go. I'll report on the situation. I know they'll do everything they can.”

The flight crew did not appear overburdened with joy at this information and their eyes followed him as he departed for freedom leaving them in continued confinement. The large cabins were almost empty now; a clutter of orange skins, shawls and an occasional slipper marked the sudden exit of the passengers. The last of them were being forced, wailing, through the exit. Wailing even louder were at least a dozen comely young women in floor-length red and white gowns who clutched to each other in the rear of the center cabin under the watchful gun of a skyjacker. As the last passenger was ejected they screeched even more shrilly, and pushed against the guard, driving him back. He retreated before the onslaught and one of the girls, more agile or more desperate than the others, took advantage of the moment to leap gazelle-like over a row of seats and outflank him. Holding her skirt knee-high, she ran past Tony, who had a quick glimpse of an angry, yet lovely, face, churning, and equally attractive legs. She wore a red cap with golden wings and he realized that the girls were all stewardesses, members of the hostage crew. The escaping stewardess halted before the skyjackers at the entrance and pointed an accusing finger.

“Animals, you cannot do this!
Merde!
You … you
cretini
cannot hold my girls, you hear! All good Moslem girls, not
ferengi koorvyenok
like you! Let them go, no hostages zem!”

She had an admirable vocabulary in a number of languages, though unhappily none of them was Spanish. The skyjackers listened and nodded appreciatingly and made comments about the fire in her eyes and her great spirit. It was their leader who tired of this first. He tore the suitcase of money away from Tony and jerked his thumb at the raging girl.

“Dile que se calle y que se vuelva con los demas.”

“Miss, please, listen to me…”

She spun about to face Tony, lovely in her anger, pushing a sprawl of raven hair from her eyes. “What eez eet? What does thees peeg say?”

“I'm sorry, but he wants you back with the other stewardesses. I'm afraid they are going to keep you all as hostages.”

“Hostage?” She shouted the word in a rising scream and spun about again.
“Mandyee! Pastika misthaufen!”

Words failed her, despite her fine command of many tongues, so she hooked her carmine-tipped fingers like a leopard's claws and hurled herself on the gray-haired skyjacker. The attack was so sudden that before he could defend himself her nails had raked great bloody furrows down his face. He roared with pain, lashing out. His pistol barrel caught her on the side of the temple and sent her sprawling back into a row of seats.

“That's the end!” he shouted, dancing with pain and dabbing at his face with the sleeve of his burnouse. “Get all of these bitches out of here, all of them, before I massacre them. I can't stand the sight of them. As long as we have the flight crew and this government agent they won't try any tricks.”

“Not me!” Tony gasped. “I'm just a messenger.”

“No trouble!” he shouted at Tony, shaking his pistol. “Just shut up and get ready for a nice long trip.”

THREE

If profound despair can be said to be an overwhelming emotion, then Tony Hawkin was possessed by profound despair. The door was sealed once again and the interior of the great aircraft rang with happy Latin cries, which joy only depressed Tony the further. He was ignored, forgotten, not worth consideration. Bottles of rum appeared and were passed from mouth to dusty mouth. One of the bundles of hundred dollar bills was taken from the case and also passed around to be greatly admired. Weapons were shaken at the sight of it while there were joyous shouts of
“¡Viva la contra-revolución!”
It was almost unbearable. Not only that but Tony was thirsty too and needed a drink—perhaps even more than they did.

There was a water fountain next to the door to the flight deck. Tony went there and drank deep despite the fact the water had a musty, oriental quality. He would have preferred the rum. The rest room was close to hand and, still being ignored, he went in and locked the door and stared at himself in the mirror. He had looked better. In a feeble attempt at morale building he washed his hands and face in cold water, then combed his hair and applied some skin bracer from a bottle on the counter, but it was a nameless Eastern brand and stank abominably. Even stealing a bar of Air Mecca soap didn't help. At this point he became aware of a distant rumble and a
RETURN TO YOUR SEAT
light came on.

They were taking off.

He burst out of the door to discover that the skyjackers were oblivious to the lighted admonitions to
FASTEN SEAT BELTS
and
NO SMOKING
. They strolled about, clutching seat backs for support and smoking large cigars. It was a festive occasion for them. Tony, ever the law abider, slid into an empty seat and fastened his belt after carefully bringing his seat to an upright position. When he had finished this simple routine he looked down and saw the unconscious stewardess on the deck near his feet.

Dimly behind him great engines roared and acceleration pushed him deep into his seat. The girl on the floor did not move and she seemed safe enough there for the moment as they took off. If she were still alive. Skyjacking, kidnap and possibly murder—what fine people they were. As soon as the ship had leveled a bit Tony took off his safety belt and bent to touch the girl's forehead. It was warm enough and a pulse there throbbed nicely. Unconscious but not dead, with an ugly welt that vanished back under her hairline. There were four seats across here in the center section, and with the arms lifted up they made a comfortable couch. With some effort he picked the girl up and put her on the seats. While he was wondering what to do next her eyes opened and she looked at him blankly.

“Please,” he said. “Don't shout or anything. All the other stewardesses are out of the plane—they must have missed you with all the excitement. We're airborne now.”

“Who are you? Where are we going?” Quieter now, her English was almost perfect, with only a slight accent.

“Tony Hawkin, FBI. I brought the money aboard and have been skyjacked as well. And I have no idea where we are going.”

“Praise Allah the others are safe, though I am of course sorry for you, Mr. Hawkin.”

“Tony.”

“Tony. I am Jasmin Sotiraki and I am senior in charge…”

“¡Mira eso!” “¿Que tenemos aqui?” “¡Oye, Ramon!”

The skyjackers were stirring about. The one called Jorge was standing in the aisle, gaping, calling out to one Ramon, who, it appeared, was their leader. He appeared, like a bad omen, almost instantly. He glared down at Jasmin, who sat up in the seat and exchanged glare for glare. The scratches on his face had been painted with Merthiolate and had clotted nicely. He was very angry.