Queen Victoria's Revenge (4 page)

“Dile a esta puta que si causa una molestia o si habre la boca, la mataré. Dile.”

“Look, Jasmin, this man is very angry. And he has absolute control. He says he will kill you if you do anything, even say anything, and I assure you he means it. Please.”

“I will be all right,” she said. Never taking her eyes away from the other's. He grunted—then reached out and slapped her wickedly. Her head rocked with the blow and inadvertent tears sprang to her eyes. But she said nothing, biting her lip, the red print of his hand clear on her skin. Ramon grunted again, then turned and went away.

“I will kill him,” she whispered in Tony's ear. “One day I will kill him, but I will make no trouble now.”

“That's nice,” he said, and resisted the temptation to pat her hand, feeling, with some justification, that she was not the kind of girl who would like her hand patted at the moment. “Would you like a drink of water?”

“No thank you, I am fine.”

“Perhaps a drink from the bar?” Hopefully.

“There is no bar. This is a Moslem airplane on the way to Mecca, there is no profanity of alcoholic beverage aboard other than that possessed by these
canaille.”
So much for hope of profane beverage. He sighed inwardly.

“They seem to be well enough stocked with the stuff—as well as weapons. How did they get all this hardware aboard?”

“I am sure I have no idea. Look, there is the copilot out from the flight deck. Attend him quickly, he may know our destination.”

Tony attended him as quickly as he could without drawing unwelcome attention from the gunmen and managed to intercept Tubby as he opened the rest room door.

“What's happened? Where are we going?”

“You don't mind, do you? It's been a long time between trips.”

“Can't it wait a moment more?”

The copilot sighed. “Yes, I suppose it has to. We're off and on the way to Brussels, Belgium, if that is any help to you. And now, if you don't mind.” The door closed with a positive click.

“Brussels?” Jasmin said.
“Mon Dieu
—why there? The Beige will arrest them instantly. I thought perhaps South America, where dictators can be bribed. Or Africa, anything can happen in Africa.”

“It might well be Africa, and Brussels just a refueling stop.”

“Callate y traenos comida. La muchacha te enseñara donde está.”

It was Jorge, gun waving and obnoxious and more than a little drunk. Tony smiled falsely and nodded agreement.

“Come on, they want some food. We had better do just as they ask.”

“I agree. It will also be an opportunity to bring food to the flight deck. They have had nothing all day.”

She led Tony to the galley service center amidship where she opened the door of a tiny elevator. It was a snug fit for two, which he rather enjoyed and she appeared completely indifferent to. The galley was on the deck below, very complete with ovens, freezer and refrigerator compartments. Jasmin made herself very busy opening doors, turning on switches and sliding foil-covered platters into place. Tony examined gloomily the choice of drinks and decided against rose water and for orange juice. He poured a large glass, wished briefly for a double shot of vodka, then downed it and went to help Jasmin.

“Can I give you a hand?”

“It is not needed now, but later you may help bring the cart up.”

There were cardboard containers on the meals, which she discarded as she loaded the food into the oven. The interesting six-sided star printed on the outside of them drew Tony's attention. He picked one out of the bag.

“Pride-of-Zion Kosher Chicken…”

“Throw that out,” she snapped, tearing it from his hand and discarding it.

“Sorry but I thought, Arabs, you know…”

“I know indeed since I am Egyptian. But I am French educated and not as narrow of mind as some. Moslem and Jewish dietetic laws are similar indeed and these … meals you saw … are easily available from airport food suppliers. I am in charge of this, it is a small compromise. So if you would…”

Dark eyes rolled up toward him pleadingly, she could almost be an Apache girl with that skin and those eyes, and he melted instantly.

“Your secret is safe, I will never tell, never.”

“You are very nice.”

This time he did not resist the impulse to pat her hand and when he did so she smiled—then stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Blood pounded nicely in his head and he reached for that delicate waist—here in the galley at 25,000 feet?—and his hands closed on air as she turned back to the oven.

After this came the thoroughly uninteresting task of getting carts in and out of the elevator and serving the bleary Cubans, while ignoring all the laughing offers of an apron and the shouts of
maricon, joto
and
pargo,
until he was finally permitted to serve the flight crew. It was dark on the flight deck, the cold stars outside appearing brighter than the hooded illumination of the instruments. The guard made them turn on the cabin lights, then watched closely as Tony served the food.

“Jasmin's aboard,” he said. “She was knocked out by the head thug and shanghaied inadvertently.”

“No more bad news, Hawkin,” Captain Haycroft said thickly through a mouthful of stuffed derma. “They ordered clear airspace on all sides and I suppose we have it—though I think there are a couple of Air Force jets riding hard on us.”

“Where are we?”

“Just clearing the tip of Newfoundland. Have a one-hundred-knot tail wind, making good time. Routed over Ireland and England and right into Brussels. And no idea of what they will do then.”

“Basta de tanto hablar. Salte de aquí.”

“Ugly here says I have to leave. Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Haycroft sawed patiently and unsuccessfully at the kosher chicken. “Try and cheer Jasmin up. Tell her we're sorry she's in this mess too.”

Stunned by fatigue, food and drink, most of the skyjackers were asleep. When the trays had been cleaned away Tony felt a great urge to go to sleep too. It had been one of those kind of days and, streaking east like this, the sun would be up any minute now. Jasmin curled up by a window and he sat at the end of the same row, for whatever protection his presence could afford, and fell quickly into a restless slumber. This continued on and off for some time until right on schedule by mid-Atlantic time, 2
A.M.
District of Columbia time, dawn sizzled in through the uncurtained windows. After this sleep was almost impossible and Tony went into and out of unconsciousness like a shutter going up and down. He had some strange dreams during these brief periods and one of them was about someone shaking him painfully by the shoulder and telling him to wake up, which dream, unhappily, proved to be true.

“Come on, sleeping beauty, stir yourself. You have work to do.”

It was Ramon, the man in charge, now singularly the worse for wear. Gray stubble covered his jaws and his eyes were a sultry shade of red while his breath, a compound of kosher delicacies and strong rum, would have wilted a flower at twenty paces. Tony scrabbled awake and scrambled to his feet.

“What? What?” was the best his fatigue- and sleep-clotted mind could produce.

“These he-goat Englishmen in ground control say that they have no one who can speak Spanish. You must talk in English to them.” In both colorful and profane language he said what he thought of the English as he pushed Tony toward the flight deck. In addition to the crew a number of interested Cubans had crowded in to join the fun and one of them with microphone and earphones, was cursing into the radio an echo of their commander's complaints. He reluctantly surrendered the apparatus to Tony, who caught the end of the pained reply.

“No hablar
Spanish here, do you understand,
minguno,
oh bugger it, how does one say ‘I don't understand'?”

“¡Dile que se calle!”
Ramon snarled, poking his gun into Tony's side and holding one of the earphones to his own ear. Tony cleared his throat and pressed the press-to-talk button on the mike.

“I have been instructed to tell you to shut up.”

“Sir! They have someone talking English on the skyjacked plane!”

There now followed much bilingual conversation and argument, with Tony in the middle, taking it from both sides until, at one moment, he found himself shouting Spanish into the microphone and talking to Ramon in English. A snarl and a gun prod terminated that rather quickly. Ramon appeared to understand some English, even if he did not speak it, and he issued his orders.

There were military planes following them, Ramon was sure of it, he could see their vapor trails. They must be sent away or he would throw out one or more of his hostages. With this in mind he ordered the DC-10 to a lower altitude so one of the doors could be opened. There were cries of anguish from ground control along with the assurance that there were no other aircraft anywhere in the vicinity. Despite this the plane dropped through a thick layer of cloud and the green British countryside could be seen through occasional gaps.

Clearance was guaranteed across southern England, the English Channel and on into Brussels. All flights had been stopped there and they were cleared for immediate landing.

As soon as these guarantees had been repeated a number of times Ramon cackled with laughter and tore the microphone and headphone wires out by their copper roots. He then, still laughing insanely, used his gun butt to pound the radio into scrap.

*   *   *

The RAF Vampire jets, high above and unseen by anyone on the plane, lost visual contact with the DC-10 when it dropped below the cloud level. Ground radar also lost contact when the bulk of the Cotswold Hills interfered with their signals. But there were clear skies over the Channel so the chase planes rendezvoused there and waited for their quarry to emerge from the clouds. Coastal Command radar in Kent, Essex and Suffolk were also alerted and swung their great dishes around, eagerly awaiting the first tiny blip.

They waited. Then they waited some more and began to grow uneasy. Someone did some quick and simple math and discovered that the big plane was already twenty minutes late. By the time a half an hour had passed without its appearance a great amount of excited communication was taking place.

At the end of an hour it was admitted, albeit reluctantly, that the DC-10's whereabouts was completely unknown.

For all apparent purposes the great aircraft had completely vanished.

FOUR

“Hawkin,” Captain Haycroft said in a very quiet voice, “I think he has flipped. Talk to him quietly, see if you can get him off the flight deck.”

“Not flipped, just very happy as you can see,” Ramon said cheerfully, rising from the ruin of the radio and spinning his pistol about his finger in Hollywood Western style.

“You speak English?” Tony said, memories of the last shouted simultaneous translation session still tingling in his ears.

“How
bright
of you to notice, Señor FBI Man.”

There was a muffled curse from the large skyjacker who stood in the flight-deck entrance. He was attempting to pull his burnouse off over his head and had become entangled in the folds. Another Cuban went to his aid and freed him and helped him to remove the encumbering garment. When it was off he appeared far less Cuban than he had earlier—in fact he did not look Cuban at all. His face and hands had been stained brown, but his bare arms were pale, freckled and hairy, while his clothing was even more interesting. There were shoulder tabs and brass buttons on his military-type khaki shirt. He wore open sandals, knee-length socks—and a kilt with pendant sporran before. Ramon cackled with joy at this sight and slapped his leg with pleasure.

“We have done it, Angus, have we not?”

“Aye, so far. Now move out so we can see that it ends right.”

The automatic pilot flew the great plane easily and alone, for all of the flight crew had their bulging eyes on the transformed skyjacker. Events were running far ahead of comprehension. First an English-speaking Cuban who spoke only Spanish. Now a nontalking Cuban who was really a Scot. Angus fractured the moment by shouldering Tony roughly aside and stalking forward to loom over the captain. He produced a map from his sporran and shoved it under Haycroft's nose.

“Point out where we are,” he ordered.

In silence, Haycroft consulted his course and the bearings on his own map that showed radio fixes, then compared both maps until he touched a spot lightly with his index finger.

“We're just about here.”

“You'll no be lying to me?” There was unconcealed violence in Angus's voice and, to emphasize the question, he pulled a gleaming dirk from a sheath in his stocking and held it lightly to the captain's throat.

Haycroft was calm, ignoring both threat and knife, his voice unemotional and quiet. “I do not know who you are—nor do I care. But I am captain of this aircraft and responsible for its safety and the safety of my passengers. I do not lie about these matters.”

Angus only grunted noncommittally in answer and frowned over his map. “Now then. Take this kite down under the clouds and turn to a course of a hundred and twelve degrees and follow it for a wee bit.”

“I cannot do that. The clouds are at five thousand and there are hills here and…”

This time the point of the dagger pressed hard into the flesh of his neck so that a bright drop of blood formed on the tip.

“Now then,” Angus spoke in the quietest of whispers. “You will do as I say or I will drive this knife home and ask the copilot to fly the aircraft.”

They locked their gazes tightly—and it was Haycroft who turned away first. He disengaged the automatic pilot and began a slow turn to starboard, losing altitude at the same time. Angus straightened up and took the knife from the pilot's neck—but kept it ready in his hand as he called back over his shoulder: