Алистер Маклин - Air Force One is Down

At all times, Malcolm Philpott would know the exact position and course of the aircraft – unless, by some inconceivable means, Mister Smith launched an attack, overwhelming even UNACO’s redoubtable agents, Carver and McCafferty.

‘And by then, of course,’ Philpott murmured, ‘we shan’t be able to do a damned thing about it.’

‘Hi,’ said the disembodied voice, ‘finished?’

Cody Jagger stared wildly at the telephone in his hand, and fleetingly cursed himself for not taking it off the hook in his (McCafferty’s, rather) bedroom.

Cody had not wanted his first test to come in this fashion. Given an even chance and brought face to face with anybody high enough in McCafferty’s circle, he reckoned he was good enough to pass. But trapped on the end of a phone with someone close enough to Mac not to feel it necessary to announce his name … the odds were that Jagger would fail. And he had. Stein had played him tapes, over and over again, of the voices of some of the UNACO man’s friends, and Jagger had absorbed them. But he had never before heard the voice that had just spoken to him; of that Cody was sure.

He kept silent, seeking a clue, willing the caller to identify himself. Jagger controlled his breathing; his forehead was beaded in sweat. At least he had remembered Stein’s instruction for telephone calls: never be the first one to speak; it would give him time to think; it would disconcert the caller, Stein had urged; and it would allow Jagger, in the last eventuality, to feign a wrong number in another assumed voice, and hang up.

He had almost made up his mind to cradle the receiver when the voice said, ‘That is you, Colonel, is it?’

‘Colonel’ – Jagger’s mind raced to cope with the import of the formal address. A friend, but not too close a friend, then. Precise with the use of the title, so more than probably military; Army or Air Force. Possibly a crew member? Not flight crew, though, or engineers; nor maintenance, technicians or stewards. None of these would have sufficient reason to disturb the security chief in his hotel bedroom.

Only one other man aboard Air Force One would actually have business with McCafferty. Jagger decided to take a chance. He could only fail a second time, and he might be able to bluff his way out of trouble.

‘Sorry, Bert,’ he chuckled, ‘I was miles away.’

‘You can say that again,’ Cooligan replied in an aggrieved tone. ‘Now, to return to the point – have you or have you not finished?’

Once more Jagger waited, but this time deliberately, even allowing himself a small, judicious cough. The sweat was still spangling his eyebrows, yet his confidence was returning; he had, after all, won the first round. He had deduced Bert Cooligan – and he had been right.

Now it was Cooligan who was unwilling to break the silence. Could he be getting suspicious? Jagger wondered, the panic raising prickles of fear on his exposed skin.

Finally, Cooligan could stand it no longer.

‘Look, Colonel,’ he said patiently, ‘if you don’t want to talk to me, for Christ’s sake say so. But do me the favour of coming back from wherever it is that you are, because you sure aren’t in your room talking to me on the phone.

‘Now just for the record, you told me at the airport – and I say this again – you told me you were coming back to the hotel to shower and have a drink. So – if you haven’t finished the shower bit, shall I come up to your room and leer at your magnificent body while you don clean drawers and best Air Force One blues? Or do I wait down here in the bar for you? Or do you wish me to have drinks sent up? Or you want I should go throw myself under a camel? Or like – what?’

Jagger started to say ‘Sure, Bert’ to one of the propositions when Cooligan interrupted him. ‘Boy, am I dumb, chief! ’Course – you got company. Huh? Tricky bastard.’

Cody laughed and assured Cooligan that he was (a) alone, and (b) with him again in body, mind and spirit. What was he to do now though? Jagger mused. Face the music? He made up his mind.

‘Sure, come on up, Bert,’ he said easily. ‘Give me five minutes and I’ll promise to dress before you get here so’s not to put you to shame, on condition that you’re accompanied by a bottle of malt Scotch, a crowded ice-pail, four glasses and – since you’ve given me the taste – two dusky harlots.’

‘Tush, Colonel, not while we’re on duty,’ Cooligan admonished.

‘You’re right, Agent Cooligan,’ Jagger conceded, ‘forget the ice.’

Cooligan chortled and said, ‘That’s better, Mac. You had me worried there for a moment. See you soon.’

Jagger mopped his forehead and then snapped his fingers in annoyance. He tore off his uniform and sprinted for the shower, taking the jets of water barely lukewarm. He towelled himself down, slipped on clean underpants, and was lounging on the balcony in a bathrobe when Cooligan appeared.

The Secret Service agent was followed by a waiter pushing a trolley laden in the manner prescribed, and bearing a bonus of sandwiches. There seemed to be a world shortage of harlots, fuliginous or otherwise.

‘I checked the airport guards like you said,’ Bert began when they were settled in easy-chairs nursing a double Laphroaig apiece. ‘Their officers know what they’re doing, and the guys themselves seem keen enough, if not a shade trigger-happy. No one’s been within stone-chucking distance of the Big Bird since the Bahrainis took over. I’ve briefed them, and I’ve had a word with the police outside. There’ll be no trouble.’

‘For this relief, much thanks,’ Jagger sighed, choosing a quotation which he knew McCafferty might employ, ‘though it wasn’t crowd scares I was anxious about.’

‘Huh?’

Jagger explained that, on the face of it, the trip could present a golden opportunity for Israeli irregulars, or even for a black propaganda PLO coup, zapping the plane and blaming it on Mossad or the Jews in general.

‘Cautious old Mac,’ Bert grinned, lifting his glass in salute. ‘You don’t change, do you?’

‘You’d be disappointed if I did, wouldn’t you?’ Jagger said.

‘I would,’ Cooligan admitted, ‘and so, no doubt, would that rather gorgeous stewardess Latimer tells me you’re dating in Geneva tonight.’

Jagger forced a grin as alarms probed sharply at his mind. He nearly bit his tongue to stop himself saying ‘I am?’

Gradually the rain of stinging blows on his cheeks and the shock of the water dashed into his face from an earthenware pitcher brought McCafferty round. Achmed, crouched on his haunches over the American on the mud floor of the borrasti , shouted to Dunkels. The German examined their prisoner and complained that Achmed had been unnecessarily rough. A second Arab standing by Achmed grinned and drove his booted foot into Mac’s ribs. The breath left the American’s body in a rush, and a cry of pain came from his bruised lips.

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ Achmed Fayeed apologised, ‘his foot slipped.’

Dunkels laughed, and asked McCafferty if he was feeling co-operative. Mac shook his head to clear away the fog and focus his eyes.

‘Does he mean he isn’t going to co-operate?’ Achmed asked, round-eyed.

McCafferty looked at him dully; then, deliberately, he filled his mouth and spat a gobbet of blood-streaked saliva into Achmed’s face. Fayeed fastidiously wiped the mess from his chin, studied it on his handkerchief, and nodded casually to the other Arab, his servant, Selim. Selim stepped over the American’s body and back-heeled him viciously, turning in one fluid movement and crashing his other foot into the side of McCafferty’s head, whipping it round to meet Achmed’s fist from the other direction. In case the American hadn’t got the point, they gave a repeat performance. Then Siegfried Dunkels held up his hand.