Алистер Маклин - Air Force One is Down

‘That’s enough,’ he ordered. ‘I want him to talk. Much more of that and he won’t be able to even if he’s willing.’

Achmed leaned forward, grabbed McCafferty by the shirt-front, and hauled him to a sitting position. Dunkels sprayed him with water again, and yanked up his head with a handful of hair.

‘Well, Colonel?’ he said pleasantly.

‘Whoever you are,’ Mac replied thickly, his tongue feeling unnaturally big inside his swollen mouth, ‘whoever you are, you’re trying something you can’t possibly get away with. Let me go, release me, and I’ll see that it goes down as a robbery; the police won’t take any action.

‘But keep me here, for whatever reason, and I promise you that every soldier in the Bahraini Army and every policeman on this island will be looking for me. Air Force One can’t leave without me, and they’ll find me – you’d better believe it. They’ll have the backing of the President of the United States of America, and I wouldn’t want to be where you are when all this blows up.’

‘What makes you think it isn’t just a robbery?’

Mac grinned crookedly and painfully.

‘No mugger would strip me as clean as you have,’ he replied. ‘I don’t seem to have a thing on me anywhere now to prove that I even exist. So clearly I was a target – and apart from that, you know who I am.’

Dunkels threw back his head and laughed.

‘We do, Colonel,’ he spluttered. ‘Oh, we do.’ Then he stopped, and his mouth set into a sneer. ‘And we think, too, that you may be, shall we say, overrating your importance? You say that Air Force One couldn’t leave without you.’ He shook his head, bent down and whispered, ‘To the contrary, Colonel, your absence will hardly be noticed.’

Mac stared at him.

‘What the hell d’you mean?’ he exploded. ‘If I’m not on that aircraft–’

‘If you’re not on the plane,’ Dunkels interrupted smoothly, ‘no doubt there would be some speculation for a short while on the flight deck, yes. Colonel – Fairman, is it? – yes, Colonel Fairman, I think … he might well express concern to Major Latimer, the pilot is he not? Or Lieutenant Colonel Kowalski, the navigator, could pass some sort of comment to Master Sergeant Allen, the engineer. But I dare say that’s as far as it would go. What do you think, Colonel?’

The cobwebs were still playing paper streamers in the American’s mind. He shook his head again, in disbelief. The world was going crazy; this suave European and the murderous Arabs were unbalanced. What they said just didn’t make sense.

‘You have to be joking,’ he grated, ‘Washington would hear of it, and when they do–’

‘Ah, you mean they’d monitor the flight deck conversation on the open line to Andrews Air Force Base. Of course–’

‘That can’t be done,’ Mac flung at him savagely, ‘as you must know. But it won’t take Tom Fairman two seconds to get them on the radio, and Pat Latimer would not, I repeat not , take off without me.’

Dunkels stood up and roared with delight.

‘Jeeze, Mac,’ he said, ‘that’s some bull’s eye. That sure is a hole in one. Achmed – see that you-know-who gets the information: Latimer’s known as “Pat”, not Patrick or Paddy, and Andrews Base have no facility to eavesdrop on the Air Force One flight deck. They can only communicate through the radio. Got that?’

The Arab rose to his feet, smiling broadly. Then he looked at his watch and said, ‘I’ll make the calls on the way back to Manama. I’m overdue already. My master will not be pleased.’

‘Screw him,’ Dunkels said shortly.

‘Now, now,’ Achmed chided, ‘not all we Arabs are pederasts, although they do say–’

Dunkels gestured at him impatiently.

‘I don’t have the time for you to tell me what they say, Achmed. As you mentioned, you’re late. On your way.’

Fayeed strode from the borrasti , but turned at Dunkels’ command.

‘The key,’ the German said.

Achmed fished in his pocket and tossed Dunkels a small bunch of keys, incongruously suspended on a thin gold chain.

‘The small one fits the cocktail bar,’ he said, and waved from the door.

The German turned once more to McCafferty, who was tentatively feeling his battered face and body, the point of Selim’s machine-gun following every movement, never more than six inches away.

Dunkels chuckled and said, ‘You don’t know how helpful you’ve been to us, Colonel … or perhaps you do. Anyway,’ he added briskly, ‘we must get you looking decent. Selim–’ he snapped his fingers at the grinning Arab.

They stripped the American, who was still as weak as a kitten, to his shirt and underclothing. Selim tugged baggy Oriental trousers over his shoes and up to his waist, fastening them with a leather belt. Then Dunkels pulled over Mac’s head a full-length, wide-sleeved cloak, and Selim drew up the hood to hide his face.

Mac leaned heavily on Selim as the two men guided him out to another car concealed behind the mud hut, and pushed him into the rear seat. Dunkels got in beside him, and jammed the barrel of a Walther 9mm pistol roughly into McCafferty’s injured side.

‘Just to remind you, Colonel,’ the German said, ‘no tricks. That would be very foolish.’

McCafferty regarded him through puffy eyelids.

‘I don’t know who you work for, or even what you are trying to do. But I’ll tell you once again – you can’t get away with it. Air Force One is due to take off in less than half an hour. If I’m not on it, there’ll be the biggest man-hunt in the history of the Persian Gulf.’

Dunkels replied with a high-pitched whinny, like a knowing hyena.

‘But don’t you see , Colonel, you will be on the plane.’

Mac looked at him blankly. ‘You – you mean … you’re going to let me go?’

The German snickered again. ‘Not precisely, but you’ll be there all right. There’s no harm in telling you now. As you say, we haven’t long to go, and in any case there would seem to be nothing you can do about it.

‘You see, it won’t be you on board Air Force One as Head of Security, Colonel. But someone will be there; somebody remarkably like you. So much so that he’ll fool Tom and Pat and Paul and Chuck and Bert, and anyone else who knows you or is likely to meet you in the near future, including Mr Malcolm Philpott and the President of the United States of America.’

The realisation sunk slowly into Mac’s fuddled brain. He squinted at the jubilant Dunkels and breathed, ‘You have to be loco if you think you can bring that off. Bananas.’

The German shook his blond head vigorously.

‘No, McCafferty, we’re not,’ he replied, ‘neither me nor the man behind me, the man who is going to bring down UNACO, and who doesn’t care if the American Administration falls with it. It’s someone not entirely unknown to you, I believe.’

Mac’s eyes widened, and he muttered, half to himself, ‘Of course. Smith. It’s got to be …’

Dunkels drove the Walther a second time into the American’s ribs.

‘ Mister Smith to you, Colonel,’ he replied.

Jagger took Achmed’s call in the hotel lobby just as he was leaving the hotel with Cooligan to pick up the EDP convoy. He excused himself and crossed to the reception desk. The clerk handed him the telephone. Jagger digested the information, and put the phone down.

Smith received the news thousands of miles to the north of Bahrain in a darkening room set high up in a once impregnable fortress. Smith’s teeth gleamed and he purred to Achmed, ‘You have done well, my friend. I’ll wish you “ bon voyage ”, and please present my greetings to your esteemed father.’ He tut-tutted at Fayeed’s unfilial reply.