Алистер Маклин - Air Force One is Down

After a few moments, the key grated in the lock and the door swung open. Dunkels followed the same routine as before, allowing the guard’s torch to locate McCafferty, and then turning on the shaded light-bulb from the wall switch. Mac, for what the German called ‘security reasons’, was forbidden to touch the switch. He deduced that the house could be seen from the road, and Dunkels would not risk the chance that the American could use the light to flash an appeal in Morse.

Dunkels seemed in good fettle.

‘I have news for you, McCafferty,’ he announced. ‘You’ll be getting out of here shortly. Some – uh – “friends” of mine will come to take you away, by sea I gather, to a place which is, shall we say, more compatible to their interests. Also you’re to lose a couple of your faithful attendants. I’m told by Mister Smith that they’re needed back in – eh – back at our operational base, where someone’s shorthanded.’

With a sweep of his hand, Dunkels indicated the two guards, who grinned uncomprehendingly. McCafferty replied, in Russian, that he would be glad to see the back of them, since they stank like pigs and put him off his food.

Before Dunkels could stop him, the younger of the two guards sprang forward, bawled obscenities at Mac in his native tongue, and crashed his rifle butt into the American’s face.

Dunkels grabbed the man’s arm and pulled him away roughly. Mac had swivelled his head at the last moment and the Kalashnikov caught him only a glancing blow, but it was enough to raise fresh blood from an old wound and set his head ringing with pain. Stars exploded before his eyes, and he dabbed at his raw cheek with a soiled handkerchief.

He grinned crookedly but triumphantly behind the rag, though, for his gamble had paid off. He had banked on the sentries understanding either Russian or German since, from their speech and appearance, they seemed more likely to be Central European than to belong to any more remote ethnic group. And while McCafferty was nowhere near even Dunkels’ class as a linguist, he had long ago learned to swear succinctly in something like fifteen languages. For a constant world-traveller, it was convenient to know when foreigners were displeased with you.

The guard had played straight into his hands: the richly obscene oaths hurled at Mac were the only half-dozen words of Serbo-Croat the American knew, but now he could be certain of a Yugoslav connection.

Yugoslavia fitted the Boeing’s schedule, too, lying just off-course of the safest route Fairman would choose for Switzerland: overflying the friendlier states of Arabia into the Mediterranean, and up one side or the other of Italy to cross the Alps. If Smith wanted to snatch the President’s plane, McCafferty reasoned, then Yugoslavia, with its crypto-Soviet presence, would make an ideal launch-pad for the hijack.

Dunkels smoothed the ruffled feelings of the guards and turned back to the American, his face a mask of barely controlled anger.

‘That was smart, McCafferty,’ he hissed, ‘but whatever you’ve learned, the knowledge will do you no good. There’s still no escape from here and, as I said, you’ll be gone before long in any case. However, since you appear to want to play games, we’ll leave you someone to play with. He’s very friendly, I’m told – as long as you don’t upset him.’

While Selim slowly unwound the heavy chain from his waist, one of the guards hammered a six-inch staple into the jamb of the door. Selim clipped the Alsatian’s collar to the hook, and leered at McCafferty.

‘The chain’s long enough for him to reach all over the room,’ the Arab said. ‘I wouldn’t move, if I were you. It’s long past his dinner-time, and we don’t seem to have any dog food left. I’ll leave the light on; then at least you’ll be able to see him coming.’

He slammed the door and locked it. The dog stood glowering at Mac, who lay rigid on his bed, fixing the animal with an unwavering stare. Finally the dog gave in, yawned prodigiously, and settled down on its stomach, chin resting on paws. Its eyes stayed open, and its tongue roamed over its sharp white teeth.

Mac heard the front door shut and a car start up. Dunkels’ voice came to him through the little fanlight.

‘Keep an eye on him, Selim,’ the German said, ‘I’ll take these two to the airport, and be back in half an hour or so.’

One guard remained, then, Mac reflected: the Arab. And his friend the Alsatian. He stirred restlessly, and the dog was on its feet in a flash, baring its teeth in a warning snarl.

If Mac was going to make a bid for freedom, he had half an hour – no more. And first he must deal with Selim’s dog.

Fairman fussed and fumed as the aircraft wound its undulating route to the west, following a wiggling snake trail which was anything but the arrow-straight path the Commander would have wished.

The Boeing was never forced to deviate outrageously, but when Fairman filed the flight plan he had been uncomfortably aware that he was permitted to overfly certain territories solely because of the passengers he carried, and denied others because of the plane he was flying. Indeed, if it had been merely the President of the United States on board, Air Force One would have had to follow a vastly different and even more complicated course.

The Boeing’s Commander swore mildly in sheer relief as the plane crossed the frontier into friendly Egypt. Latimer, the pilot, let the sardonic smile which had been marring his Italianate Renaissance good looks since take-off, stay on his face. He adjusted course for Suez, spanned the Canal keeping Port Said to starboard and Cairo to port, and sailed out into the Mediterranean over Alexandria.

He saw the waters gleaming darkly below him, and heard Fairman broadcast a brief scene-set to the EDPs in the stateroom, who seemed to be drinking tea like it was going out of fashion.

Latimer spotted Crete looming up to starboard, and altered direction to follow the flight plan: proceeding not up the Adriatic past the Balkan states, but flying over Sicily and taking the Mediterranean sea-route all the way up the coast of Italy, entering Italian air-space at Genoa and traversing Piedmont to begin the descent to Geneva.

The ‘identikit’ Air Force One, meanwhile, also had the hazy blur of Crete roughly in its sights to port as it sped down the Adriatic below the radar screen, on a course which would only briefly parallel that of the President’s Boeing – but it would be long enough for Smith’s master plan to work.

In a rest room cabin behind the flight deck of the genuine AF One, next to the forward galley on the starboard side of the plane, Cooligan, a brace of engineers and Jagger played five card draw poker for modest stakes. It was not something which McCafferty normally encouraged, yet – as Cooligan noted with surprise – the security chief himself had suggested the game. Another instance of untypical procedure by the Colonel to nag at the Secret Service agent’s mind … still, what the hell, he thought; anyone can have an off day.

Jagger got to his feet on a winning streak, and excused himself from the next hand.

‘Problems?’ Bert asked sympathetically. ‘Want me to join you?’

Jagger shook his head.

‘No,’ he replied, ‘just count me out. I don’t feel too easy about this one …’ (a ploy which he hoped would cover up what he knew had been erratic behaviour on his part) ‘… I know nothing can go wrong, but I think I’ll take a walk around, just to check up.’

‘Looking for stowaways, Colonel?’ ventured one of the engineers.

The other comedian added, ‘Perhaps somebody got on while we were over Saudi Arabia – or was it Syria? They all look the same to me.’

The four men laughed, and Jagger easily strolled out, not quickening his pace when he reached the stateroom, nodding affably to an aide, and arriving at the rest room complex at the rear of the Boeing without encountering any other crew member except Jeanie Fenstermaker. She was en route for the EDP lounge with smoked salmon and asparagus twists, encased in thinly sliced overcoats of fresh brown bread and butter. Jagger took one and ate it.