Алистер Маклин - Air Force One is Down

He locked himself in the tail-end toilet and stayed for five minutes for the sake of appearances, should he encounter Fenstermaker again too quickly. He slid the aerosol can into his pocket, flushed the toilet-bowl, washed his hands and stepped out through the door, almost cannoning off the busty blonde as she was making her way back to the rear galley, her tray empty.

‘Big appetites, huh?’ he grunted.

‘Seems so, Colonel,’ she responded. ‘Mind you–’ blushing becomingly ‘–I think they also like sort of seeing Sabrina and me as well. And there’s an awful lot of “tea” being served, Colonel. Sergeant Wynanski can hardly keep up with demand.’

‘Where’s Wynanski?’ Jagger asked casually.

Jeanie pointed behind her at the galley. ‘In back, as always, slaving over a hot canapé.’

Jagger grinned, glanced at his watch, and said, ‘Off you go then, Airman. Won’t do to keep the Ayrabs waiting, will it? Could flunk your chance of marrying a sheikh – or at least of joining a harem.’

‘Huh,’ Fenstermaker pouted, adding a disapproving sniff.

Jagger waited for her to close the door, then tapped on it and said in a loud voice, ‘Pete! You in there?’

‘Who’s that?’ Wynanski queried. He shuffled over to the door and jerked it open, Jeanie at his elbow.

Jagger smiled with his teeth and said, ‘Got a present for you.’

Fenstermaker’s mouth was already opening in anticipation, so she collected a deep lungful of the knockout gas spray, and slumped to join Master Sergeant Pete Wynanski on the floor.

McCafferty moved his head to steal a glance at his watch, and the dog squirmed threateningly on its belly. Eight minutes had passed. Mac could wait no longer; if he was to act at all, it must be soon.

He sat up on the bed, and the dog rose with him, neck hair bristling, mouth open, wet lips pressed back over its teeth.

Mac swung his legs to the floor and, in one continuous movement, stood with his back to the closet door, fingers groping behind him for the handle. The Alsatian padded noiselessly towards him, trailing its chain. The powerful body swayed fractionally from side to side like a suspension-bridge in a high wind. Its flecked eyes never left the man’s face.

McCafferty found the knob handle of the closet and yanked hard on it. The door shot open and struck him on the shoulder-blade. His fingers traced the fastening: it was a ball catch connecting to a socket in the jamb, and disuse had made it a pretty stiff fit.

He stepped aside and pulled the door ajar, praying that the closet was big enough to enter. His luck held: it was a walk-in, lined with empty shelves.

The dog followed him into the closet.

Mac stepped out again, more quickly. The Alsatian came after him, chain rattling, the dog panting, exuding a strong odour.

McCafferty backed once more into the closet, the dog at his heels.

The American jumped out this time. So did the dog, but turning in its own length, whereas Mac used one long stride, backwards and forwards.

In again. The dog spun round, brushing his leg.

And Mac leapt clear over its body, slamming the door on its muzzle just as the dog turned to follow him.

The Alsatian threw itself in fury against the door, but the rusty catch held. McCafferty dragged the bed in front of the closet and jammed it close to the wall.

Then he raced to the locked door of the room, and jerked frantically at the chain embedded in the woodwork. Already he could hear Selim pounding up the stairs to the landing and along the corridor, attracted by the hysterical baying of the Alsatian from its dark prison.

Sweat poured from Mac’s brow as he leaned his muscles against the chain. With a rending screech the staple came loose. He wrenched out the collar fastener, tore over to the closet and stabbed the hook into the door over the catch, lifting his bunk and using the bed end to hammer the metal into the wood.

Selim was already at the door. Mac snapped off the light-switch and stood behind the door, holding the slack length of chain in his hands.

Expecting the light still to be on, Selim switched his gun to his left hand and jabbed the button of his torch with his thumb, directing the beam towards the source of the noise.

McCafferty’s vicious kick broke Selim’s wrist. He dropped the gun and howled in a discordant counterpoint to the ululation of the dog. Mac jumped him and looped the chain around his neck.

Gradually the American brought the Arab to his knees, trapping the man’s body with his legs. Selim coughed and gagged, and the scream died in his throat as McCafferty choked his life away.

Unbelievably, the dog had forced the closet door, and Mac saw the bed slide out into the room as the huge brute urged its body into the widening gap.

Then the Alsatian was clear, and its desperate barking changed to a snarl of rage. In the light of the torch, still incongruously gripped in Selim’s dead hand, McCafferty saw the dog spring, streamers of foam hanging from its extended jaws.

He dropped to the floor, rolled over, grabbed Selim’s Walther pistol and poured shot after shot into the flying body of the killer Alsatian. The dog crashed into the partly open door, whinnied, then lay still beside him, panting. Mac turned his head and forced himself to look into its dying eyes. The saliva congealed on its tongue and the rasping breath stopped.

He was free.

He staggered down the stairs and out into the night, dragging in great gulps of cool air. Then he collected his wits and searched for a second car.

He found one at the rear of the villa, but the vehicle was locked and there was no key in the ignition. Mac ran into the house and up the stairs. He kicked Selim’s corpse on to its back, and snatched a bunch of keys from the trousers pocket.

It was only when he was well on his way to the American consulate at the wheel of the car that he fully appreciated the difficulties that still confronted him.

As he had half-jokingly reminded Dunkels an eternity ago, McCafferty had no means of proving his identity. He had been stripped of everything – wallet, credit cards, security passes, money. He owned nothing more than the clothes he stood up in: a pair of baggy pantaloons and a torn, soiled, blood-soaked djellaba.

Worse even than that, he must now try to convince a sceptical consul that he was in reality a man whom the consul himself had seen with his own eyes boarding the personal aircraft of the President of the United States not three hours before.

The three-handed draw game was still in progress when Jagger returned to the rest room cabin. He bent over the table and said to Cooligan, ‘How’s it going, Bert?’

Jagger drew out a handkerchief to dab at his face as Cooligan replied, ‘Fine – since you left. Your going brought me luck.’

‘Yeah?’ Jagger queried. ‘Is that a fact? Well, see what this brings you, then.’

He clamped the linen square over his nose and mouth and sprayed all three men. One by one, the cards fell from their nerveless fingers and their heads slumped on to the green baize. The flimsy little table almost overturned, but Jagger caught it in time, steadying it and holding it upright. He could not afford too much noise penetrating in either direction.

Jagger relieved Cooligan of his gun and murmured, ‘Sweet dreams.’

Next, the flight deck.

Kowalski was saying to the Commander, ‘There’s a hell of a lot of mush up ahead on the screen. Think we ought to contact Naples?’ Fairman turned to view the radar, and grunted noncommittally. Then he ordered Latimer to make the link with the control station.

‘Naples Control, Air Force One to Naples Control,’ the pilot intoned.

Naples replied; still the same formal, robotic voice.