Алистер Маклин - Air Force One is Down

‘As I have told you–’ and his voice dropped so that they had to strain to hear him ‘–as I told you I am a man of honour. I keep my word. I gave my pledge to Malcolm Philpott of UNACO that if your nations did not find the ransom due to me immediately and inform me of it, I would execute one of you every three hours.

‘I should, perhaps, tell you now that it had been my intention to dispose of Mr Hawley Hemmingsway precisely at noon. By his own actions he has deprived himself of an hour of life. Such men are fools. You, I believe, are not.’

Smith swung on his heel and walked out leaving the hostages frozen in their horror like a ballet tableau trapped in ice.

Feisal clung to his tower and fought back the tears as the enormity of what was happening in the trophy room floated up to him on the light breeze. Then he completed his mission and used elbows, arms and hands to ease himself back down the fissure.

His legs appeared through the gap in the ceiling, and Cooligan shouted, ‘Drop, sonny. I’ll catch you.’

Feisal did as he was told. Bert carried him to the bed, and Sabrina bent over him anxiously. The boy’s colour was high, and sweat dewed his brow. Sabrina gave him a further injection and forced him to eat some gruel and black bread. Gradually, as before, the fever subsided.

Cooligan had been waiting patiently for the boy to recover, for both he and Sabrina had heard the shooting, and guessed that Feisal might be able to fill in the details. The Arab gasped as he choked on the food, and Sabrina patted his back and wiped his mouth.

‘Tell us, Feisal, if you can,’ she said gently.

He sat up, holding on to Sabrina’s arm.

‘They killed him, Sabrina, they killed him,’ he sobbed.

‘Who?’ asked Cooligan.

‘Mr Hemmingsway, the American gentleman. There was a terrible quarrel between Mr Hemmingsway and Mister Smith, and Grandfather told Mr Hemmingsway to be quiet, and then someone else spoke, and Mr Hemmingsway t–turned on him, too, and called him things, and–’ his voice trailed off.

‘And what?’ Sabrina pressed.

‘And – and the other man shot him. He must be dead, I know. There were a lot of bullets. It went on for so long, and there was a time when nobody spoke, and then Mister Smith said he had been going to kill Mr Hemmingsway anyway, but not y-yet.’

Cooligan let the boy lapse into snuffles in Sabrina’s arms.

Feisal sniffed and blinked and said, ‘I know what you want me to tell you, Mr Cooligan. And I will, as far as I can. The man who killed Mr Hemmingsway was, I believe, Colonel McCafferty. I cannot be certain, but that’s the way it came to me up there on t-top of the castle.’

The agent straightened up.

‘It doesn’t … it just doesn’t … feel right. I know Mac’s sold himself out, but God he’s no killer; not from anger or revenge. It – it doesn’t get. Could you have been mistaken, Feisal?’

The Arab boy shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’

Cooligan pursed his lips and stroked his chin.

‘That settles it then,’ he continued slowly, ‘when I get out of here, the first thing I’m going to do is put that hellhound where he belongs … six feet under with the man he murdered.’

Only then did Sabrina, still cradling Feisal in her arms, feel the rope coiled tightly around his body. She fingered it wonderingly, and he allowed her to unloose it.

Cooligan dashed to the bed and grabbed the rope.

‘Where did you find it?’

Feisal explained that it had been attached to the flag-pole. He considered the rope would be long enough to permit Cooligan to drop to a lower level and make his escape.

‘You can get through the viewing slit–’ he pointed at the external wall. ‘They have put no iron bars on the window here because they did not contemplate anyone being foolish enough to risk climbing out. But of course, if you have a rope?’

Feisal had clearly recovered some of his aplomb, and was feeling in a didactic mood. Cooligan needed no second bidding.

He crossed to the wall-length window-slit.

‘No time like the present,’ he muttered, casting around for something to use to break the glass …

At Zagreb Airport, Philpott was met by a cadre of anxious Yugoslav officials led by the Deputy Minister of the Interior.

‘My government,’ the politician announced, ‘wishes to do everything in its power to bring this matter to a satisfactory conclusion. As a loyal member nation of UNACO, we are dedicated root-and-branch to the extermination of criminals such as this Smith, and the extinction of international terrorism.’

‘Very decent of you, Minister,’ Philpott replied, guessing that Myshkin had already been busy. ‘I assume, then, that you will be prepared to offer me all the facilities I need to take Smith’s stronghold by storm?’

‘Eh – do you know where he is, Mr Philpott?’

Philpott confirmed that he did. The Minister queried whether a large assault-force would be wise.

Philpott grinned, guessing that the Deputy Minister did not really wish to involve the Yugoslav armed forces in an action where they might possibly encounter Russians. He assured the politician that he, too, considered a small UNACO force would be able to penetrate Smith’s lair while keeping a lower profile than a frontal-attack group could.

‘May I have transportation, though?’ he pressed.

‘But assuredly,’ the Deputy Minister cried, ‘one of our most reliable helicopters is waiting for you at this very airport. It is yours to do with as you will.’

He pointed to a far corner of the field, where a reliable helicopter sat preening itself. Philpott learned that the pilot would have charts to cover the area of Smith’s hideaway – wherever that might be – and any other location. Philpott expressed his thanks and began to make his way to the aircraft when he heard his name called. UNACO were on the telephone, the Deputy Minister said, with an urgent message.

As soon as Sonya came on the line, Philpott knew from the tone of her voice that she had unpleasant news.

‘Smith’s issued his instructions for the ransom collection,’ she said when he had established his identity. ‘I’ll give them to you now, shall I?’

‘No,’ Philpott returned, ‘let’s have the bad news first.’

‘Bad news?’ she echoed. ‘Well, yes … there is some … Malcolm, he’s killed Hawley Hemmingsway.’

‘Oh, my God,’ Philpott groaned, ‘I never thought he would actually do it. It’s my fault, Sonya; I gambled with poor Hawley’s life.’

She reproached him for blaming himself, making it clear that Hemmingsway had not been executed according to Smith’s announced plan.

‘He didn’t do it personally. His radio message said Hemmingsway had been shot for being uncooperative and insulting Smith’s integrity.’

‘Who did the shooting?’

‘They didn’t reveal that.’

Philpott sighed grimly.

‘Then Smith let it happen,’ he pronounced, ‘because I’m still willing to bet it was part of his scheme. He may not have been able to prevent it, but I doubt if he tried very hard. It must have fallen very nicely for him that one of his men went ape.’

Sonya let the comforting silence go on, then broke it to tell Philpott that Smith had now promised to kill all the hostages, Arabs and AF One crew members, if any rescue attempt was launched.

‘I think he means it, Malcolm,’ Sonya whispered. ‘I think he knows somehow that we may be closing in on him. He’s been told of McCafferty’s escape from Bahrain, and he must suspect the truth: that Mac followed the German – Dunkels, is it? – to the castle. He knows you’re in Zagreb – the Russians must have let on – and he probably imagines you’re on your way to the castle with a large force. I believe he’d rather everyone died, himself included, before he’d consider surrendering.’