Frederick Forsyth - Avenger

In the library someone shouted, "Cover," and all five men hit the floor.

Kulac rolled, came up, and stood over his master with his gun out. Then the first guard outside, believing he had spotted the gunman, fired back. Two more bomblets detonated, and the exchange of rifle fire intensified. A window shattered. Kulac fired back toward the darkness outside.

The Serb had had enough. He ran at a crouch through the door at the back of the library, along the corridor, and down the steps to the basement. McBride followed suit, with Kulac bringing up the rear, facing backward.

The radio room was off the lower corridor. The duty operator, when his employer burst in, was whitefaced in the neon light, trying to cope with a welter of shouts and yells on the waveband of the guards' breastpocket radios.

"Speaker, identify. Where are you? What is going on?" he shouted.

No one listened as the firefight in the darkness intensified. Zilic reached forward to his console and threw a switch. Silence descended.

"Alert the airfield. All pilots, all ground staff. I want my helicopter, and I want it now."

"It's not serviceable, sir.

"Then the Hawker. I want it airworthy."

"Now, sir?"

"Now. Not tomorrow, not in an hour, now!"

The crackle of fire in the far distance brought the man in the long grass to his knees. It was the deepest dusk before complete darkness, the hour when the eyes play tricks and shadows become threats. He lifted the bicycle to its wheels, put the toolbox in the front basket, pedalled across the runway to the escarpment side, and began to cycle the mile and a half to the hangars at the far end. The mechanic's coveralls with the "Z" logo of the Zeta Corporation on the back were unnoticeable in the dusk, and with a panic about to be launched, no one would remark on them for the next thirty minutes either.

The Serb turned to McBride. "This is where we part company, Mr. McBride. I fear you will have to return to Washington by your own means. The problem here will be sorted, and I shall be getting a new head of security. You can tell Mr. Devereaux I shall not renege on our deal. For the moment I intend to kill the intervening days enjoying the hospitality of friends of mine in the emirates."

The garage was at the end of the basement corridor, and the Mercedes was armoured. Kulac drove, his employer seated in the rear. McBride stood helplessly in the garage as the door rolled up and back. The limousine slid under it, across the gravel, and out of the stillopening gates in the wall. By the time the Mercedes had rolled up to it, the hangar was ablaze with light. The small tractor was hitched to the nosewheel assembly of the Hawker 1000 to tow it out onto the apron.

The last mechanic fastened down the last hatch on the engines, clattered down the gantry, and pulled the structure away from the airframe. In the illuminated cockpit, Captain Stepanovic, with his young French copilot beside him, was checking instruments, gauges, and systems on the strength of the auxiliary power unit.

Zilic and Kulac watched from the shelter of the car. When the Hawker was out on the apron, the door opened, the steps hissed down, and the copilot could be seen in the opening.

Kulac left the car alone, jogged the few yards of concrete, and ran up the steps into the sumptuous cabin. He glanced to his left toward the closed door of the flight deck. Two strides took him to the lavatory at the rear. He flung the door open. Empty. Returning to the top of the steps, he beckoned to his employer. The Serb left the car and ran to the steps. When he was inside, the door closed, locking them in to comfort and safety.

Outside, two men donned earmuffs. Captain Stepanovic started his engines. The two Pratt amp; Whitney 300s began to turn, then whine, then howl.

The second man stood way out front where the pilot could see him, a neon-lit bar in each hand. He guided the Hawker clear of the hangars and out to the edge of the apron.

Captain Stepanovic lined her up, tested the brakes one last time, released them, and powered both throttles.

The Hawker began to roll, faster and faster. To one side, miles away, the floodlights around the mansion flickered out, adding to the chaos. The nose lifted toward the sea and the north. To the left, the escarpment raced by. The twinjet eased off the tarmac, the faint rumbling stopped, the cliffedge villas went under the nose, and she was out over the moonlit sea.

Captain Stepanovic brought up his undercarriage, handed over to the Frenchman, and began to work out the flight plan and track for a first fuel stop in the Azores. He had flown to the UAE several times, but never at thirty minutes' notice. The Hawker tilted to starboard, moving from her northwest takeoff heading toward northeast, and passed through ten thousand feet.

Like most executive jets, the Hawker 1000 had a small but luxurious lavatory, right at the back, occupying the whole hull from side to side. And like some, the rear wall was a movable partition giving access to an even smaller cubbyhole for light luggage. Kulac had checked the lavatory but not the luggage bay.

Five minutes into the flight, the crouching man in the mechanic's coveralls eased the partition aside and stepped into the washroom. He removed the Sig Sauer 9-mm automatic from the toolbox, checked the mechanism yet again, eased off the safety catch, and walked into the main cabin. The two men in the rawhide club chairs facing each other stared at him in silence.

"You'll never dare use it," said the Serb. "It will penetrate the hull and blow us all away."

"The slugs have been doctored," said Dexter evenly. "One-quarter charge. Enough to punch a hole in you, stay inside, and kill you, but never go through the hull. Tell your boy I want his piece out, finger and thumb, on the carpet."

There was a short exchange in Serbo-Croat. His face, dark with rage, the bodyguard eased out his Glock from the left armpit holster and dropped it.

"Kick it toward me," said Dexter. Zilic complied.

"And the ankle gun."

Kulac wore a smaller backup gun taped round his left ankle under the sock. This was also kicked out of range. Avenger produced a pair of handcuffs and tossed them to the carpet.

"Your pal's left ankle. Do it yourself. In vision all the time or you lose a kneecap. And, yes, I am that good."

"A million dollars," said the Serb.

"Get on with it," said the American.

"Cash, any bank you like."

"I'm losing patience."

The handcuff went on.

"Tighter."

Kulac winced as the metal bit.

"Around the seat stanchion. And to the right wrist."

"Ten million. You're a fool to say no."

The answer was a second pair of cuffs É.

"Left wrist, through your friend's chain, then right wrist. Back up. Stay in my vision or you're the one saying adios to the kneecap."

The two men crouched, side by side, on the floor, tethered to each other and the assembly holding the seat to the floor, which Dexter hoped would be stronger even than the giant bodyguard.

Avoiding their grip, he stepped round them and walked to the cabin door. The captain assumed the opening door was his owner coming forward to ask for progress. The barrel of the gun nudged his temple.

"It is Captain Stepanovic, isn't it?" said a voice. Washington Lee, who had intercepted the Email from Wichita, had told him.

"I have nothing against you," said the hijacker. "You and your friend here are simply professionals. So am I. Let's keep it that way. Professionals do not do stupid things if they can be avoided. Agreed?"

The captain nodded. He tried to glance behind him into the cabin.

"Your owner and his bodyguard are disarmed and chained to the fuselage. There will be no help coming. Please do just as I say."

"What do you want?"

"Alter course." Dexter glanced at the electronic flight instrument system just above the throttles. "I suggest Three-One-Five degrees, compass true, should be about right. Skirt the eastern tip of Cuba, as we have no flight plan."