Khalid’s mind began to come around, letting him think clearly, at least for a little while. The pain in his back and shoulders was no more than a dull ache that he could almost ignore. He caught the attention of a nearby flight attendant. “Is there a reason why we haven’t been allowed to deplane?”
“I’m sorry, sir. This is part of the terrorists’ demands. None of the planes on the taxiways are allowed to move. A second communique from them came shortly after the first one. They said that if any aircraft attempted to move or let off the passengers, they would detonate all the bombs simultaneously. They claimed to have the airport under observation. I’m very sorry for this, Minister Khuddari. I’ve heard what you’ve been through. Is there anything I can do for you? I’m afraid that I don’t have anything stronger than Midol, but maybe you’d like a drink?”
“Nothing right now, thank you,” Khalid demurred quickly.
For the first time in his life, he was tempted to break the dictates of the Koran and have liquor. It wasn’t to dull his pain but to deaden the realization that Rufti was going to win.
Khalid realized that fat bastard must have known that he was trying to get back to the United Arab Emirates, probably had him tailed from the hospital. He didn’t even want to consider the consequences if Rufti knew that Trevor and Millicent Gray had helped him. Both were in grave danger. Considering the four hours he’d been asleep, it was probably too late to help them.
Khalid thrust aside his concern for the lovers and considered what was really at stake. Rufti was surely well on his way back to the UAE. Once there, he would immediately start his plan to overthrow the government. The Crown Prince was vulnerable right now, trapped between appeasement of the United States and the militancy of more reactionary forces within the Gulf, old enemies made newly volatile by the shifting world oil situation.
Rufti could take the Emirates so easily that the coup would certainly be called “bloodless” by the international media. And then, Iran and Iraq would advance, and the Gulf would fall under a tight dictatorship. Using oil as an economic weapon, the conspirators would bring Europe, Asia, and America to their knees in a matter of weeks.
“I need a phone.” Khalid didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until the woman next to him looked at him strangely.
He called the stewardess again and explained that he needed to make an important call. She said emphatically that no phones could be used while the aircraft was on the ground. The authorities feared that any outside electronic interference, such as a radio or a cellular phone, might detonate the explosives.
“There are no more explosives, I assure you. I must have a phone, now.”
Again she shook her head and turned away.
“Then let me talk to the captain,” he demanded harshly. With more stability than he thought he possessed, he pushed himself from his seat and faced the young attendant.
“I’m sorry, Minister, but that isn’t possible, either,” she replied as strongly as she could in the face of Khalid’s insistence.
“Now, goddamn it!” he shouted. She backed away silently as Khalid moved into the aisle, his feet thudding against the deck like Frankenstein’s monster. The stiffness of his wounds had robbed him of nearly all coordination.
Deferring to his ministerial status, she led him to the flight deck. The crew sat in their starched white shirts, black ties, and trousers and looked suitably impressive even in their impotent positions. The captain, a silver-haired man with deeply tanned skin and calm eyes, twisted to see who had intruded on his sanctum sanctorum. When he saw Khalid in the ill-fitting clothes with barely healed scars on his face and hands, he tightened his hold of the aircraft’s control yoke.
“Captain Darson,” the stewardess said formally, “this is Minister Khuddari, that passenger that was brought aboard at the last moment.”
Darson continued to scrutinize Khalid from behind a veil of suspicion. “Yes, Minister, what can I do for you?”
“The attack at the airport was meant to delay me reaching home, Captain. There are no other explosives and no terrorist plot. A rival of mine is trying to overthrow my government, and I’m the only person aware of his intentions. By closing the airport and stalling this flight, he may succeed in wresting control from our legitimate leader.” It was a struggle for Khalid to speak clearly. His mind was beginning to swim again, his vision to blur.
“Am I to assume that you wish to leave the aircraft?”
“Yes, sir, and if that’s not possible, then at least allow me to make a call and send a warning.”
“I understand your situation, sir, but you must understand mine. I am under strict orders not to use my radios until the authorities determine that there are no more bombs in the airport or on any of the planes. Despite what you say, the government is taking this threat seriously, considering what happened last night at the British Museum.”
“Captain, I was the target of that attack. It was me they were trying to kill, don’t you understand? This” — he waved his arm toward the view through the cockpit windshield — “this whole elaborate plot is intended to delay only one person, myself.”
“I’m sorry, but my hands are tied. The antiterrorist police should have everything checked out in another few hours. They’re being careful in case the terrorists really do have the airport grounds under surveillance. I’ll make sure you are taken off the plane as soon as we’re vetted. I’m sorry, but that is the best I can do.”
“That’s not good enough,” Khalid yelled. The copilot stood quickly and began moving toward him, a grim expression on his face. His intentions were clear, and Khalid allowed himself to be shepherded from the cockpit, realizing that he had nothing more to gain.
The stewardess led him back to his seat. Khalid sat, his mind working furiously, not only against this dilemma but also the pain that threatened to overwhelm him again. He had to get off the Boeing, contact Colonel Bigelow, and have him warn the Crown Prince. Nothing else mattered.
Slumped over, with his head cradled between his hands, he felt the first waves of defeat washing over him. Despite his own Herculean endurance, his sacrifices and stamina, Rufti was going to win. He had little option other than sit here in the first-class section and wait until his country was destroyed by a power-crazed maniac.
Like hell. Khalid was in motion before he was fully aware of what he was doing.
The main cabin door of the aircraft was only a couple yards away. Lurching drunkenly, Khalid made his way toward it, tripping over his startled neighbor but ignoring her protests. From the corner of his eye, he saw a stewardess a quarter way down the aircraft’s length turn to look at him, but she didn’t register alarm until she saw his hand reach for the pressure door handle. She shouted a warning, dropped a bundle of blankets onto the lap of a coach-class passenger, and started running forward.
Another attendant, the only steward on the aircraft, ducked his model-handsome face around a bulkhead, his eyes going wide when he saw the ragged passenger heaving at the handle.
With what little strength he had remaining, Khalid pulled on the door handle until finally the seal broke. The door, as perfectly balanced as Boeing engineers could make it, pivoted easily, folding back on itself and leaving a wide aperture beckoning to freedom. Frightened passengers began screaming, several of them leaping from their seats and running toward the tail of the aircraft, fearing that Khalid was part of the terrorist threat. Some people watched in horrified awe as Khalid braced himself for the drop to the tarmac.
The steward lunged to grab onto Khalid’s clothing in a vain attempt to stop him, but he fell short by a few inches, his outstretched hand grasping empty air. He had to clutch at the door frame to keep from tumbling after Khalid.
For a brief instant, as Khalid dropped the ten and a half feet to the taxiway, his mind and body felt as one again, both of them seemingly weightless, adrift in a sensationless void. And then he hit the ground, his legs folding completely, his head smacking against the asphalt like a heavy melon. He kept his body loose, never once thinking to tense for the impact.