Michael Alton craned his neck to see over the seat before him. The occupant of that seat was also trying to see.
“Michael… what is it?” Sandy Alton’s voice was hushed.
He didn’t answer right away, but what he could see made his neck hairs stand on end. Why? he asked himself. Unconsciously, he squeezed his wife’s hand.
“Sweetheart…” Her tone was now almost pleading.
He lowered his body back into the seat. “Men with guns.”
“Oh God.”
He eased his touch on her hand. Her voice was almost a whimper, very soft and breathy. He wanted to say something, but what? There was nothing he could do.
Wael was first in. The two flight attendants recoiled at the sight of him. Arabic men were smaller in stature, at least those that they had seen. Not so Wael. His build was that of a tank and reached six feet five inches. In green fatigues, replete with black infantry boots, he looked especially menacing, the Uzi in his hand completing the picture. His most terrifying trait, though, was yet to be made apparent.
The barrel of his weapon directed the two attendants back toward the galley. One of them said something, but Wael spoke only Arabic. He continued to wave them back.
Abu followed Wael in and went directly to the stairs, giving the passengers to the rear only a quick look. They were surprised, he thought, not frightened. The eyes of one woman near the door caught his, asking a question without words. She was older, yet pretty in the way American women were. He could have communicated well with her, if he had wished, thanks to his three years at the American University in Cairo.
At the top of the stairway he found an empty lounge. Each of them had flown on identical aircraft as part of their training for the mission. The Americans, like most Westerners, were fascinated with their own comfort. Huge planes with two levels. And the furnishings! Spacious chairs and tables between them with holders for the glasses of alcohol they always seemed to need. Abu wondered if there was a bath or — what did the Americans call them? — a hot tub. It would not surprise him.
Abdul must be downstairs now. The shouts were echoing up the staircase in his throaty voice. Abu smiled, but it faded quickly. It was really happening.
He went to the cockpit door, its face similar to the wall around the frame. He knocked gently, as if on a friend’s door.
Hadad opened it. Abu stepped in, crowding the cockpit. He flashed a look at the two pilots, the one on the right not turning to face him. The other, a blond man, met his look.
“Soldiers, Hadad?” Abu asked in Arabic.
“Yes, of course,” the answer came in rapid Arabic. “Old soldiers,” Hadad finished in pronounced English.
Abu, impressed by the size and opulence of the aircraft, was not so affected by its electronic gadgetry. It was a jumble of things which he did not understand. Flashing lights and…televisions? Abu found himself shaking his head.
“I am glad you are here, my friend,” Hadad said, reaching into one of the Velcro-closed pockets on the vest. There was an audible click, and he released the thumb switch, letting it drop and hang by its short connecting wire.
“Cap-tan, Number Two…stay in your seats.” The Uzi was trained on them as a warning as the hijackers left the cockpit. The door made a metallic sound as it closed.
Hadad unfastened the two hook closures on the front of the vest and leaned back. The weight of it made it slide easily off. He set it on one of the lounge seats near the cockpit door.
“Is it heavy?” Abu’s brown eyes were fixed on his comrade.
“Very.” Hadad let the mini Uzi drop awkwardly on its strap to his elbow as he reached up to rub his neck and shoulder. The muscles were not sore, but the skin was. “The loading went well?”
“Perfectly.” Abu waved his friend’s hand away and reached, straight-armed, to massage both of his shoulders. Hadad let his head fall back and roll in a circular motion. The kneading felt good on his aching flesh. It had been less than three hours and already the weight was a bother. That angered him. He realized that he should have been more physically prepared for the mission. He could relax now, though. He was among friends.
“Thank you.”
“Is it better?” Abu pulled away and slung his own Uzi, a full-size model, on his left shoulder.
“Yes, much.”
Abu motioned to the cockpit. “Will they cooperate?”
“They will. The number two is arrogant…a Marine. But he will do as I say.” Hadad swept his hand before them, looking around. “Look at the power we have over them. All of the pitiful souls below are ours.” He almost laughed. “And, my friend, the Great Satan will do as we wish.” His confidence in his performance was high. Not only his enemies required convincing.
A scream was heard from below, and shouts in rapid-fire Arabic.
“Abdul and Wael are moving the passengers back, out of the first-class section,” Abu explained.
A thin smile formed on Hadad’s face. “It sounds as though Wael is himself.”
“He is motivated,” Abu commented, knowing that Wael’s massive frame was matched by his sometimes maniacal demeanor. “How long will we stay?”
The men had not been together for a month. “We will leave here tomorrow afternoon.”
“Is there any word on the colonel?”
Hadad wiggled his shoulders, bringing his weapon back up. “I have not heard anything.”
“So, it has begun,” Abu declared.
“Yes, my friend, and there is much to be done.” Hadad went to the stairs, then turned. “Remember, we have a funeral to attend.”
Abu nodded. Indeed we do.
Not quite two days ago.
So much had happened in such a short time. Art knew his agents were working their asses off to keep the answers coming in. The picture they had painted so far was an accurate representation of the assassination, and Art’s report was faithful to their efforts.
The two shooters, Harry Obed and his still unidentified co-conspirator, had come in on separate flights to LAX from New York early Thursday past, and before that from Paris. Passenger records identified the partner as Benny Obed, but that was slim. Harry was fingered by the use of his American Express card to rent the car, and confirmed by the clerk who had rented it to him. She remembered him as friendly, comfortably well dressed, and Middle Eastern-looking. Fortunately she was good at labeling accurately. His friend was Middle Eastern, too, she had recalled. He was quieter, but still seemed nice.
From the airport they went to a motel in Pasadena, the Squire Inn. It was a nice place; Art had checked. No hourly rates or fresh sheets at check-in. Apparently the men had left Friday and made a stop somewhere before heading downtown. It was this trip that puzzled Art, warranting a ‘reasons unknown’ tag where it was mentioned in the report. Mileage records from the rental agency and the car’s odometer narrowed the trip’s distance down to within a five-mile corridor from LAX to Pasadena. The side trip might have been to pick up the weapons, or they might have been waiting for them at the motel. The latter was unlikely, though. It would have provided too direct a connection since someone, presumably Marcus Jackson, would have needed to rent the room in advance and place the weapons there. The charge slip itself negated part of that supposition, showing that Obed had rented the room. Art silently thanked his maker for credit cards and the ease of tracking their use.
The rest was educated conjecture, supported by the available physical evidence and eyewitness accounts. The shooters had obliterated most of the evidence with themselves. Forensics and ATF had determined the type of explosive and the presence of a timing device. A one-centimeter piece of metal was all they needed to prove that. Art thought those guys were witch doctors.