He hung the towel on its hook near the door between his quarters and office. There was work to be done. Today, however, would have an agenda different from any other before.
Lieutenant Indar knocked and entered at the same instant, coming to attention a foot from his superior. “Sir! A message from Colonel Hajin.”
Muhadesh took the paper, eyeing Indar, whose stare was straight ahead and solid. He read the short dispatch to himself. “An attack by the Americans is expected. Well.”
Indar’s mouth opened slightly, his stare changing to almost human as it found his commander’s downcast eyes. “An attack, sir!”
“Do not get excited, Indar. Remember, attacks have come before. All this says is that we should prepare for any attack that might come. This is not a certainty.”
“But the Americans will surely attack us.” Indar’s unprofessionalism showed whenever passion or emotion entered his person.
This worm. Muhadesh had things to do, and his lieutenant would be underfoot to… Possibly…yes. “Lieutenant,” he began, as if speaking in normal conversation, “I am charging you with preparing the camp to repel any attack.”
There was a wet sound from Indar’s mouth as a gulp of air was pulled rapidly into his lungs. “But…sir, did Colonel Hajin…”
“Indar!” Muhadesh’s voice boomed, matching his stance. He quickly calmed, perfect in the portrayal. “You will be in charge of the defenses. That is my order. Do you understand?”
Indar’s body went rigid again, looking to be at a very forced state of attention.
“Lieutenant.” Muhadesh put a hand on his aide’s elbow. This terrifies you: real responsibility. “This is a challenge for you. A real opportunity to use your skills of command and strategy, and I am confident that you will perform superbly.” The lie seemed to work, as the fear left Indar’s eyes and his chest stopped heaving.
“I will not fail you, sir.”
“Do not fail the Third. About your duties, Lieutenant.”
Indar gave his usual crisp salute as he left.
Muhadesh stood motionless for a full minute after his lieutenant left, just letting the coolness of the morning that invaded his office chill him. It awakened him fully.
Things would move more smoothly now that Indar had a task to keep him occupied. Muhadesh was certain that he would attack the chore with fervor, and equally sure that he would trip over his own ineptitude at every opportunity. It would not matter. That realization saddened Muhadesh, and that surprised him.
The time for the first step had come. He went to his drawer, the one with the lock. Inside were the tools he would need. His coat was on the chair back. Muhadesh left it there, then opened the desk drawer. Two of the items were identical, and he took both, bending to put them in the left side pocket. They sounded a metallic clinging as they dropped in. The other item he took more care with.
It was black, and reflected no light in the sun gleaming through the window. He checked the magazine, ejecting it for inspection, then reinserted it. Next he checked the silencer for alignment, opening the slide to allow light through the barrel and staring through it from the business end of the silenced .22 caliber Beretta. Everything was right with it. He made sure the safety was on before placing it in the holster sewn inside of the coat.
After lunch, he decided. Indar would be well into his duties, leaving Muhadesh free to visit the airport once again.
Jerry mulled over the plan silently.
“Chicago’s ready to go,” Art said. Eddie sat quietly.
“If they get the number, and we get the location, then how do you want to handle it?” Jerry Donovan liked things laid out fully before moving on any potential suspect.
“Full surveillance, to start,” Art began. “I’ll put four or five teams on Jackson. Every move he makes we’ll know. Then, when he’s vulnerable, we’ll take him.”
Donovan became the inquisitor. He considered it a part of his job. “How many total?”
“Eight or ten,” Art replied. He looked to Eddie for confirmation.
“That should do it,” Eddie agreed.
Again Donovan analyzed it. He noted that Art was crisp and confident, but almost too awake. The plan, however, was sound. If the Chicago end of it came through, then the West Coast part would probably come off well. “It sounds good by me.” He checked the time: 3:20 A.M. There was something he had to do. “Ed, could you excuse us.”
The request was heeded. It wasn’t uncommon for confidential conversations to spring up with no warning. Eddie did notice something in Jerry’s eyes, though. He couldn’t peg it, but it worried him enough to notice.
“Art,” Donovan began, sounding more businesslike than a minute before, “how are you feeling?”
The question surprised Art, visibly. “What?”
“How do you feel? I mean, you’ve had what?…three hours’ sleep in the past day?”
“A little more than that. What are you getting at, Jerry?”
The senior agent wasn’t known for mincing words. “Art, you’ve got a weak ticker — that’s no secret. You’ve been getting help, and that’s great, but…Art…I can see it in you. You’re tired.”
“We’re all tired,” Art answered, mildly scoffing at the comments.
“Not like you. I’m not talking about tired because of no sleep: It’s more. It’s inside, Art. I know it. You know it.” Donovan sought his answer with his eyes for a moment. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong,” Art lied. He was angry, not at Jerry — he was only doing his job — but at himself. He had let it show. But he couldn’t let on that it was real. Not now. He wanted this one. He wanted Jackson.
Donovan heard the words, but the feeling wasn’t in them. “If that’s what you say, that’s what you say. I have to take it as gospel.”
“You can relieve me,” Art said, regretting it instantly. It was a challenge to Jerry, and it confirmed what his superior had feared.
“No, Art, I can’t. I’ve got nothing concrete. If I did… I don’t know.” He looked away for the first time. He had tried. “Just watch it, okay? Don’t push yourself…”
“Over the edge?” Art finished the statement.
Donovan said nothing more. Art watched him leave, trying to forget the whole exchange immediately by focusing on the matters at hand.
Eleven
FIRST BLOOD
Captain Hendrickson sat once again in the seat. It had been an upright bed for him, as well as his work chair. It was not meant to be the former. Flight seats, however comfortable during hours aloft, were not designed for sleeping. His neck ached and his shoulders had a sharp, pulsing pain running the length of each blade. Discomfort was shaping up to be the norm for this journey. Even going to the head was a luxury, considering how long his bladder had been full. The same went for Buzz, who was finally enjoying the same relief.
The quiet one, the one the leader called Abu, was with the captain. Hendrickson thought there were four of them, though only three had been seen. Another was referred to often by the others. Thoughts of overpowering the one with him were ridiculous, the captain told himself. He could plan it, though, an act that at least gave him a sense of power.
For the hijackers there would always be a feeling of fear. They would constantly have to be on guard. The captain thought that was a laugh, that this whole thing might give the hijackers ulcers.
In the end, though, he felt more helpless than anything. This was his aircraft, and these were his passengers. He was responsible for each and every one of them. It made him sick to know that the best he could do at the moment was nothing.