With Dawson safely strapped on the narrow cot in the rear compartment of the twin-engine aircraft, Wilson walked forward to the cockpit and handed over the fee agreed for the flight. ‘Three thousand five hundred dollars. Is that correct?’ he asked in Russian.
‘Yes,’ the man replied. ‘I understand you want to go to either Moscow or Kiev. I suggest we wait until we’re airborne before checking which hospital is best prepared to take care of him.’
Wilson nodded. ‘That’s just what I was going to suggest.’
The pilot slid the envelope into his jacket pocket, glanced back into the Cessna’s cabin to check that everything was properly secured, then turned again to Wilson. ‘If you’d like to take your seat back there, Mr Johnson, we’ll get moving now. My name, by the way, is Vassily.’
Just ten minutes later the Cessna was heading northwest, away from Sochi, and climbing smoothly through ten thousand feet.
Wilson waited until Vassily had switched on the autopilot before he went back to the cockpit. ‘There’s been a change of plan,’ he said firmly. ‘We’re not going to either Moscow or Kiev. Turn this aircraft round immediately and take up a heading of one nine zero.’
For a moment Vassily seemed to think Wilson was joking, but his smile faded rapidly when the American produced a semi-automatic pistol. The weapon surprised and shocked the Russian, but he was completely stunned by the sight of Dawson standing behind Wilson in the cockpit doorway, complexion ashen and looking ghastly, but smiling and clearly compos mentis.
Wilson smiled too. ‘It’s amazing how bad a couple of pieces of cordite can make you look and feel.’ Chewing cordite produces a grey complexion, nausea and vomiting, and was a dodge used by nineteenth-century British soldiers and sailors as a way of getting undeserved sick leave, or even a discharge. The effect starts within about thirty minutes of ingestion, and can last for some hours, depending on how much is swallowed.
‘Right,’ Wilson continued, ‘it’s facts-of-life time. Don’t even think about making a radio broadcast or altering your transponder settings. I promise you I’ll notice — and then I’ll kill you. Our new destination is Cairo.’
Vassily shook his head desperately. ‘It doesn’t have the range—’ he began, but Wilson interrupted.
‘Don’t try and take me for a fool. A Cessna three four zero has a range of just over two thousand six hundred kilometres cruising at one hundred and seventy knots. Your tanks were full on take-off. I checked. From Sochi to Cairo is about sixteen hundred kilometres. That means you can get there and about halfway back with what you’ve got in your tanks right now.
‘And before you come out with any other stupid remarks, my friend and I are both qualified pilots and could fly this aircraft to Cairo without the slightest difficulty. Whether you live or die is now up to you, but I would prefer your cooperation. If I get it you’ll live to walk away from this. OK?’
Vassily stared at the gun in Wilson’s hand. ‘OK,’ he said hoarsely. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘First, start the turn. Inform Sochi that the patient’s condition has worsened, and we’re diverting to the Ain Shams University Specialized Hospital at Abbassia. Tell them that you’re altering course for Cairo, and request that they advise the Turkish and Egyptian authorities.’
‘What about a flight plan?’
‘There’s nothing to stop you filing an en-route plan if either the Turks or the Egyptians insist, but they probably won’t. After you’ve talked with Sochi, contact Turkish Air Traffic Control. You’ll be entering their airspace between Samsun and Trabzon, so you should call Ruzgar for clearance. Their initial contact frequency is one two three decimal one. They’ll hand you on to Yayla and Gazi as we transit across the mainland.’
Vassily stared at Wilson. ‘You’ve worked all this out, haven’t you?’
Wilson grinned at him. ‘You’d better believe it. OK, it’s your choice. Make the calls and play it straight, and you’ll get to land this aircraft at Cairo, and keep the money we’ve paid you, and live. If you don’t, you’ll be taking a long dive into the Black Sea.’
The first responses Litvinoff received were negative. As far as the police could ascertain, no two Americans had stayed in any of the hotels in Astrakhan or Groznyy. The reports from Adler and Sochi took longer to arrive, but proved worth the wait. As soon as he read the response from a hotel manager in Adler, Litvinoff knew he had the Americans cornered.
The town lies close to the Turkish border, but not that close — the frontier is actually four hundred kilometres away — and Litvinoff was confident he could end the pursuit long before his quarry could escape in that direction. His first call was to the Adler police station.
‘You have two Americans named Johnson and Hughes staying in your town. They’re using false passports and are wanted for the theft of military equipment from a base near Moscow. They should be considered armed and dangerous. Put a squad together immediately and arrest them. Under no circumstances are they to be allowed to leave Adler.’
When the inspector replied his tone was apologetic. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Investigator Litvinoff.’
‘Why not? I have the necessary authority to order this operation.’
‘No, it’s not that, sir. About half an hour ago we were advised that an ambulance would be collecting a critically ill guest named Hughes from his hotel. He was suffering from meningitis or encephalitis, and an air ambulance had already been arranged. In fact, we provided a police escort for part of the ambulance’s journey.’
In that instant, Litvinoff realized exactly how the Americans had planned to get themselves and the stolen nuclear weapon out of Russia, and he swore under his breath.
‘Where did the aircraft depart from? Which airport?’
‘Sochi. It’s about twenty kilometres from here.’
‘Has the flight already taken off? If not, hold it on the ground.’
‘Stand by and I’ll check.’ Litvinoff heard background noises, raised voices, and then the inspector came back on the line. ‘It got airborne ten minutes ago. It seems the pilot didn’t file a flight plan because it was a medical emergency, but he told Sochi that he would be landing at either Kiev or Moscow.’
‘Right,’ Litvinoff snarled, and slammed down the phone.
For a few moments he just sat there. One thing was certain: the two places he could guarantee the air ambulance would not be landing were Moscow or Kiev. By now, the Americans would have pulled a gun on the pilot, and the hijacked aircraft would be heading south for Turkey.
He’d been cleverly outmanoeuvred, but there was, he hoped, still time to stop them. What he needed now was an aircraft — an armed fighter aircraft, to be exact — and he thought he knew where he could get one.
Within the North Caucasus MD there are numerous military airfields. Litvinoff’s immediate problem was that he didn’t have the authority to contact one directly to request the launching of an interceptor. In fact, he wasn’t sure he had sufficient authority even to approach the Military District headquarters in Rostov. But if he hadn’t, the FSB headquarters in Moscow at Lubyanskaya ploshchad certainly would have, and fortunately he’d already briefed a succession of duty officers there on his progress — or lack of it — in apprehending these Americans.
Before contacting Moscow, he called the Sochi Airport control tower. The information he gleaned was unwelcome, but not unexpected. Litvinoff briefly thanked the controller, then called Moscow.