“Nice job,” Jackie said as she climbed out and cautiously surveyed the area. “The hair is standing up on the back of my neck.”
“Same here,” Scott said as he secured the airplane to the dock. “Keep your eyes open.”
While Dalton climbed onto the pier, Jackie slid across the cockpit and crawled out the left door.
“Be careful,” she said under her breath.
Without warning, a man of Middle Eastern descent appeared from behind a planting of thick tropical foliage.
Although he felt a stab of adrenaline, Scott smiled in a relaxed manner. “Hey, man, wha’s happenin’, dude?”
“This is private property,” the muscular man said as he walked onto the dock. “I must ask you to leave.”
“Well,” Scott began slowly, “you see, man, we’d like to accommodate you, but we’ve got a major-big-time problem with our flyin’ machine.”
“That is none of my concern,” the unsmiling man said curtly. “You will leave at once, or I will be forced to call the authorities.”
Scott looked at Jackie, then broke into a wide smile and turned back to the grim-faced man. “That’s who we’re trying to contact.” He laughed overzealously. “We’d appreciate some help.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Jackie saw a rugged-looking man with a weapon approaching from the side of one of the guest cottages.
“Ah… Scott,” she said in a quiet, clear voice. “We have an armed visitor at our eight o’clock.”
“Take him!” Dalton exclaimed at the same instant he drew his Sig Sauer and pointed it at the first man. “Hit the ground! Now!”
Stunned, the well-built man hesitated until Scott fired a round that grazed his right sandal. He hit the pier like a bag of cement.
“Freeze,” Jackie shouted at the other man. “FBI! Drop your weapon! Drop it now!”
The man raised his semiautomatic as Jackie fired three rounds, striking him in the leg and chest. He stumbled backward, then fell to the ground and groaned in agony.
“Who else is here?” Scott barked as he placed the barrel of the nine-millimeter to the first man’s temple. “You have three seconds.”
“There’s only two of us,” the frightened man uttered. “You’re not FBI.”
“That’s right — they’re a lot nicer.”
“Take what you want and leave,” the man pleaded.
Scott caught a glimpse of Jackie while she hurried to retrieve the Intratec semiautomatic from the wounded gunman.
“What I want,” Dalton said impatiently, “is some answers.”
“About what?” the man said with a trace of sarcasm.
“Tell you what,” Scott said as he pressed the barrel to the bridge of the man’s nose. “You better change your attitude, or you’re going to be seeing your Maker a lot sooner than you thought.”
“What can I tell you?” the man asked while perspiration rolled down his cheeks. “I am a simple caretaker.”
“Right,” Scott said contemptuously. “Where’s Khaliq Farkas?”
Suddenly full of fear, the militant hesitated. “I don’t — I have never heard of the man, honestly.”
“Never heard of him, huh?”
“Never.”
Scott glanced around the compound. “Well, ol’ buddy, you must’ve been on the moon for the last twenty years.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How about Massoud Ramazani?” Scott asked while Jackie carefully watched for other gunmen. “Does that ring a bell?”
The question had a profound impact. “I… don’t know anyone by that name. What do you want?”
“Let’s try this,” Scott said firmly. “Where did the yacht go?”
“Who are you?” the confused man asked.
“I don’t think I’m getting through,” Scott said as he slowly shook his head and smiled. “Now pay attention.”
“Please, I don’t know anything.”
Without taking her eyes off the other man, Jackie moved closer to Scott. “The yacht is getting further away.”
He nodded and tapped the man’s head with the Sig Sauer. “I’m only going to ask you one more time,” Scott said with raw conviction. “If you don’t answer, you’re not going to like the alternative.”
“I am prepared to die,” the militant said curtly, then broke down. “Go ahead and kill me,” he blurted in an anguished voice. “I am prepared to die for Allahu and the revolution.”
“If you want to die, we might as well make it memorable,” Scott said, eyeing the empty utility boat. Equipped with a 112-horsepower Evinrude outboard, the Boston Whaler looked almost new.
“You know something?” Dalton said as he grabbed him by the collar. “I’d be willing to bet that you’re not a water-skier.”
The man’s face turned to stone and his eyes reflected abject fear.
Scott got down next to him. “Am I right?”
“I don’t swim.”
“No problem,” Dalton said innocently. “Swimming is optional — same with the water skis. I’m going to teach you how to body-ski.”
The man’s eyes grew wide.
“Since we don’t have a lot of time,” Scott went on in a calm voice, “I’m going to start you out with the advanced lessons.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” the militant said with a trace of panic in his voice. “You will have to kill me.”
“Jackie,” Scott said evenly, “if you’ll cover Ski Cat and his friend, I’m going to rig the boat for body skiing.”
“He’s gonna love that,” she said in a husky undertone, then pointed her gun at the man. “I just hope he isn’t bleeding by the time you get him into the water.”
“Me, too.” Scott smiled. “There’s a lot of hungry sharks out there.”
34
Khaliq Farkas attached a small suction plunger to the lower left side of the window and skillfully used a glasscutter to extract an eight-inch square of glass. He repeated the same steps on the right side of the glass, then stepped back to admire his work and the view. Looking over the top of a hotel and Interstate 85—even with the restriction of low clouds and fog — he had a bird’s-eye view of the sprawling international airport. He estimated that he was approximately one mile from the west end of the south runways.
Feeling more confident by the minute, he unpacked a spiral notebook, two ballpoint pens, and the portable radio scanners. He cautiously surveyed the hotel grounds, searching for anyone who might be looking up at the building. Most everyone entering or leaving the high-rise hotel was looking at the pavement in an attempt to dodge the multitude of water puddles.
Across the room, Hamed Yahyavi unfolded the long radio antennas and attached the mass of tangled cables to the aircraft radios, then carefully divided the antennas between the two openings in the window.
The weather was still rotten, but the light rain had abated for the moment. The fog and low visibility were continuing to cause flight delays, but air traffic was flowing reasonably well now that the early-morning rush hour was over. Not quite ideal conditions for what he wanted to achieve, but good enough to take a chance on inflicting mass casualties and creating fear about where and when an attack might occur next.
Checking the current United States Government Enroute Low Altitude navigation charts, Farkas tuned in the frequency for the airport arrival ATIS — the automatic terminal information service. He immediately learned that Hartsfield/Atlanta International was using both Runways 8 Left and 9 Right for landing aircraft. The reported weather during the past hour was slightly above the minimum ceiling and visibility needed to execute the standard Instrument Landing System precision approaches to the two runways.