Then I straightened up and tightened the buckle on the strap securing the cylinders and went forward onto the flight deck.
The pilot said something, asking what the problem was, I suppose, and I didn't answer so he looked up and his face opened in surprise and he brought his right arm across his body and I waited until the gun was in his hand and then broke his wrist and worked on the gun and threw the bullets into the cabin and shoved the gun into my coat, bugger was throwing up for Christ's sake, the bugger was lolling over the control column with his face white, all right, there's a lot of pain with a broken wrist but you don't have to go into histrionics, do you, and I told him in French:
'Get that control column, watch what you're fucking well doing!'
A lot of anger coming out, it had been suppressed for a long time now, and there was some fear in it, I knew that, because the chances of getting out of this thing alive were so terribly thin.
I pulled him upright, slapped his face, got him more or less conscious again, I suppose he'd got a low pain threshold, some of us are like that, it's a matter of sensitive nerves, but I didn't want him messing about when he was meant to be flying a jumbo load of explosives through the dark.
I said in English: 'What's our destination?'
He looked at me with his eyes trying to focus. 'Come on, for Christ's sake! What's your target?'
There was 15° north of west on the compass but that didn't tell me enough.
He shook his head.
It looked all right. I was going to use a lot of English in a minute or two when I hit the radio, and I didn't want him to understand.
In French: 'Where are we heading? Wipe your mouth, for God's sake, get a handkerchief. What is our destination?'
He wasn't quite with me yet, kept looking behind him into the cabin. 'Where is Hassan?' he asked me.
I reached and slid the door shut without taking my eyes off him. If I told him I'd killed his friend he'd go crazy and try something and I didn't want any milling about, we could break an instrument, kick a control out of whack. I wanted, in any case, his cooperation.
I didn't think I'd get it.
'What is our destination?'
He glanced down and across, wasn't fast enough mentally yet to stop himself, and I saw the briefcase on the co-pilot's seat and picked it up. Then I looked into his eyes and said quietly, 'Khatami, if you give me any trouble,- I'm going to kill you. Do you understand that?'
He watched me, some anger of his own coming into him now as he thought of his friend.
'Did you kill Hassan? he asked me.
'As long as you understand, Khatami.'
'You are a pilot?'
'Yes.'
'You fly these planes?'
'Yes.'
Otherwise I couldn't kill him and he knew that.
He wasn't a small man; he looked strong, fit, probably did a lot of aerobics, athletics, to keep in shape doing a sedentary job. But he was an airline pilot, and hadn't undergone any special training, or he wouldn't have let me take his gun away. And the difference between any given athlete, however strong, and an agent who has been trained for years at Norfolk and by exhaustive experience in the field is immeasurable, when it comes to effective close-combat techniques. This man was also in a lot of pain, his face still bloodless, and I didn't think I'd have to work on him again until he started feeling better.
He began wiping himself down with his handkerchief and I moved behind him and sank onto my haunches, facing his seat with my back to the bulkhead, where a cup of coffee had been spilled, splashing against the vinyl, the empty cup smashed on the floor, this was when the two hijackers had pushed their way onto the flight deck past the stewardess, she'd been bringing a fresh cup for one of the crew.
A teddy bear on the floor, a lipstick and a smashed cup, the small signs of great crisis, of the process of an act of inhumanity.
If Khatami moved, I would see it in the periphery of my vision field.
I took out the first sheet from the briefcase and let my eyes make leaps across the paragraphs to get the gist. The first of them were in French and one pulled me up short.
… You will insist that you have a fire in the cabin and that you cannot risk going on to Dulles International. Remind Air Traffic Control that you have a full complement of passengers and that you must get them onto the ground as soon as possible and regardless of all other considerations…
There were three more paragraphs in Farsi and some figures that looked like radio call signs. I took out the second sheet.
It was a map for airline pilots: Washington DC (VA). Washington National, River Visual Approach for Runway 18.
I began taking slow breaths. The image of Khatami's seat had moved, the whole silhouette had moved against the lights of the instrument panel. I didn't want any more of that bloody dizziness at a time like this, I couldn't afford the luxury, nobody could afford it, the President of the United States couldn't afford it, I knew that now.
You will make your approach to Runway 18 from the north-west, following the lights and landmarks of the Potomac River. You should pick up the river just after passing through 10 DME 6 at 3000 feet. The American Legion Memorial Bridge will be on your right. You will pick up the lights of the Chain Bridge just after 10 DME 6 and you should now be down to 1800 feet.
I felt the vibration of the bulkhead against my shoulder-blades, could smell the stale coffee that had been spilled, and Khatami's vomit. The lights and the LEDs shimmered below the darkness of the windscreen, some of them steady, some of them flashing red, green, amber, white. I had to look away from them; they were starting to swing a little in front of my eyes.
Never neglect concussion. It was in the medical section of the Manual at the Bureau, and Doc Dibenidetto can be trusted to know whereof he speaks. It had happened in the underground garage at Tegel Airport, and pitching out of the limousine in Algiers had aggravated things.
Slow breaths.
And make haste, great haste now.
The Georgetown Reservoir will be coming up on your left and you should now be down to 1200 feet. At this point you should request confirmation of your permission to make an emergency landing from ATC, so as to reassure them that your situation is genuine. You should be through the 3 DME 6 and over Key Bridge at 900 feet. Continue your approach above Roosevelt Bridge and Arlington Memorial Bridge as scheduled, with the Washington Monument now on your left. At this point you will break off your approach path and make a 70 ° turn to line up with the White House and complete your run in to the target.
The lights swinging at the edge of the vision field, around the edges of the map, the rush of the jets diminishing a little.
I waited, had to wait, until I thought I could get onto my feet and stay there. I think it took only a few seconds, and when I finally managed it I had the feeling I should have waited longer, not rushed it.
'Khatami,' I said, 'get on the floor.'
He looked up at me, down at the map in my hand.
There wasn't any point in talking to him about this. I hadn't got a gun that I could have pressed to the back of his neck while I told him where to fly this thing, where not to fly it, but I had enough stamina left to kill him if I had to. But he was beyond threats to his life: he'd already surrendered it to Allah, and nothing could touch him now. This is the strongest weapon of the kamikaze: he's got nothing to lose, nothing you can threaten to take away from him.
He was still looking up at me, Khatami.
'You killed Hassan,' he said.
'Down on the floor! Face down on the floor – move!'
He held my eyes for a moment and then dropped from his seat and lay prone, I think because he'd seen I was ready to kill him if he didn't obey, and that would mean he'd have no chances left of overcoming me if he could. That was all he wanted to live for: my death and his final run in to the target.