Hansard held his glass up high, and everyone did the same.
‘My friends,’ he announced, satisfied at last, ‘the next time we meet will be in a different world.’
6
Cole had still not opened his eyes fully, and the nearby guard was unaware that his prisoner was awake, as he continued to tap away at his laptop computer.
It appeared that Cole and the guard were the only people on board, save for the flight crew safely ensconced in the cockpit. The electromagnets were essentially unbreakable, which accounted for the guard’s lack of interest. He would have been told how dangerous Cole was, but being secured so tightly would give the guard the false confidence that it was a pure baby-sitting job.
It wasn’t going to be the most comfortable of tasks, but Cole relaxed his body and carried out the first phase of his plan.
7
Markus Schoenhoffer stopped typing, sniffing the air of the cargo area. The plane was damn cold — a problem with the cargo areas of military transport aircraft, and one that he was resigned to — and the low temperature tended to make scents carry.
The job was an easy one, Schoenhoffer reflected. The prisoner was extremely dangerous, but he was both sedated and securely locked into position. The police officer was going through night school to earn his masters in criminal psychology, and the three hour flight would give him some peace and quiet to get the next chapter of his dissertation done; it was due in by the start of the next term, and he had been struggling with finding the time to write it.
But what was that smell? He sniffed the air again, and then he was sure. Urine. The prisoner had pissed his pants! Of all the inconsiderate …
Schoenhoffer put the computer down on the cold metallic floor and got up out of his seat, stretching as he did so. He approached the seated man carefully, keeping his distance. The smell reminded him somewhat of camels at the zoo, and he wondered briefly if the toxicity was somehow related to the sedative the man had been given.
He sighed. The job was supposed to be easy, but he couldn’t very well sign the man over to his compatriots in Washington with piss all down his legs. In the current climate, there would doubtless be allegations of abuse or neglect, or some other such horse crap.
He was also worried about the effect of the liquid on the electromagnets securing the man’s legs. He didn’t know much about how the system worked, but was pretty sure urine and electricity didn’t mix. He was also sure that the system was very expensive, and didn’t want to be responsible if it broke.
Schoenhoffer knew there was only one thing for it, however unpleasant it might be; he would have to use a pair of his own trousers, pulled from his overnight bag, and change the man.
It should be fairly easy, Schoenhoffer figured. There were two switches that activated the magnetic clamps, one controlling the wrist clamps and the other the ankle clamps, and they could be operated independently of one another.
He would just disconnect the leg clamps, take off the man’s trousers, clean him up, and then put on the fresh pair — it really was like baby sitting, after all. He would then re-secure the clamps, and go back to his dissertation.
It would be unpleasant but nothing to worry about. After all, the man was still unconscious.
8
Cole heard the guard approach, and the sharp intake of breath as he saw the wet patch around Cole’s crotch.
Cole then heard him pulling something from his bag, muttering curses as he did so. Probably new trousers, Cole figured. He had known the guard would not want the embarrassment of signing over a prisoner covered in piss.
His only concern would have been if the guard had not noticed; he knew that scents carried in cold, confined atmospheres, but there was no guarantee it would be picked up. Cole would then have been forced to do something that definitely would be smelled by the guard, and he was extremely happy that it hadn’t come to that.
He sensed as the man came closer, and felt him reach over his head, hearing the click of a switch. The electromagnets. Cole hoped that one switch would control both ankles and wrists, but was not unduly surprised to find his arms still fastened in place. It would make things harder, but not impossible.
He felt the guard kneel down in front of him. Not yet. The man’s hands pulled the shackles apart wider, creating space to remove Cole’s legs. Not yet. The guard then pulled Cole’s lower legs free of the magnetic clamps. Now!
Cole’s legs shot up instantly, wrapping themselves tightly around the guard’s unprotected neck in a judo technique known as sangaku jime — the triangle choke.
Cole’s eyes were open now, and he watched the guard’s own eyes go wide as the oxygen to his brain was effectively cut off, Cole’s right leg cinched tight over his left, his hamstrings contracting as they cut off the blood supply at both sides of the man’s neck.
It took only seconds for the man to slump relaxed, unconscious. Cole kept it tight for another few seconds, just to prolong the period of unconsciousness but several seconds short of death, and then released his grip, the guard falling in a heap on the floor.
Wasting no time, Cole shuffled forward on the seat of his chair, creating some space to move in, before rocking his legs back over his head, his body concertinaring in the middle, shoulders and back hunched against the chair backrest.
The switches were based on a panel at the back of the headrest, which was where Cole had felt the guard reach earlier, and he tried to jab towards the unseen buttons with his toes.
His first effort failed, and his second, but on his third attempt, his body cramped, his ribs aching, he managed it; there was an audible click, and he felt the tight metal around his wrists loosen as the shackles fell open.
He jumped from the chair, bending down to secure the guard. The leg strangle was effective, but the result was short-lived, and the man would soon be awake with almost no ill effects. He found the man’s bag, and used handkerchiefs, a shirt, and a leather belt to bind and gag him.
All he had to do now was take control of the cockpit.
9
Cole changed trousers quickly — the new pair was not a perfect fit by any stretch of the imagination, but they would do — and pulled the guard’s Glock 17 pistol from the holster on the man’s belt.
He set off through the fuselage, checking the gun as he went, racking the slide to put a round in the chamber. There could be up to five more people through the sliding metal door, Cole knew — the pilot, co-pilot, flight engineer, navigator and a loadmaster. On such a routine flight though, Cole would have been surprised if there was a full complement.
He stopped to check out of the starboard porthole, and saw a vast expanse of water beneath. The Hercules routinely cruised at a much lower height than a jet aircraft, often under 20,000 feet, and it was therefore below the cloud line, giving Cole an unobstructed view.
They had obviously already cleared the European mainland, probably Britain too, and would now be somewhere over the Atlantic. But where? He had no idea how long the sedative had laid him out, and so had no idea how long they had been airborne. The flat, lifeless seascape below gave him no point of reference.
Cole turned away from the small circular window, just in time to see a uniformed crewman — the flight engineer? — coming through the sliding door into the cargo area, a tray of mugs in his hands.