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The driver opened the door, raising his hands to show that he meant no harm. Palumbo pulled him to his feet and jabbed the Taser into his neck. Ten thousand volts turned the driver’s knees to Jell-O. He fell to the ground, unconscious. Palumbo slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. “Hello, General,” he said.

“Who the hell are you?” asked John Austen.

Palumbo had no time for explanations. “It’s over,” he said. “We’re shutting down this op right now.”

“What are you talking about?”

Palumbo dropped the Taser and pulled the Walther pistol from his jacket. “What plane are you targeting?” he demanded.

“Whoever the hell you are, you’d better have a damned good excuse for assaulting my aide.”

“What flight are you going after?”

“Get out of my car!”

Palumbo jabbed his thumb into the crease between Austen’s jaw and his ear and held the pressure point. The general’s mouth froze in a silent, paralyzed scream, the sensation of the grip akin to having a sword rammed through the top of his skull. “What aircraft are you planning to shoot down?” Palumbo repeated. He released the pressure point and the general bent double.

“Who sent you?” Austen gasped. “Lafever? Are you the one who killed Lammers and Blitz?”

Palumbo pressed the pistol to Austen’s cheek. Up close, his face had the sheen of day-old floor wax and was pulled as tight as a drum. “Where’s the drone? I’m going to put a bullet in your skull if you don’t tell me.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Go ahead. It won’t change a thing.”

“Yes, it will. You’ll be dead, and that drone won’t be up there blowing a plane full of innocent people out of the sky.”

“No one is innocent. We’re all born in sin.”

“Speak for yourself. Where’s the main house? I heard you say that you were moving to the main house.”

Austen closed his eyes. “‘Oh, the joy of having nothing and being nothing,’” he recited. “‘Seeing nothing but a Living Christ in glory, and being careful for nothing but His interests down here.’”

Palumbo glanced out the window. The driver was still out cold. There was some motion behind the curtains of a picture window above the garage. He found the pressure point again and held it, longer this time. “Where’s the drone? Is it here? Is this the main house?”

He released his grip.

Austen gazed at him. There were tears in his eyes, but whether they were from pain or some perverted sense of sacrifice, Palumbo couldn’t tell.

“Thank you,” said Austen.

“For what?”

“Christ had his test. He persevered and was delivered. Now, it’s my turn.”

“Christ was no murderer.”

“Don’t you see? All the conditions are as prophesied in Revelation. The Israelites hold Jerusalem. The Lord is ready to return. You can’t do a thing to stop it. None of us can. We can only help it on its way.”

He’s raving, thought Palumbo. “What flight are you going after? I know it’s tonight.”

But Austen wasn’t listening anymore, except to his own voice. “The Lord spoke to me. He told me that I am the vessel of His will. You can’t stop me. He won’t allow it.”

“It’s nobody’s will but your own.”

Outside, a door slammed. Two men appeared at the top of the stairs leading to the house. Palumbo put his hand to the ignition, but the keys weren’t there. He looked at Austen, and Austen stared back, as defiant as ever. Palumbo knew then that Austen was the one. He was the man who was going to pilot the drone.

Palumbo raised the gun to Austen’s temple. “I can’t allow you to kill all those people.”

A shadow to his left blotted out the sun. The window shattered, spraying glass across the cabin. A hand reached in and grabbed him. Palumbo knocked it away. Austen was flailing at the gun. Palumbo elbowed him in the face, knocking him back into his seat. Then he raised his gun. As he did, someone took hold of his collar and yanked him backward. He fired the weapon. The bullet blew out the passenger window. A fist pounded his temple and he dropped the weapon. The door was flung open and he felt himself being dragged out of the car and onto the driveway. It couldn’t end this way, he thought, kicking and struggling.

The plane…someone has to warn them.

And then a boot struck him in the head and the world turned dark.

77

El Al Flight 8851, nonstop service from Tel Aviv to Zurich, took off from Ben Gurion International Airport on schedule at 4:12 p.m. local time. The pilot, Captain Eli Zuckerman, a twenty-six-year veteran of the airline and former fighter pilot, with a combined seven thousand hours in command, announced that flying time aboard the Airbus A380 was scheduled to be three hours and fifty-five minutes. Weather en route was slated to be calm with little or no turbulence. The airliner would overfly Cyprus, Athens, Macedonia, and Vienna, before touching down in Zurich at 8:07 p.m. Central European Time. Zuckerman, an armchair historian in his spare time, might have added that these great locales were sites of battles waged by men with names like Alexander, Caesar, Tamerlane, and Napoleon. Battles that had determined the course of civilization for centuries to follow.

The flight that evening was full. Six hundred seventy-three names filled the manifest. Among them was Dahlia Borer of Jerusalem, director of the Israeli Red Cross; Abner Parker of Boca Raton, Florida, an American retiree who had lost both legs in Vietnam to friendly fire; Zane Cassidy of Edmond, Oklahoma, pastor of the Messiah Bible Church and leader of a tour group of seventy-seven Evangelical Christians; Meyer Cohen, leader of the National Religious Party, en route to Washington, D.C., to lobby the American Congress to favor expansion of settlements on the West Bank; and Yasser Mohammed, Arab Israeli member of the Knesset, also en route to Washington, D.C., to lobby the American Congress to forbid any further expansion of settlements on the West Bank.

These last two were seated next to each other. After an exploratory conversation and an exchange of political views, one took out a chessboard. The two men spent the rest of the flight in companionable silence, hunched over their knights and pawns.

Three hundred seventy men, three hundred women, including sixty-four children. Plus a crew of eighteen.

After the plane had reached its cruising altitude of 37,000 feet, Zuckerman addressed the passengers a second time, announcing that he was turning off the seat belt sign and that everyone was welcome to stroll about the two-story aircraft, the newest in the El Al fleet. He was pleased to add that they had picked up a considerable tailwind that would trim their flying time. The new arrival time was set at 7:50 p.m. Fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.

He wished all aboard a pleasant flight, and in closing, stated that he would speak with the passengers again shortly before landing.

78

“No,” said von Daniken into the phone. “We don’t have any details regarding a specific threat. All we know is that there’s a terrorist cell operating in the country which has as its goal the destruction of an airliner on our soil. We don’t know who they are, or where they are at this moment. But, I repeat: we do know that they’re here, most probably in Zurich or Geneva. All our evidence points to an attempt on an aircraft, either airborne or at the terminal, within the next forty-eight hours.”

He was speaking to the director of the Federal Office of Civil Aviation, the organization that had final say on all matters concerning flights originating or terminating at Swiss airports. The man was a friend, a former messmate in the army, but friendship didn’t come into play with matters of such magnitude.