For seven years he had been the Vatican’s lead captain flying Shepherd One and the pope all over the world, knowing the mechanical intricacies on this particular plane that no other pilot in Alitalia Airlines would know about.
He knew every nuance of this aircraft and its modified defense mechanisms, such as the equipment to ward off attacks from insurgent weaponry by having been outfitted with flares and high temperature decoys to attract heat seekers, interceptors to take out ground-to-air missiles, and a state-of-the-art laser jammer deliberately designed to confuse any laser-governed source, most notably the laser-guided missile. The main fallback, however, was that the 787, like all jumbo jets, was not an aeronautical gymnast in the sky.
Finding his hotel keycard and slipping it into the slot, Enzio waited for the red light to turn green before turning the handle to his room. Tonight he moderately celebrated at the hotel bar which happened to stock his premium brand of Italian beer, Birra Moretti, drinking no more than two bottles, which was the maximum allowed the night before a flight.
Reaching blindly in the darkness for the light switch, Enzio found the lever and slapped it into the ‘up’ position. The two lamps on the nightstands came to life, the feeble glow of light casting upon a man of slight build and youth sitting at a table by the glass sliding doors that led to the balcony. The man possessed a natural calm to his demeanor with one leg crossed over the other, a hand on a knee, his other hand lying on a closed laptop computer.
At first Enzio was caught off guard, his state of non-action interrupted when the door closed behind him. A second man, also dark in complexion and wearing a well-tailored suit and tie, held a pistol with attached suppressor to Enzio’s head. In Arabic he ordered the pilot deeper into the room and away from the door with a quick motion of the firearm. Although Enzio didn’t understand the language, he understood the Arab’s intent as the armed man pointed the mouth of the weapon to a designated spot in the room’s center, then shoved the pilot forward, the pistol now touching the base of Enzio’s skull.
The man sitting at the table was cleaned shaven and didn’t look much older than his late teens or early twenties, but held the dark, intelligent eyes of a seasoned person with all the forbearance of someone much older and wiser. For a long moment the man said nothing, his eyes studying, penetrating, his body as still as a Grecian statue until he finally leaned forward and spoke in perfect Italian.
“Captain Pastore, I have a proposition for you that I believe would be in your best interest.”
Enzio actually macho postured, puffing his chest and raising his chin in defiance. But Hakam accepted this as nothing more than an act of bravado, and expected nothing less from an experienced pilot of the Aeronautica Milatare. “What do you want?” he challenged, his voice keeping a hard edge. “What is this all about?”
The small Arab spoke in a tone that was even with indifference. “Captain Pastore, what I want from you is simple,” he said. “Tomorrow, I want you to navigate Shepherd One to a set of coordinates that I will provide you with. I want you—”
“What you want is of no concern to me,” he interrupted. “None whatsoever. Now get out of my room.”
The Arab said nothing, nor did he show any emotion or make a verbal counter for what seemed to be an interminably long time to Enzio. Moving his left hand, Hakam opened the lid of the laptop so the screen faced Enzio, and tapped a button on the keypad. Images began to load up, that of his wife and children sitting on the couch in their home in Italy, terrified and crying, the man who now held the pistol to his head was the same man on the screen with the point of a wickedly sharp knife pressed to the underside of his wife‘s chin.
Enzio immediately felt his heart misfire as his shoulders slumped. He could do nothing but watch.
The segment on the laptop’s screen showed Hakam sitting in a chair with the grizzled beginnings of a beard lean closer to Enzio’s family while the other Arab drove the point of his knife beneath the soft tissue of her chin. “What I want from you,” Hakam told her, his Italian perfect, “is to look straight ahead and scream.” In the following segment he leaned forward in his chair, and then commanded, “I said… scream.”
And when she did Enzio could feel his soul suddenly eviscerated from what made him whole. Now he felt completely hollow as he dropped to his knees, his defiance and bravado gone, his skin suddenly alabaster white.
The image on the screen was stilled; the freeze-frame photo of his wife bearing the look of absolute horror elicited something from Enzio. It was the feeling of being rendered powerless, which absolved him from the rank of manhood and granted him the right to sob like a frightened child.
“My family…” It was all he could muster between tears.
“Your family, Captain Pastore, is quite fine. They are being cared for as we speak.”
Enzio’s eyes filled with the task of pleading and turned to the small Arab, his hands held together in prayer. “Please,” he said. “My family.”
Hakam tapped another button on the keypad, which brought up a second screen that was hidden beneath the first as a tab. The banner read ‘LIVE FEED.’
“Do you want to see your family?”
Enzio’s jaw dropped slowly, as if the question itself placed him in stasis. Then, “Yes — yes,
of course. My family.”
“Are you willing to listen to my proposition?”
He quickly conceded by nodding.
“Then you shall see your family.” Hakam tapped another button.
On the screen was a live feed of his wife and children, obviously terrified, but alive.
“Speak to her,” said Hakam.
Enzio quickly crawled forward on his knees toward the laptop and was about to embrace and kiss the screen before the gun-wielding captor forced him back with a solid shove. Holding his hands up imploringly, and then in an attitude of prayer, Enzio became emotional as he spoke to his wife and children, ensuring them everything would be fine.
When Hakam tapped the feed dead, the image growing to a mote of light in the center of the screen, Enzio employed a look of infuriated resentment.
“Captain Pastore, I strongly suggest that you keep your emotions in check. Or your family will pay the ultimate consequence. This I promise.”
Enzio’s face shifted back to that of complete and total submission, his head nodding in compliance.
“Shepherd One,” began Hakam, “does not follow the same strict security guidelines as commercial airliners, correct?”
Enzio nodded.
“And it carries no other passengers besides Vatican principals, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Therefore, I assume there will be no air marshals to contend with?”
Enzio closed his eyes. “There’s no need for air marshals since it’s an exclusive charter. It’s the papal plane.”
“Yes… Yes, of course.”
Hakam’s subdued manner never wavered, his constantly calm appearance a disturbing factor to Enzio who saw him as a sociopath who believed rules did not apply to him. Executing his family would be like swatting a fly with a newspaper, the matter soon forgotten without so much as an afterthought. So he had to be careful.
“Now Captain,” said Hakam, “and keep in mind that if you should present me with any falsehoods or deception on your part, then I will issue an immediate order for the death of your family. Do you understand?”
The captain nodded.
“All I have to do,” he said, letting his finger hover over a button, “is to push this key right here.” Hakam looked the captain straight in the eye. “Your family will be dead before your mind could register the act. Am I making my point clear?”