Without further consideration Hakam pulled down the lever and opened the door, giving access to the pope who ascended the stairway with the aid of one of the largest men he had ever seen.
Although like any other airliner within its fleet, the Dreamliner 787-9 was far more luxurious and appealing than any other jumbo jet in the sky. The double-aisled aircraft held far more room for its passengers and provided a more attractive surrounding with soft-cushioned seats that reclined at an angle similar to a poolside lounger, and a 13” flat-screen TV that angled downward from the overhead bin. In the rear was a state-of-the-art kitchen with infrared heating ovens instead of microwaves; a cooling vault for wine, beer and soda; and an elevator that led to a stocked pantry on the lower level. The bathrooms were larger, more eloquent and less cramped. And in keeping with Italian convention, the clam-shaped sinks and countertops were fashioned with veined marble and antique-styled fixtures.
From beyond the cockpit door Hakam watched the bishops of the Holy See take their seats, but held more interest in the pope and his personal valet. They sat in the first row, the pope removing his miter, the equivalent of a king’s crown, and carefully placed it on the seat to his left while the valet took the seat to his right. For cosmetics the pope adorned the tribunal wear of the alb, tunicle, pallium and lappet. But the valet brought attention to himself by wearing an odd configuration of religious attire. Although his cleric shirt was to code and specs and the Roman collar stark white, his slacks were military wear with his pant legs blossoming out from the top of military boots. On the pocket of his shirt was an emblem: a blue shield bearing a silver cross with two heraldic lions supporting it. A coat of arms, which no other priest on board had.
A red flag immediately surfaced in Hakam’s mind.
The valet was perhaps six six, two hundred fifty pounds. The considerable thickness of his arms, as well as the wide breadth of his shoulders and massive chest, gave Hakam concern. Regardless of how pious this man may be, he was nevertheless a threat by size alone.
Are you a body guard… or are you something more?
As Hakam stood there examining Kimball, he noted the Roman collar around his neck, the collar of a Catholic priest.
You’re no man of God, he finally considered. And you’re no priest.
The moment he looked away from the collar Hakam was met by Kimball’s gaze, their eyes locking in appraisal of one another from a short distance. Neither man smiled or betrayed their thoughts. And both refused to flinch or concede.
You’re no priest, Hakam reassured himself. And then he forfeited his stance by feigning a smile, and disappeared into the cockpit.
Kimball sat to the right of Pope Pius, the size differential between them the complete antithesis of two men, the proverbial David and Goliath.
For an odd moment he visually connected with the co-pilot, a brief measure of time that spelled something peculiar, but nothing he could pin down with certainty. But it was enough to raise a concern.
“Is a different crew taking us back?” he asked the pope.
The pope nodded. “I saw Enzio in the cockpit when we boarded.”
“But is a different crew taking us back?”
“Sometimes one specialized crew will switch out for another during a lengthy trip,” he said, “so that others can return to their families. And we’ve been away for awhile.” He turned toward Kimball. “Why?”
Kimball did not respond. Instead, he studied the stewards who served the bishops with smiles on their faces and congeniality in their eyes. They were not the same crew. “It seems to me this is a different team,” he said.
The pope shrugged. “It very well may be.”
It very well may be, Kimball mentally parroted. But something’s very, very different here.
And then it hit him. The marginally darker skin tone, the facial features — it was all quite reminiscent. They were of Middle-Eastern origin.
“Oh, no,” he whispered.
Hakam quickly retreated into the cockpit and hunkered close to the pilot. Captain Enzio Pastore ignored him as he meticulously checked the switches and toggles.
“Get this thing moving,” said Hakam.
“We need clearance, first.”
“Then get it. I want this thing in the air.”
As Enzio spoke to the tower through a lip mike asking for the authorization to takeoff, Hakam grabbed a laptop that had been placed on the Navigation Station, and plugged a phone line from the back of the computer to a USB port on the navigational board. He quickly booted the laptop, until the screen bore the emblem of the managing software, then closed the lid.
“From this point on, Captain Enzio, you will maintain your heading to Dulles. And you will not alter our course under any circumstances unless I say so. If you choose to do so,” he tapped the top of the laptop, “then you will see firsthand what will happen to your family. Have you ever seen a beheading?”
Enzio did not answer. Nor did Hakam expect one. Hakam simply wanted to plant a seed in the captain’s mind that the fate of his family depended on his forced loyalty to him. Anything else would result in the executions of his wife and children.
“We have clearance,” he finally said.
“Then bring this thing about and get us in the air. At what attitude are we scheduled to level off at?”
“Thirty-three thousand feet.”
Hakam nodded: Perfect!
Kimball maintained a disturbed appearance, his hand massaging the curvature of his chin in thought as he watched the stewards’ buckle in. The moment the plane hitched and began its movement to the takeoff lane, Kimball quickly unbuckled his seatbelt and stood.
The pope reached out and placed a hand over the thick girth of Kimball’s forearm. “We’re you going?” he asked. “The plane is about to take off.”
“I need to see Enzio about something.”
“I believe he’s somewhat busy at the moment. Can’t it wait?”
He looked up and saw all the faces of the stewards looking at him, their eyes making him the focal point of the moment. “No,” he said, drawing his arm away. “It can’t.”
Kimball moved at a quickened pace but was intercepted by a steward who stood from his seat and placed a halting hand on Kimball’s chest. “Please, sir. The plane’s about to takeoff. You need to take your seat.”
Kimball looked down on the man, who was about eight inches shorter, and saw the practiced smile of feigned geniality. His eyes were a deep chocolate, the flesh surrounding them sunken and dark.
“It won’t take long,” he said, and then made a move to pass the smaller man only for the steward to block his path once again.
“Please, sir, I have to insist—”
Kimball grabbed the steward’s hand and bent his fingers backward, driving the man to his knees. “Let’s put it this way,” said Kimball. “Stand in my way again, and I’ll personally see that you won’t be playing the piano anytime soon. Get it? Got It? Good.” Kimball released the steward’s fingers and headed for the cockpit, with the man kneeling on the floor cradling his hand.
The steward, with a painful grimace on his face, managed to work the garrote from his watch and pulled the line taut between his hands, working his injured fingers over its ends. Let me show you what I use my fingers for, he thought, and then he got to his feet.
The co-pilot Kimball made eye contact with earlier was sitting at the Navigation Station. A closed laptop was situated on the topside of the Navigation Station and to the man’s left.