Maes frowned as Smith dialed. “I’ll wait for a short time, Colonel. But then I’m going to expect to be satisfied as to who you are.”
Smith nodded and turned away when Maggie Templeton came on the line. He never thought he could be so happy to hear someone’s voice.
“Creative Party Supplies. How can I direct your call?”
“Hi, this is Jon on an open line. Is Fred around?”
“He’s been anxious to talk with you,” she said with practiced ease. “Hold, please.”
Klein came on a moment later. “Hi, Jon. It’s good to hear from you. We were disappointed when we lost touch.”
“Sorry, Fred. I wasn’t able to get to a phone. But now Peter and I are on a Brussels Air flight heading for Europe.”
“Should I have one of our salespeople meet you at the airport?”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary. There’s an ill man on the plane and Mehrak and Sarie decided they didn’t want to fly back with us. I’m not sure how they’re getting home.”
There was a brief pause before Klein responded. “Understood. How ill is the man on the flight?”
“I think in the next couple of hours he’s going to need attention.”
“And are there facilities on the plane to give him the help he needs?”
“I hope so.”
“Let me see if I can make some arrangements, Jon. I’ll get back in touch as soon as possible.”
The line went dead and Smith handed back the phone.
“That was a very cryptic conversation,” the pilot observed coolly. “Perhaps your British friend has some sort of identification?”
He did, but an Argentine passport in the name of Peter Jourgan wasn’t going to carry a lot of weight.
“Just hold off a little longer, Captain. My people are working on this. You should get confirmation of my identity soon.”
“And in the meantime?”
“I’d like your permission to subdue the man.”
The pilot shook his head. “Impossible. Until I know exactly who you are and have some kind of authorization, you will not take action against any passenger on this flight. Is that understood?”
Smith wasn’t happy about the response, but there was very little he could do about it at this point. He headed back into the first-class cabin and crossed over to where Peter Howell was standing at the curtain.
“Were you convincing, mate?”
“Apparently not. I talked to my CO. He’s going to contact the Europeans and try to get us some cooperation.”
“I hope your CO is very fast and very persuasive,” he said, pointing through the gap in the curtain. “Take a look.”
A flight attendant was offering Dahab a drink, but he didn’t react at all, just sat there banging his knuckles into the window at an alarmingly precise six-second interval.
“We can go anytime, Peter, but at best we’re on our own.”
“And at worst?”
“The crew fights us.”
Howell sighed quietly. “Too many passengers and too little space, Jon. This is a cock-up waiting to happen.”
They had been watching the Sudanese for an excruciating two hours when the flight attendant came up behind Smith and tapped him on the shoulder. He followed her back to the cockpit, saying a silent prayer that Klein had been able to work his magic. A thin ring of red was visible at the edge of Dahab’s turban and he seemed to have completely lost touch with the world around him. The only good news was that the passenger sitting next to him had retreated to a vacant seat at the back of the plane. One problem down, a thousand to go.
“I’m still not entirely certain who you are,” the pilot said as Smith stepped into the cockpit and closed the door. “But I’ll grant that you have a great deal of influence. We’ve been diverted to a military base on an island near the Maldives. It also appears that we’ll be acquiring a fighter escort from a nearby American carrier.”
His expression suggested that he wasn’t happy about the assist from the U.S. Navy. Maes was smart enough to know that there was nothing a fighter could do to help them. The only reason for its presence was to make sure that if things went seriously south, the plane never made it to land.
“I’ve also been told in no uncertain terms that you are now in full command of this flight and that we are to follow your orders without question.”
Smith nodded, not bothering to hide his relief. Fred Klein once again had come through.
Jon Smith strolled casually down the aisle in the copilot’s uniform, sunglasses on and hat pulled low over his forehead. He smiled and nodded at the passengers as he passed but stayed focused on the Sudanese in his peripheral vision.
The flight attendants had been fending off an increasing number of complaints about the African, and as Smith got closer, he could understand why. The edges of Dahab’s turban were wet enough that the blood would soon be running down his face. He didn’t seem to notice, though, and continued to rap split knuckles against the window.
As bad as viruses like Ebola and Marburg were, Sarie was right — they were just mindless biological machines. The creatures infesting this man seemed almost sentient. It was as if they understood that their host was dying and were consciously trying to find a way to escape.
Dahab’s stare remained fixed as Smith approached carrying a canvas mailbag containing a heavy wrench and a roll of duct tape — the most sophisticated weapon and hazmat equipment the plane had to offer.
He stopped at the rear bathrooms, watching a terrified flight attendant come down the aisle and lean her impressive bosom into the row behind the Sudanese.
“You look like two very fit gentlemen,” she said, following the script they’d concocted. “A drink cart tipped over up front. Would it be possible for you to help me?”
Smith retrieved the tape from his bag and used it to secure the sunglasses to his face while the men followed her up the aisle. A pair of surgical gloves completed his protective clothing, and he ran a latex-covered hand over a gash in his cheek sealed with Krazy Glue.
Showtime.
He tried to keep his gait relaxed as he slipped into the empty seats behind Dahab, removed the wrench from the bag, and double-checked the cord threaded through the grommets around the opening.
His actions had attracted a fair amount of attention, and he grinned at a toddler staring at him three rows forward. The gloves were easy to hide, and most of the duct tape was obscured by his hat, so after a few minutes the passengers went back to their books and movies.
He rose casually and gave the child still staring at him another quick smile before ramming the canvas bag down over Dahab’s head. The African immediately tried to jump from his seat but discovered that his seat belt was fastened — something Smith had confirmed when he’d walked past.
By the time he thought to reach for the clasp, Howell had vaulted the people trying to escape the seats directly in front, going headfirst over them and clamping a hand around the buckle mechanism. Smith used the cord to tighten the bag around Dahab’s neck with one hand and arced the wrench toward his head with the other, ignoring the rocking of the plane as the passengers shifted en masse.
It was only inches from impact when the Sudanese jerked forward. The power of his movement felt utterly inhuman, and the wrench missed its target as Smith was pulled helplessly over the seats.
With three grown men now thrashing around in the confined space of two economy seats, there was no way to cock the wrench back far enough to build any real momentum. Smith abandoned it, concentrating on trying to keep the bag in place as Dahab reached back and found his throat.
His grip felt more like a five-fingered vise than anything human. Air and blood flow suddenly cut off, all Smith could do was grab weakly for the man’s wrist. He tried to use the wall for leverage, but his vision began to swim and he became confused as to where the wall was. The sound of a snapping bone that initially seemed to be signaling the collapse of his spine instead eased the pressure suffocating him. Another quiet crack and his vision cleared enough to see Howell digging beneath Dahab’s fingers, breaking them one by one.