The no-smoking warning flashed up and Harry put out his cigarette. Then he glanced down at the front page of the paper he was clutching in his hands. A bye-line caught his attention, and he stiffened. As he began to read the short paragraph the engines of the aircraft roared into life.
TAKAMORI WINS DIAMOND FIGHT
After eighteen months of persistent negotiation with U.S. Consulate officials, Li Takamori, millionaire owner of the Far Eastern Trading Corporation, succeeded last week in his fight to supply Tokyo with industrial diamonds from this country.
Permission to export three million dollars’ worth of diamonds has been granted, and the diamonds, under special guard, are being flown tonight to San Francisco to be shipped to Tokyo.
In an interview with our special correspondent, Mr. Takamori said that in spite of considerable opposition in certain quarters, he had at last succeeded in convincing the U.S. Consulate that industrial diamonds were essential to Japan's economic recovery.
It is believed that Mr. Takamori has financed the deal himself, and this has been the deciding factor in the protracted negotiations. When asked if he were guaranteeing payments, Mr. Takamori refused to comment.
Rumour has it that Mr. Takamori will be flying to Tokyo at the end of the month for an audience with the Emperor when he will be honoured for services rendered.
Harry folded the paper and dropped it under his seat. He remembered Borg's warning: no diamonds, no dough. This Takamori guy was going to get a shock. No diamonds, no honour.
The aircraft was moving now. He saw the lights of the parking lot flash by. The Roadmaster Buick had gone. Borg would be driving hell for leather to Sky Ranch airport.
Harry looked at his watch.
Ten minutes from now.
Hairy slid his hand inside his trench coat and his fingers touched the cold butt of his Colt .45. He wondered how the crew of the aircraft would react when they saw him come on to the flight deck. There was the crew captain, the co-pilot and navigator, the flight engineer and the radio operator. They would all be young and keen; their nerves steady. Suppose they acted heroic? Suppose they rushed him? He decided to fire a shot into the deck. That should bring them to their senses. He wasn't too worried about them, but he was worried about the guard. He was a professional, paid to handle trouble. Was he in the luggage bay or in the passage? Franks would have to take care of him.
Lewin would take care of the passengers. If he had known there was to be a guard with the diamonds, he would have asked Delaney for a fourth man.
He suddenly felt he had to know where the guard was, and he stood up and stepped into the gangway.
He saw Lewin's hand slide inside his coat and he shook his head. Lewin scowled at him. He kept his hand inside his coat as he watched Harry limp past him.
Franks was leaning forward also watching Harry as he approached him. Again Harry shook his head. He opened the door and stopped into the galley.
Hetty Collins was mixing a batch of martinis. She glanced up and smiled at him.
“Second door on the right,” she said.
He nodded, but he wasn't looking at her now. He was looking down the passage that led to the luggage bay.
The guard was sitting on a tip-up seat outside the door to the luggage bay. He half turned when he saw Harry and his right hand dropped on to his gun butt. He wore a wash-leather glove on his gun hand. His movements and the glove scared Harry: they were the hallmarks of a professional.
The guard was youngish, about Harry’s age. He had pale blue eyes and a square-shaped face with thin lips and a watchful, alert expression. He looked tough and quick, and Harry's heart sank. This guy was going to make trouble. He was suddenly sure of it.
He went into the toilet and shut the door. He stood for a long moment, his mind busy. The safest and easiest thing to do would be to seal the guard off, he thought. By locking the door between the cabin and the galley, the guard would be out Of action until Harry could get the aircraft grounded. Then the three of them could tackle him. He thought of the narrow passage. They wouldn't be able to rush him. Only one man at a time could tackle him. If he showed fight, he could make a lot of trouble.
Harry felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his face. He glanced in the mirror above the toilet basin. He saw he was white and his eyes were frightened. He tried to force a grin, but his mouth seemed frozen.
He stepped out of the toilet, not looking at the guard.
Hetty Collins was carrying a tray of martinis into the cabin.
He pushed open the door for her, followed her into the cabin and closed the door.
He paused by Franks.
“He's sitting in the passage,” he said, leaning down, his mouth close to Franks' twitching head. “I'm going to seal him off. There's a bolt on this side of the door. We can tackle him when we're down.”
“No,” Franks said. “You take care of the crew. I'll handle the guard. As soon as you get the crew in here, I'll go in and take him.”
“He looks quick and tough. He's dangerous.”
“Aw, shadup!” Franks snarled. “Do you think I can't handle a punk like him?”
Harry shrugged.
“Well, okay, it's your funeral, but watch out. I'll wait until the girl goes back to the galley, then I'm going on to the flight deck.”
He returned to his seat.
The woman in the mink coat was sipping a martini and smoking. She gave him a look of disapproval as he sat down. He refused the martini Hetty Collins offered him, then, as she walked down the gangway back to the galley, he stood up, looked at Lewin and nodded, looked at Franks and nodded again.
Lewin slid out of his seat and came quickly up the gangway to join him at the door to the flight deck.
Two or three of the passengers were looking at them, puzzled.
Franks got out of his seat and leaned against the door to the galley.
“Listen, you punks,” he bawled at the top of his voice. “This is a hold-up. If any of you move, you're going to get it! Sit still and keep your yaps shut and you'll be all right.”
His .45 automatic was in his hand now. Lewin had also pulled his gun.
Harry didn't wait to see the passenger’s reaction. He opened the flight-deck door, climbed the three steps on to the deck. He had his gun in his hand, his heart was hammering as he looked at the familiar scene.
The flight engineer, a guy he didn't know, was seated at a desk before his instrument board. The radio operator was watching the green screen of the radar with bored eyes. Close by was the co-pilot and navigator's desks; beyond that were the two pilots seats. He recognized Sandy McClure's back: a pilot he had been friendly with: a good guy and a good pilot. The second pilot he didn't know.
The flight engineer was staring at him with bulging eyes, and he half rose to his feet.
“Stay where you are,” Harry snapped. “This is a hold-up! Get your hand away from that key!” he yelled as the radioman's hand dropped on to the tapping key. “Get into the cabin, you two.”
“You're crazy!” the flight engineer said, his face red with anger. “You can't get away with this!” He half turned towards the pilot. “Mac! Hey! Mac!”
Harry stepped up to him and hit him across the face with the barrel of his gun, knocking him off his seat. He backed away so he could cover the four men, sweat running down his face.
McClure turned and stared at him. The second pilot had got to his feet, his face white and his eyes scared.
“You three get into the cabin or I'll blast a hole in you!” Harry snarled. “Get your hands up!”