COPS SPIES & PI'S: The Four Novel Box Set Page 10

  “Fifty-seconds.”

  “Look out the goddamn window,” Hyte shouted. “I’m here. Alone! I have the money. I have myself, Mohamad. I’m offering myself to show my good faith. Give us the time we need. If I’m lying, you’ll have me to do with what you want. Isn’t that worth waiting an extra four minutes?”

  There was a pause. “You have all the money?”

  “Five million dollars.”

  “Bring it to the stairs. Walk up slowly. Place the bags at the top. Put your hands on your head and wait.”

  A glimmer of hope surfaced. Hyte replaced the receiver of the field phone. He didn’t bother with the walkie-talkie. He knew Sy Cohen had heard everything.

  Hyte picked up the suitcases and walked to the portable ramp. He was sweating beneath the bulletproof vest.

  At the top step, he put the suitcases down and settled his hands on his head.

  The door opened. Two men armed with Uzis stared at him. One man inched into the doorway and motioned to Hyte to pick up the bags. Both stepped back to let him enter the plane. The second hijacker used the barrel of his Uzi to do a quick body-skimming frisk. He was not gentle.

  It was hot inside. The air was putrescent, worse than when Hyte had been there almost two and a half hours before. The tip of an Uzi urged him forward. He went toward first class, one suitcase held behind him, one in front. The suitcases themselves had made him powerless to do anything.

  Ninety seconds after hanging up the field phone, and for the second time that night, Raymond Hyte stepped into the first-class section of Flight 88.

  “So nice for you to visit us, again. You really didn’t think you fooled me earlier, did you Lieutenant Hyte?”

  Hyte said nothing. All the hostages were staring at him.

  To Mohamad’s left was Lea D’Anjine.

  “Two minutes have passed since my deadline,” Mohamad said. “Where is the helicopter?”

  “Can I release the bags?” Hyte asked.

  Mohamad nodded.

  Hyte dropped the cases. “I am going to take my walkie-talkie from my belt,” he explained to the terrorist. He lifted it to his mouth. “The copter?”

  “Three minutes. Maybe two.”

  Mohamad back stepped until he was next to the unconscious Sylvia Mossberg. He pointed his pistol at her.

  “Will anyone stand forward?” he asked.

  “You said I would be first,” William Haller said.

  “I have changed my mind,” Mohamad said, lowering the pistol to the woman’s head.

  “No!” Hyte shouted. “The helicopter is almost here!” He took a half step forward.

  “You have no say here, Hyte. Look at him!” Mohamad said to the passengers. “He betrayed you, while I have kept my word. He let the time run out, not I. He is the one who has sentenced you to death!”

  “Then take me!” Hyte said.

  Mohamad’s face contorted with rage. “You are the cause for their deaths, don’t you understand? And now you will witness, in person, the result of your lies.”

  Mohamad put the pistol to the area behind Sylvia Mossberg’s left ear. Hyte stiffened. “Wait. I—”

  “—Stop it!” came an unexpected feminine voice. Everyone turned to stare at a standing Anita Graham. Her husband was pulling on her arm. She ignored him. “You have no right to do this!” she said. Her voice was eerie in its calmness. “You aren’t God. We’ve done nothing to you.”

  “Yes, you have!” Mohamad shouted, sweeping his arms to encompass all the passengers. “You have done so by your inaction! By turning your backs on what has happened to my people! By allowing the Israelis to steal our land and by letting their soldiers and tanks and planes kill our children!”

  Mohamad stepped across the aisle and raised the machine pistol in Anita Graham’s forehead. “You shall die for my people!”

  “No!” Hyte shouted. By his reckoning, there was one minute left.

  Jonah Graham rose swiftly to his feet and grabbed the pistol, moving the barrel to his own forehead. “Kill me,” he said, “not her.”

  Hyte, held fast in the two terrorists’ grip, ticked off the seconds in his head.

  Mohamad met Jonah Graham’s gaze. “You are a brave man, perhaps the only brave man here. I sensed this when I first looked at you. Very well, release the gun.”

  Jonah Graham released the gun. He drew in a deep breath. His last breath. He did not close his eyes. He would not look away from his murderer.

  “Are you ready?” Mohamad asked.

  Jonah looked at Anita. “I love you,” he said. He turned back to Mohamad, stared into the terrorist’s eyes, and nodded.

  In a smooth and instantaneous action, Mohamad swung the pistol from Jonah to Anita and fired.

  “No!” Jonah cried, clutching for his wife. He caught her before she fell and, ignoring the blood spurting from her head, pulled her desperately to him. Behind them, Lea D’Anjine screamed for the first time.

  Five seconds later, the field phone rang.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lea D’Anjine’s scream ended abruptly. The little girl curled in upon herself, hiding her face from everyone. It was better that way, Hyte thought, looking at Mohamad and waiting for the terrorist to pick up the phone.

  A moment later, Mohamad answered. “Yes?” He held the phone slightly away from his ear, so those nearby could hear.

  “The helicopter is here.” Sy Cohen told him.

  “Send my men to me.”

  “When you release the hostages.”

  Mohamad gazed stonily at Hyte. “I am told that our brothers are here at last. This fool who has taken your place thinks we are stupid enough to release our hostages. Tell him, Lieutenant.”

  Hyte unhooked his walkie-talkie. Although the camera’s mike would pick up whatever he said, he wanted Mohamad to get used to his holding the radio. “Sy?”

  “Here.”

  “Land the copter fifty yards from the plane. Have the five prisoners step outside.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Do it, Sy!” Hyte hooked the walkie-talkie onto his belt, knowing that the lives of the hostages depended on how well Captain Lacey and his counter-terrorist squad played the part of the released prisoners.

  “Very good,” Mohamad said. “Now, let us see if there is money in those suitcases or are they booby-trapped? Will they explode when one of us opens them? Is there a gas canister? Open them, Lieutenant. If they don’t kill you, empty them on the floor.”

  Hyte had expected to have to show the money, but not dump it. He prayed the pistol hadn’t come loose.

  A burst of Arabic came from the terrorist at the window.

  Mohamad nodded. “Our brothers are getting out of the helicopter. Open the cases, Lieutenant. Let us see if you have condemned yourself or someone else to death.”

  Hyte opened the first case and lifted the top. He gripped the inside edge and turned it over. Two and a half million dollars spilled out. Everyone’s eyes went to it, passengers and hijackers alike.

  Hyte opened the second case. He gripped the side and turned it over. As the money fell free, Hyte released the gun. He glanced at his guards. They were looking at the money.

  Turning slowly, he tossed the empty suitcase away. He used the movement to slip the pistol into his jacket pocket.

  “Satisfied?” he asked.

  The terrorist grinned. “Satisfied? We asked for five things. You have given us two. Money and a television camera.”

  “Your men are outside,” Hyte stated. “See for yourself.”

  Mohamad didn’t move. A thin smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He brought the field phone to his ear. “Send our brothers to the plane. No one is to come with them. No one!”

  “We have acted in good faith. You have your money. Your men are here. Release the hostages and we will send your men to you,” Sy Cohen said.

  Mohamad stared at the camera. “You do not understand. We are not negotiating. We never have been. There are still thirteen people alive
. There is also your Lieutenant Hyte. They will all die.”

  Mohamad pointed the pistol at Hyte. “Tell him to send in our brothers.”

  Unclipping his walkie-talkie, Hyte matched stares with Mohamad. “Send them.” When he lowered the unit, he made a show of putting it on his belt.

  “Perhaps you will live, Lieutenant, and the others as well. Kneel on the floor, exactly where you are, “Mohamad said before speaking to his men in Arabic.

  The two hijackers who had been guarding Hyte went to the rear door. “When our brothers are here, you will each be released,” Mohamad told the passengers. “You will leave one at a time. The lieutenant and”—Mohamad flicked the pistol toward J. Milton Prestone—“him will be the last. Until then, if there is any movement, everyone dies! Khamil,” he called to the remaining terrorist, “the detonator.”

  Using his left hand, Khamil picked up a black box with a small aluminum antenna. His thumb hovered over its switch.

  Hyte’s hand inched toward his pocket. When he’d knelt, he’d shifted his body to hide his right arm and hand. Slowly, his fingers curled around the Beretta’s grip.

  <><><>

  In the rear of the plane, the two hijackers stood near the door.

  Five men wearing dark clothing came toward the ramp at a run. The first reached the steps and lunged upward. He tripped, fell back, and cried out in pain.

  Two of his companions bent over him for a moment, then lifted him. Two others were right behind them. As the ungainly trio led the way up the ramp, the two men who supported the third drew automatic pistols from the holsters on the injured man’s back. One of the hijackers stepped into the opening of the doorway, his arm out.

  The second hijacker shouted for him to stop. He was too late. The injured man lunged forward, tackling the first hijacker around the waist. They fell backward into the plane.

  The next two men rushed the second hijacker while the last two disarmed the hijacker on the floor. The second hijacker dodged back and raised his Uzi.

  The first commando fired, hitting the hijacker in the shoulder. The terrorist spun, his finger involuntarily squeezing the Uzi’s trigger.

  The commandos hit the floor. They fired five more shots. The terrorist’s body flew backward, the Uzi spitting.

  Bullets tore holes in the fuselage. The first hijacker screamed when one of the bullets struck him.

  Twenty seconds after the first shot, the plane was silent.

  “Goddamn it!” cried Captain Lacey, pushing himself up from his position on the floor. “Move it!”

  <><><>

  Hyte’s muscles quivered with suppressed tension. His eyes shifted from Mohamad to the terrorist holding the detonator. In the man’s right hand was a machine pistol.

  Hyte had no choice. He had to take out the man with the detonator first. If he were lucky, he would get him while the commandos eliminated Mohamad. Hyte accepted the fact that the chances were no longer good for him to come out of this alive—even with the protection of his body armor. Mohamad would not permit that—he would go for the head.

  Slowly, knowing the commandos should be near the door, Hyte inched his weapon free. He held it against his hip. His breathing was shallow.

  A sudden gunshot sounded from the rear compartment. Hyte didn’t think. He moved instinctively, twisting toward Khamil.

  In an instant of suspended time, the terrorist looked at the passageway and Hyte fired. The bullet hit Khamil just above the bridge of his nose, right between the eyes.

  Blood sprayed from the back of Khamil’s head. His thumb never touched the detonator button. Khamil fell: Hyte shifted, his pistol leveled at Mohamad, surprised the terrorist hadn’t shot him when he fired at Khamil. An instant later, he had his answer. Mohamad was pivoting toward Prestone, his pistol going to the senator’s head.

  Behind Hyte came the sound of running footsteps. “It’s over, Mohamad!” he yelled.

  The terrorist leader shook his head. Hyte saw the flickering of Mohamad’s eyes.

  In the split second that followed, three simultaneous actions occurred: Hyte pulled the trigger; Mohamad shouted, “Ins’Allah,” and fired the Mac-10; William Haller lunged from the wall, putting himself between Mohamad’s pistol and the senator, taking the bullet meant for Prestone.

  Hyte fired three times. His first shot killed Mohamad. The next two rounds tore through the terrorist’s throat.

  Mohamad spun like a marionette, his death spasm sending a spray of bullets ricocheting within the cabin. One of the rounds hit the camera, angled downward, and struck Hyte in the shoulder, a quarter of an inch outside the protection of his vest.

  There was a flash of pain, not unlike a sharp slap, followed by a sudden numbness in his shoulder and arm. His eyes swept the cabin. J. Milton Prestone was alive. The gunfire had pulled the seven-year-old out of her fetal ball.

  Behind him, the commandos burst into the cabin.

  “All secured?” asked Captain Lacey.

  “All dead,” Hyte replied, unable to take his eyes from the still smiling face of Rashid Mohamad. He knew the rushing of his blood would soon slow and the trembling of his hands would stop. What would never cease would be his memories of this night.

  “It’s over, Ray. You did a hell of a job,” he heard Captain Lacey say. Hyte looked to where William Haller lay in a pool of his own blood. Then he pointed to Jonah Graham, who still held his dead wife.

  “No, I didn’t,” he said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  March 19

  At three minutes before five, Richard Flaxman drew on his tan London Fog and picked up his gold-braided captain’s hat. As he settled it on his sandy hair, two delicate porcelain hands wound around his waist, locking together across his flat stomach.

  “I’ll miss you,” whispered Katherine Sircolli.

  “Good,” Flaxman said, grinning. He turned within her embrace to gaze down at her. “I’ll be back tomorrow night by seven.”

  “You’d better be. I promised my father we’d have dinner together. “

  “Right.” Flaxman’s voice was no longer casual. Katherine’s father was Antonio Sircolli, also known as Tony the Fist, head of the Tiacona crime family.

  “He’s not what the papers say he is,” Katherine said.

  “Of course not.”

  “But then again, you’re fucking his baby daughter.”

  Flaxman winced. “Don’t even joke about it.”

  She slipped one hand from his back, stroked his cheek gently, and then trailed her fingertips lower. “Sure you have to leave so early?”

  Flaxman felt himself stirring. He reached down and firmly removed her hand. “Tomorrow night,” he said.

  “Or else.” Suddenly, her smile disappeared. “Be careful, please.”

  He picked up his flight bag and went to the door. “Me? I’m always careful.”

  Katherine smiled. “I do love you, Richard.”

  “I love you, too.” He was surprised to realize he meant it.

  By the time Flaxman reached the front door, the doorman had it open for him. “Have a nice flight, Captain Flaxman.”

  Flaxman stepped into the cool pre-dawn air, walked to his car, and put his flight bag in the trunk.

  He heard a tapping sound, and watched an elderly man walk toward the corner, using a cane.

  Flaxman got in his car and started the engine. He pulled out of the parking space and made a sharp U-turn. The old man with the cane started across the intersection. In the man’s left hand was a shopping bag.

  “Move it,” Flaxman urged.

  The old man stopped, turned, and looked into the windshield. In the wash of the car’s headlights, his face was deeply creased. Flaxman wondered why the man was staring so angrily at him.

  The old man’s eyes widened suddenly. The cane fell from his hands. He clutched at his chest.

  “Oh Jesus!” Flaxman said when the man fell in front of the car. He put on the emergency brake and got out. The old man was lying on his back, his left hand
clutching at his chest, his right behind him.

  Flaxman went to one knee. The old man opened his eyes and tried to raise his head. “Are you all right?” Flaxman asked.

  “I...” The man’s voice was too low for Flaxman to hear.

  He leaned closer. The old man moved. His right hand came out from behind him. In it was a black, T-shaped object. For a fleeting second, Flaxman wondered what it could be.

  Then Flaxman saw the gleaming thing that rested in the center of the cross. He threw himself back, but too late. A low twang resounded in the quiet morning, followed by a thud when the steel tip met Flaxman’s flesh.

  Flaxman jerked back. His hand went to the projectile protruding from his chest. He felt a burning sensation. His arms grew heavy. He tried to speak, but his tongue was numb. His vision blurred; his lungs refused to accept air.

  “Now I’m all right,” said the old man.

  <><><>

  March 26

  At two-fifteen in the morning, a yellow checker cab crossed the Triborough Bridge. The driver’s attention was between the road ahead and the passenger in the back seat.

  He liked the way the blonde’s head lolled on the seat, and the way the missing button on her blouse gave him a glimpse of her lace bra.

  His passenger was an exhausted Elaine Samson. The past week had been a hard one, emotionally. Her ex-lover and fellow survivor of the hijacking of Flight 88 died a week ago, murdered. At his funeral, her sense of loss had deepened, not because she was still in love with him, but because they had shared something that would always bond them together.

  Why was he killed?

  The police had no ideas. There was no motive. The detective who’d interviewed her was of the opinion that Flaxman was a victim of a random street crime.

  The taxi reached the FDR Drive. Four minutes later, the driver exited the drive at Ninety-Sixth Street, drove down York Avenue, and turned onto Eighty-Second Street. Halfway down the block, the cab stopped. “Eighteen-fifty,” he said, turning to look at her.

  Elaine paid with a twenty, got out, and started up the steps of the brownstone. She ignored the driver’s muttering about cheap women tippers.