At Sword's Point (3 page)

Drummond found himself in line with the men, reaching forward to receive the strange silver cup, bringing it to his lips, the horns growing louder… and louder… and louder.

He awoke with a start, Mozart's horn concerto filling his head with its glorious baroque sound. He tried desperately to recall the face he had seen in his dream. The man who offered him the cup—he knew him, he had seen him. He was real—not some shadow from his dream.

"Are you all right?" Mrs. Mac Dowell sounded concerned.

"Oh, I'm fine. Thanks." Drummond felt anything but fine.

"You're sure? I mean, you're not going to be sick or anything, are you? I mean, well, you're very pale."

"No, I'll be all right. Really." Drummond got up and walked back to the toilets in the center of the plane. There was no line of anxious passengers, and he went into the nearest cubical and pulled the folding door shut.

Drummond stared at himself in the mirror, hoping it was the small overhead light that made him look so washed out and pale. Turning on the tap, he filled the stainless steel basin with hot water and splashed it on his face, trying to wash away the memory of the dream and the fear that he was changing. Looking back in the mirror at his pallid reflection, he remembered the pale, almost luminescent complexion of the knights. Perhaps he was becoming one of them, after all. Pulling a paper towel from the dispenser, Drummond dried his face and stepped out of the cubical.

The swarthy man in the ill-fitting suit was blocking the aisle, and Drummond was just about to ask him to step aside when he saw the hand grenade in the man's left hand.

Time was nearly suspended. In extreme slow motion, Drummond saw the terrorist's right hand reach up and pull the pin from the grenade. Launching himself forward, Drummond grabbed the man's left hand in both of his, at the same time driving his knee into the man's kidneys.

The man's legs buckled, and under Drummond's weight they both crashed to the floor of the aircraft. Suddenly time started racing again. People were starting to scream. The swarthy little man struggled fiercely to get out of Drummond's viselike grip, thrashing around in the aisle, trying to open his hand enough to release the grenade's arming spoon.

Drummond held onto the man's hand and tried to knee him in the groin. Finally, getting somewhat on top of the man, he bounced up and down on his back, trying to snap his spine.

In the cabin all around him, panic was increasing as more and more passengers realized that at any moment the grenade could go off, blowing a refrigerator-sized hole in the aircraft. Women screamed and men shouted in panic as people tried to rush away from the menacing struggle on the floor of the plane.

Drummond kept bouncing on the little man, at the same time trying to twist his arm out of its socket. He felt his knees contact the man's head. Jumping up and down even harder, he managed to smash the man's face into the floor, stunning him momentarily. He tried with all his strength to pull the grenade from the man's hand, but with no success.

It seemed as if he had been holding onto the man for hours, when three men pushed their way through the crowd and made their way to Drummond from the first-class cabin of the jumbo jet. The first two men were in airline uniforms, and the larger of the two hauled off and kicked the grenade-wielder in the face, hard enough to fracture his skull. The man was still struggling, though, and the man who had kicked him suddenly dropped to one knee, pulled the man's head back by the hair, and drove his thumb deep into the carotid artery on the side of his neck. Within seconds, the man passed out.

Drummond realized for the first time that a well-dressed man in his middle fifties had moved in to kneel in front of him and was speaking.

"… now hold on tight, and for Christ's sake, don't let go"

Drummond was about to tell him he had no intention of letting go, when the other man in uniform leaned forward and slammed a fire hatchet down on the fanatic's wrist. Drummond could hear the soggy thud of bone shattering, and blood was spraying everywhere. The hatchet smashed down several more times before the wrist was finally severed, leaving Drummond holding the bloody hand squeezed around the grenade.

The well-dressed man hardly batted an eye. Reaching down into a small black bag at his side, he pulled out a length of surgical tubing and quickly threw a tourniquet around the stump of the terrorist's wrist. As soon as he had it secured, the two uniformed men dragged the unconscious man forward, vanishing through the curtain that separated the first-class cabin from the Grand Guingol drama of tourist class,

"I'll be right with you," the well-dressed man called after them, before returning his attention to Drummond. He had a faint accent that Drummond could not quite place. "Can you hold on for just a few more seconds? I'll try to find something to tie down the arming lever of the grenade."

Drummond could feel his hands going numb, his grip slowly evaporating. "I'm not sure…"

In the seat next to him, Bea MacDowell reached into her purse and produced a wad of keys strung together on a large blanket pin.

"Here," she said. Popping open the pin, her keys scattering all over the floor of the aircraft, she leaned over Drummond's shoulder and deftly stuck the blanket pin through the hole in the arming lever, effectively locking it in place. "You can relax now, Mr. Drummond."

Drummond smiled weakly at Bea MacDowell and resolved to buy a house from her as soon as they landed. Carefully he opened his fingers just enough to allow the severed hand to fall from his grasp. It landed with a moist thud
on
the soggy carpet. Still cradling the grenade in both hands, Drummond started to stand up.

The blanket pin snapped with a loud, metallic crack, and the arming lever of the grenade flew out of Drummond's grasp and bounced off one of the overhead compartments. With less than five seconds to live, Drummond clutched the grenade to his stomach and threw himself flat on the floor. From somewhere near his belt buckle there was a loud pop, followed by a few wisps of acrid-smelling smoke.

The grenade was a dud.

Slowly raising himself up off the floor, Drummond couldn't decide if he should laugh or swear.

"Son of a bitch," he chuckled softly to himself, rubbing his bruised stomach. In the seat next to him, Bea MacDowell had fainted.

Los Angeles International Airport diverted Drummond's flight to Lockheed Aircraft's test facility near Edwards Air Force Base. As the jumbo jet touched down on the three-mile long runway, a convoy of military vehicles rolled out to meet it. Dark blue Air Police jeeps escorted the Boeing 747 to a special hangar, where federal agents awaited to question the passengers.

"Please remain in your seats until cabin personnel ask you to exit the aircraft." The senior cabin attendant had repeated the request several times, but people were still standing and jostling each other in the aisles.

Drummond felt something bump against the side of the aircraft. Craning his neck to look out the window, he could just see a gangway being secured to the side of the plane. An Air Force ambulance and a black limousine with diplomatic plates pulled up at the foot of the gangway just as the hatch, opened and about eight men entered the plane.

"Who do you suppose they are?" Bea MacDowell asked.

Drummond watched the men coming aboard, all of whom were disappearing into the first-class cabin.

"Well, the four in uniforms are Air Police," he said distractedly. "I suppose the others are federal agents."

Drummond undid his seat belt, craning his neck to watch as the well-dressed man emerged from first class and went out the hatch, escorted by two of the plain-clothesmen. When the man had
cleared
the gangway, two Air Force medics and two more AP's came up, presumably to deal with the prisoner. The well-dressed man got into the waiting limo and was whisked away.

"Everyone, sit
down
!"

The voice of an AP crackled through his bull horn. Most people obeyed the command, but a few continued to rummage in the overhead bins. Two AP's with rifles came down the aisles and firmly directed the deaf to their seats. When everyone was seated, one of the federal agents picked up the microphone of the plane's PA system.

"Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention, please? I'm Agent Jeffers of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. In just a moment, we will be disembarking you from this plane. Outside in the hangar, folding chairs have been set up in the same seat configuration as this aircraft, so that we can reconstruct exactly what happened. You will be asked to leave by row, and we have to insist on your cooperation. When you leave the plane you will leave all personal belongings and carry-on baggage sitting on your assigned seat. The Air Force personnel now on board will assist you if you have any problems. In the meantime, please remain in your seat until instructed to do otherwise. Thank you."

He handed the microphone back to the stewardess, then leaned forward to whisper something in her ear. She nodded, and Drummond could tell by her gestures that she was directing them to his seat. He and another agent headed down the aisle, stopping behind and ahead of Drummond's aisle seat.

"Mr. Drummond?" Agent Jeffers' question was rhetorical, "Would you come with us, please?"

Drummond stood up, the dried blood on his cashmere shirt crackling and snapping as the folds and wrinkles stretched themselves out, and held up the hand grenade.

"Should I bring this, or leave it on the seat?"

The agent grinned. "Guess you'd better bring it."

Outside in the hangar, Drummond was led up a narrow flight of stairs to a small office that overlooked the entire building. On the floor below were three hundred and fifty chairs set up to simulate the interior of the aircraft, with galleys and toilets marked off in tape. From this vantage point, Drummond and the federal agents could watch as the passengers were brought in row by row and seated in the hangar.

"Now, Mr. Drummond, you seem to have made yourself quite the hero of the day," Jeffers said, sitting casually on the corner of a desk as he spoke. "While we're waiting for everyone to settle in down below, would you mind answering a few questions?"

"Ask away," Drummond replied. He set the grenade on the desk and took a seat.

"Let's start with who you are," said the other agent, speaking for the first time.

"John Drummond. Captain, Los Angeles Police Department."

Drummond quickly supplied the basic information and his badge and ID, along with the telephone number of his commanding officer at LAPD headquarters, Jeffers excused himself—Drummond guessed he was going to phone LAPD—leaving his partner alone with Drummond.

"Homicide, eh?" the remaining agent said with a slight smile. "I would've guessed vice, by the beard."

Drummond ran a hand over his stubble.

"I've been on vacation. Thought I'd give my face a rest, too."

"Fair enough. So, what exactly drew your attention to the man with the hand grenade, Captain Drummond?"

"The hand grenade itself, Mr… ?" Drummond let the question hang in the air.

"Durkey. Special Agent Nat Durkey." The agent's voice remained casual. "You say it was the grenade. When did you first notice it?" Agent Jeffers returned to the office.

"I hate to interrupt, but I think we're ready for the reconstruction, Captain Drummond. So if you'll just step over here—" he led Drummond back to the window that overlooked the hangar "—we'd appreciate it if you'd tell us what happened."

From his vantage point, Drummond explained the sequence of events, which Agent Durkey then repeated into a small walkie-talkie. On the floor below, a man in blue coveralls got up from next to Mrs. MacDowell— Drummond wasn't sure, but the man seemed to look relieved when he rose—and went back to the taped area that represented the toilets.

"How long were you in the restroom, Captain Drummond?" Jeffers asked.

"Not long. Two, maybe three minutes."

Agent Durkey spoke into his handset, then looked at his watch. The minutes ticked by. "Now!" he said.

A short, pudgy man in red coveralls stood up, blocking the aisle just as the man in blue stepped out of the imaginary toilet.

Over the next two hours, the agents carefully pieced together a careful reconstruction of the attempted hijacking of the aircraft, with Drummond correcting any errors that he spotted. As they walked through the hijacking for what seemed to be the hundredth time, the AP with the bull horn entered the office.

"Search complete, sir." Drummond could hear Nebraska cornfields in the young man's voice.

"Thank you, Lieutenant. You can put them all back on board and send them to LAX." Jeffers turned to Drummond. "It will take close to an hour to do that, Captain. Would you like to clean up a bit before you leave?"

Drummond glanced at his blood-soaked clothes.

"Yeah, that'd be appreciated."

"No problem. Give Nat your sizes, and we'll get you some clothes at the PX. In the meantime, I'll run you over to the BOQs." Standing, Jeffers picked up the hand grenade that Drummond had set on the desk.

"By the way, you were very lucky, Captain Drummond. Very lucky, indeed. Do you know anything about explosives?"

"Only that they're dangerous. Why?" he asked.

"This grenade isn't a dud. It's designed to go off on impact. When you flopped down on it, it could very easily have exploded." Jeffers smiled. "Like I said, you're a very lucky man."

At the Bachelor Officer Quarters, Drummond took a fast shower while Agent Durkey invested some of the taxpayers' money in new clothes for Drummond. Looking at the clothes Durkey had brought back from the PX, Drummond realized that his luck had run out. The chocolate-brown trousers were an inch too short, and Drummond checked the back of the electric blue-and-black shirt for the name of the local bowling alley before he put it on.

The worst, however, were the white tube socks. Slipping into his black Gucci loafers, Drummond felt like a candidate for Mr. Blackwell's worst-dressed list. He made a mental note to take Special Agent Durkey's name off his party list.

"I have to ask you to sign the receipt for the clothes."

Agent Jeffers sounded almost apologetic. "And if you don't mind, I'll have to keep your old ones."

"Sure thing," Drummond said as he scribbled his signature across the receipt and handed it back to Jeffers. He'd had the cashmere polo shirt for less than twenty-four hours, and it and the slacks were ruined anyway.

On the way back to the jet, Drummond decided to ask about the well-dressed man.

"Incidentally, who was the man—I assume he was a physician—who helped deal with the hijacker? I saw a limo take him away."

Jeffers glanced at him sidelong, his expression betraying nothing.

"You saw nothing, Captain," he said quietly. "I'd advise you to remember that."

Drummond immediately shut up. Putting two and two together, he decided that the well-dressed man must have been the terrorist's target. And if the Feds didn't want to talk about it, that was fine with him.

Out on the tarmac, the jumbo jet sat waiting patiently as the jeep drove Drummond and Jeffers along the runway access road. As it pulled up at the bottom of the gangway, Drummond hopped out and headed up the stairs two at a time. At the door to the aircraft, the stewardess stopped Drummond for just a minute—long enough for the captain to announce his arrival on board over the PA system. Immediately the passengers broke into cheers and applause, and Drummond could feel the back of his neck burning red.

As the commotion died down, the stewardess led Drummond forward into the first-class cabin and put him in one of the thick leather seats.

"Can I get you anything else, Mr. Drummond?" she asked with a Pepsodent smile.

Drummond looked at the empty seat next to him. "Yes, there is. If you don't mind, would you please ask Mrs. Bea MacDowell to join me?"

* * * *

Some seven thousand miles to the east, a black BMW jounced over the rough forest track toward a clearing at the edge of the woods. Half a dozen assorted police vehicles were already drawn up in what had become an impromptu parking area, and fluorescent orange pylons supporting festoons of wide yellow tape fenced off a crime scene. Easing the BMW up to the barricade, Vienna Police Inspector Markus Eberle switched off the engine and stared at the cluster of policemen standing near a small tan tent at the far edge of the clearing.

Funny, he thought, how the living huddle together trying to ignore the dead.

Through the streaked windshield of the BMW, he could see the torso of the headless man not far from the tent, chest-down on the muddy, blood-soaked turf. The feet were wearing socks. A few meters away from the body, more pylons and yellow tape corralled what was probably the victim's head.

Shaking his head, Eberle got out of the car. A few heavy drops of rain fell from the graying sky, peppering his Burbury with golden-brown spots as he picked his way across the muddy ground toward the policemen clustered by the tent. Most of them wore extremely grave expressions, and a few looked sick to their stomachs. They stepped back as he approached, and Eberle got his first glimpse of the girl's body draped across the sagging tan canvas.

Despite nearly a decade working homicide, the unexpected sight of the body, its head cocked back at a crazy angle and a jagged purple wound gaping at the throat, momentarily froze Eberle in his tracks. The victim looked no more than seventeen or eighteen, her lifeless green eyes staring up at the dark gray clouds that moved with resolute swiftness across the sky, away from the scene of the crime.

Recovering from his initial surprise, Eberle took a deep breath and slowly surveyed the crime scene. The local police had made a thorough job of it—too thorough, in fact. In setting up the pylons and stringing out endless meters of the bright yellow tape with "polizei" neatly blocked on it in large black letters, they probably had trampled any clues into the mud.

Eberle walked over to where the first corpse lay chest-down. It was hard to estimate how old or how tall the man had been, now that he was separated from his head. A few meters away, the head lay behind its own protective police barricade. Eberle walked over to the yellow tape and crouched down to get a better look at the victim's face.

It was the face of a blondish young man in his mid-twenties. Normally clean shaven, the cheeks were covered with a light five o'clock shadow, and above the bluish-gray lips, a ginger-colored mustache drooped at the corners of the mouth. The blue eyes, like the eyes of the girl, were wide open in stark terror.

Eberle crouched lower, then turned his head to see what the young man might have been watching in his last moments of consciousness.

What was the last thing he saw? Eberle wondered. How long does the brain function, once the head is severed from the body?

Certainly two or three minutes; there was enough oxygen in the brain to allow it to function for at least that long. Eberle remembered reading that, in France, after a criminal had been guillotined, the head was picked up by the executioner and held up to see its body. Sometimes the lips had moved, and the eyes had even blinked…

A green-and-white police van pulled into the clearing and parked next to Eberle's black BMW. Standing up, Eberle tried to banish the thought of what the last few minutes of the dead man's life might have been like. Ignoring the mud, he walked quickly over to the van, signaling the passenger out with a wave of his hand. A man in his early thirties hopped out as Eberle approached, making a face as he landed in mud.

"Well, they picked a good place for it, Markus," he said, moving to firmer ground. "What's it look like to you?"

"Not so good, Bubi. Not so good. A decapitation and a girl with her throat cut." Eberle sighed. "Local cops have walked all over the place. A couple of them have been sick near the bodies, too."

"Nothing like a bit of a challenge." They had moved to the back of the van, and Bubi Steinmazel opened the door of the mobile crime lab. "I'll take a look around and see what I can find."

Leaving Steinmazel to ferret out what clues he could, Eberle headed back through the clearing toward the policemen clustered near the girl's body.

"Who's the investigating officer?" he asked one of them.

The man pointed beyond the clearing, toward the edge of the woods. "Sergeant Richter, over there with the old-timer who found the bodies."