Queen Victoria's Revenge (20 page)

“It's the money,” he confided in Tony. “Yon Sandy got us the commercial discount on the coach, but it's still bloody expensive hiring it for the trip. But I needed all the laddies here to stand behind me, me being a man of intellect and not of brawn. You're not lying to me, are you, Hawkin? Or God help me, you'll rue this day.”

“Why lie? This looks like the only way out for all of us. Find the boss behind the skyjacking and get the money from him. Is there anything else we can do?”

There appeared to be nothing. Massoud locked the restaurant as they filed out and hurried away, eyes averted, perhaps never to return. Sandy closed the door behind the last of them and pulled out into the lamplit streets of midnight London. Probably by reflex, he flicked a switch and they hummed down the road soothed by the melodious recorded strains of bagpipe music. Tony went to sit by Esther.

“I'm sorry I got you into this,” he said.

“Don't be silly, this is my business. And I did promise to keep an eye on you, a job I'm not doing too well at the present time.”

“It's not your fault and, you should pardon my asking, what is a pretty girl like you doing in a business like this?”

“Don't ask. It all came about by accident. I grew up in London and New York, my father is a correspondent for a big Tel-Aviv newspaper, so my English is transatlantic and not bad at all.”

“It's perfect.”

“You're very sweet. Anyway, I was at university here and they needed some help and they asked me—so I helped. No one knows I'm Israeli unless I tell them, so I can get in places, hear things, talk to people. And once it started it sort of kept on. Instead of having me do my national service in the army I stayed on in London and one thing led to another. Now I work for my father's paper and that is that. Now tell me how you got into the FBI. You don't seem like some of the FBI agents we see in the films.”

“I don't seem like any of the agents you see in the FBI!”

It was a priceless opportunity to tell someone his troubles and he seized it with both hands. School, the army, more school, the National Gallery, the draft to the FBI, the Mexican assignment, she squeezed his hand at the exciting parts, the FBI again and finally the skyjacking. And while he talked London and the suburbs fell behind them and they rushed down the motorway under the moonlit sky. He had barely finished all the interesting details of the tale when the bus slowed and pulled off the motorway into an internal-combustion hell of burning orange lights, rumbling trailer trucks and looming tankers. All of this mechanical action was centered around a windowed building that bore the proud legend
FOOD DRINK PETROL
, apparently all served from the same font. Willy, suddenly cast in the role of tour guide, stood at the front of the bus with microphone in hand and addressed them through the PA system.

“This is a trucker stop and we're going to stay here for the rest of the night. The field at Tilbury Hill is only about an hour from here and we don't want to go in there with this pantechnicon at this time of night. No one is to leave the coach except my lads. If any of the others have to use the facilities they will be escorted. I suggest we get some sleep—there will be guards so no tricks. And no talking so those that want to sleep can. That is all.”

Tony and Esther whispered for a few moments while the coachload of disparate elements settled down, then guttural shhhhs sent them into silence. Tony looked out of the window for a bit, wondering what the morning would bring, resisted the temptation to chew his fingernails until, finally, he fell asleep as well.

FOURTEEN

Gray dawn sent fingers of fog licking into the bus when the door was opened, promoting a chorus of coughs that sounded like the chain smokers' corner of hell. Tony, who had finally fallen into an imitation of restful sleep, was dragged awake by this hacking accompanied by Willy's electronically amplified voice. It was all too much like the army; there should be a reveille formation next. There wasn't, but there was a military organization. Prisoners and guards paraded back and forth, to and from the rest rooms, performing their morning ablutions, hacking heavily as they inhaled the rich mixture of fog and diesel fumes. Soon tea, coffee and sweet cakes that made the teeth glow appeared and were consumed. Despite Willy's nagging insistence to hurry, this took the good part of an hour and the orange globe of the sun was above the hills and burning away the fog before the bus rumbled to life and swung back onto the motorway.

Green England whirred by, then moved by a good deal closer and much slower when they turned off onto the local roads. At each turning the road became narrower until the bus filled it from side to side, brushing leaves from the trees above. There were cows in the fields, orchards in bloom, acres of glistening hop vines twining up their poles. With infinite care the long coach inched over a narrow and ancient bridge in obedience to the sign that indicated that Tilbury Hill was only a mile farther away. Jasmin stood by the driver, giving directions, excitedly pointing to a totally undistinguished semidetached house done in temperance gray stucco; the sign on the gate read
DUN ROAMIN
. “That is it, where the Captain Haycroft stays.”

The ponderous vehicle lurched down the track and came to a stop around a bend. Willy and two of his heavies got out quickly and strolled back along the road. In a few minutes they came hurrying back, all eyes upon them as they climbed in.

“Gone to the airfield already, the woman said. Some sort of construction work going on. We'll take him there.”

Air brakes whooshed and away they went. This part of the road was well marked, though the signs were thirty years old at least … memories of flaring exhausts in the night, rumble of engines as the bombers took off to bomb Germany. Fading memories now. Yet there was life in the old field yet. They overtook a concrete truck, its massive, motley striped tube of mix turning slowly as it rumbled majestically along. A gate opened wide to admit it, then closed before the bus.

“No coach tours here,” an official voice said. Their way was blocked by the solid blue form of the gatekeeper, undoubtedly the man from Fangs and Truncheons that Captain Haycroft had mentioned. The truncheon wasn't in sight, but the fangs certainly were, for at the end of a short lead held in the guard's right hand was the straining form of a low-slung and sinister police dog. It was fat—or musclebound—its figure very much like that of its master, which filled the amply cut uniform. Willy climbed down, keeping an anxious eye on the dog.

“I have business with Captain Haycroft.”

“Sorry, sir, no orders about you.” The softness of his words were belied by the ugly animal, which yawned and revealed an incredible number of pointed and yellow teeth. Two of the muscular Scotsmen exited and stood behind Willy.

“I must insist,” Willy said, feeling the reassurance of his assistants. “It is imperative that I see the captain at once.”

The guard, stern face professionally expressionless, did not speak. But he did let out about three extra feet of leash. The dog, which had been straining constantly against its harness, instantly surged forward, with its lips drawn back to clearly reveal the rows of fangs. Willy recoiled with a whinny of fear, falling against his companions, who almost all went down like a row of tenpins. Before things got any worse Tony left the bus as well, taking his wallet from his hip pocket.

“Good morning, Officer, fine day for outside work. My name is Hawkin of the FBI, here is my identification. You may recall from the news reports that I arrived on this plane and am still involved in this case. I must see the captain.”

“Yes, sir, go right through.” The canine monster was withdrawn and the gate opened wide enough to admit him; Tony felt the informatory jab of Willy's finger in his back.

“These three gentlemen are private investigators from Scotland. They have information for the captain.”

Truncheons looked at them coldly and fangs growled deep in his throat. “They can go if you vouch for them, sir, but no more. I would appreciate it if that coach pulled onto the verge, more lorries coming.”

“Very good, Officer,” Tony said and turned to wave the bus back, speaking quietly to Willy. “We'll talk to Haycroft, then the others can come in.”

“Aye.”

The gate clanged shut behind them and the mixed foursome strolled onto the airfield. It was far busier now than the day the plane had landed. Trucks lumbered to the far end of the field where men were busily at work on the runway. The DC-10 was still where it had landed but had changed greatly. All of its large hatches were open and a truck, lifted high on jacks, was backed up to it. A construction of large jacks and steel supports held up the wings, and one of the landing gear had been removed. As they passed the spiderweb of supports a man in a coverall looked down on them.

“Hello, Hawkin,” he called out. “What are you doing back here at the scene of the crime?” It was Tubby Waterbury, the copilot, with grease on his face and a large flashlight clutched in his hand.

“Still on the case, Tubby. Where's the captain?”

“In the cabin and in a lousy mood. Good luck.” He put head and light back into the gaping opening in the wing.

A borrowed landing stairs, labeled
TRANS-SAHARA AIRLINES,
stood by the plane now and they climbed up it to the open door above. The lofty cabin was shockingly empty with most of the seats gone. Workingmen were carrying the last of them out the door on the far side to the elevated truck body beyond. Captain Haycroft, his back turned, was watching this operation keenly as the men left and the truck sank from sight. He turned when Tony called out to him.

“What brings you here, Hawkin? I thought the police wanted to see you—”

“That's been straightened out,” Tony broke in, hurriedly, “Look, Jasmin is here, and some other people, but the guard at the gate won't let them in.”

“Quite right, too, the place is crawling with sightseers and gawpers. I'll write a note for the guard.”

“Just give permission for the coach to come through,” Willy said.

“Just who the hell are you?” Haycroft said, sharply, looking at Willy and his hulking companions. He gave no indication that he had ever seen them before. A very cool one, Tony thought. “That's okay, they're with me,” he said aloud. “Could we have the note, please?”

Haycroft glowered a bit longer, then took a pad from his pocket, scrawled on it and tore off the sheet and handed it to Tony. One of the Scotsmen hurried away with it. “What's going on here?” Tony asked, looking around the plane, scratching for a neutral topic until the others arrived. An angry snort from the captain proved he had touched on a theme close to his heart.

“What's going on? Everything, that's what. I've never seen so much confusion in my life. Everyone's been here, insurance people, government, aviation authorities—even a parliamentary investigating committee; It appears that getting this craft out won't be as easy as bringing it in, not that the landing was all that easy. There have been some wild schemes, believe me, but all of them impractical. Even if the plane is taken into a thousand pieces there is no way to get it out by road. There isn't a chopper made that's big enough to lift out the pieces either. So—fly it out. But how? You saw what happened to the runway when we landed. That's when the engineers began with their busy fingers on the slide rules and calculators and came up with this joker of a plan. It's going to take a couple of hundred thousand to do but the insurance company would rather pay that than pay everything and sell the plane for scrap. Take a look out there.”

They obediently followed the pointing finger through the open doorway and down the rutted runway to the far end where the machines and men labored.

“First they patch the entire length of the runway. When this is done and the concrete has cured they are going to lay steel matting over it, the kind they used for temporary airfields during the war. This will spread the aircraft's weight around, but not enough. So they are stripping the plane, seats, ovens, lockers, Johns, everything not needed. All the fuel, too, except for enough to get us to Heathrow Airport. Then the Air Force is loaning some landing gear from a C-5A with eight wheels each. I won't be able to retract them, but they'll lighten the load per wheel. Theoretically all of this should add up to enough for us to get airborne without going through the runway again or plowing into the cows in that field.”

“Will it really work?” Tony asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine. There's enough runway for a takeoff as long as the wheels don't drop through again. They offered me a bonus of twenty grand to fly it out, the same for Tubby, but we're holding out for forty each. What a way to make a living. What the hell is this, the theaters just let out?”

In slow procession the occupants of the coach, now parked on the runway below, were climbing to the plane. Scowling Egyptian, grim Cuban, dour Scot, calm Israeli, one by one they came through the door and spread in a semicircle facing the captain. Tubby popped through the door after them waving his flashlight and calling out cheerily:

“Listen, Haycroft, if you are taking tours through the ship I want a cut of the ticket sales.

“Hawkin! What is the meaning of this damn invasion of my aircraft?”

“You sound so angry, Captain. Do you mean it? I'll bet you know everyone here, though.”

“You have exactly sixty seconds to explain just what the devil you are talking about before I boot your rump, and your buddies', right back down the stairs. Jasmin—can you tell me what this is all about?”

“Peeg!” she spat in his direction.

“Hold on, please,” Tony asked. “Let's play this cool. Haycroft, we're here about the skyjacked money. I am sure I won't be telling you anything you don't know already, but I want you to know that
we
know everything. You see the entire game is over. It started in Karachi when you locked the rear rest room that
you
said was out of order—”