Airport (112 page)

“Well,” Ordway said, “does he?”

“Sometimes, lately…”

“He
has
been irrational?”

A whisper. “Yes.”

“Violent?”

Reluctantly, Inez nodded.

“Your husband was carrying a case tonight,” Ordway said quietly. “A small attaché case, and he seemed specialty cautious about it. Have you any idea what might be inside?”

“No, sir.”

“Inez, you said your husband was a contractor–a building contractor. In the course of his work did he ever use explosives?”

The question had been put so casually and without preamble, that those listening seemed scarcely aware it had been asked. But as its import dawned, there was a sudden tenseness in the room.

“Oh, yes,” Inez said. “Often.”

Ordway paused perceptibly before asking, “Does your husband know a lot about explosives?”

“I think so. He always liked using them. But…” Abruptly, she stopped.

“But what, Inez?”

Suddenly there was a nervousness to Inez Guerrero’s speech which had not been there before. “But… he handles them very carefully.” Her eyes moved around the room. “Please… what is this about?”

Ordway said softly, “You have an idea, Inez; haven’t you?”

When she didn’t answer, almost;with indifference he asked, “Where are you living?”

She gave the address of the South Side apartment and he wrote it down. “Is that where your husband was this afternoon; earlier this evening?”

Thoroughly frightened now, she nodded.

Ordway turned to Tanya. Without raising his voice, he asked, “Get a line open, please, to police headquarters downtown; this extension”–he scribbled a number on a pad. “Ask them to hold.”

Tanya went quickly to Mel’s desk.

Ordway asked Inez, “Did your husband have any explosives in the apartment?” As she hesitated, he bore in with sudden toughness. “You’ve told the truth so far; don’t lie to me now! Did he?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of explosives?”

“Some dynamite… and caps… They were left over.”

“From his contracting work?”

“Yes.”

“Did he ever say anything about them? Give a reason for keeping them?”

Inez shook her head. “Only, that… if you knew how to handle them… they were safe.”

“Where were the explosives kept?”

“Just in a drawer.”

“In a drawer where?”

“The bedroom.” An expression of sudden shock crossed Inez Guerrero’s face. Ordway spotted it.

“You thought of something then! What was it?”

“Nothing!” Panic was in her eyes and voice.

“Yes, you did!” Ned Ordway leaned forward, close to Inez, his face aggressive. For the second time in this room tonight he exhibited nothing of kindness; only the rough, tough savagery of a policeman who needed an answer and would get it. He shouted, “Don’t try holding back or lying! It won’t work. Tell me what it was you thought.” As Inez whimpered: “Never mind that! Tell me!”

“Tonight… I didn’t think of it before… the things…”

“The dynamite and caps?”

“Yes.”

“You’re wasting time! What about them?”

Inez whispered, “They were gone!”

Tanya said quietly, “I have your call, Lieutenant. They’re holding.”

No one among the others spoke.

Ordway nodded, his eyes still fixed on Inez. “Did you know that tonight, before your husband’s flight took off, he insured himself heavily–very heavily indeed–naming you as beneficiary?”

“No, sir. I swear I don’t know anything…”

“I believe you,” Ordway said. He stopped, considering, and when he spoke again his voice grated harshly.

“Inez Guerrero, listen to me carefully. We believe your husband has those explosives, which you’ve told us about, with him tonight. We think be carried them onto that Rome flight, and, since there can be no other explanation for having them there, that he intends to destroy the airplane, killing himself and everyone else aboard. Now, I’ve one more question, and before you answer, think carefully, and remember those other people–innocent people, including children–who are on that flight, too. Inez, you know your husband; you know him as well as anyone alive. Could he… for the insurance money; for you… could he do what I have just said?”

Tears streamed down Inez Guerrero’s face. She seemed near collapse, but nodded slowly.

“Yes.” Her voice was choked. “Yes, I think he could.”

Ned Ordway turned away. He took the telephone from Tanya and began speaking rapidly in a low tone. He gave information, interspersed with several requests.

Once Ordway paused, swinging back to Inez Guerrero. “Your apartment is going to be searched, and we’ll get a warrant if necessary. But it will be easier if you consent. Do you?”

Inez nodded dully.

“Okay,” Ordway said into the telephone, “she agrees.” A minute or so later he hung up.

Ordway told the D.T.M. and Mel, “We’ll collect the evidence in the apartment, if there’s any there. Apart from that, at the moment, there isn’t a lot we can do.”

The D.T.M. said grimly, “There isn’t a lot any of us can do, except maybe pray.” His face strained and gray, he began writing a new message for Flight Two.

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T
HE HOT
hors d’oeuvres, which Captain Vernon Demerest had called for, had been served to the pilots of Flight Two. The appetizing assortment on a tray, brought by one of the stewardesses from the first class galley, was disappearing fast. Demerest grunted appreciatively as he bit into a lobster-and-mushroom tartlet garnished with Parmesan cheese.

As usual, the stewardesses were pursuing their campaign to fatten the skinny young second officer, Cy Jordan. Surreptitiously they had slipped him a few extra hors d’oeuvres on a separate plate behind the two captains and now, while Jordan fiddled with fuel crossfeed valves, his cheeks bulged with chicken livers in bacon.

Soon, all three pilots, relaxing in turn in the dimly lighted cockpit, would be brought the same delectable entree and dessert which the airline served its first class passengers. The only things the passengers would get, which the crew did not, were table wine and champagne.

Trans America, like most airlines, worked hard at providing an excellent cuisine aloft. There were some who argued that airlines–even international airlines–should concern themselves solely with transportation, gear their in-flight service to commuter standards, and dispense with frills, including meals of any higher quality than a box lunch. Others, however, believed that too much of modem travel had become established at box lunch level, and welcomed the touch of style and elegance which good airborne meals provided. Airlines received remarkably few complaints about food service. Most passengers–tourist and first class–welcomed the meals as a diversion and consumed them zestfully.

Vernon Demerest, searching out with his tongue the last succulent particles of lobster, was thinking much the same thing. At that moment the Selcal call chime sounded loudly in the cockpit and the radio panel warning light flashed on.

Anson Harris’s eyebrows went up. A single call on Selcal was out of the ordinary; two within less than an hour were exceptional.

“What we need,” Cy Jordan said from behind, “is an unlisted number.”

Demerest reached out to switch radios. “I’ll get it.”

After the mutual identification between Flight Two and New York dispatch, Vernon Demerest began writing on a message pad under a hooded light. The message was from D.T.M. Lincoln International, and began: UNCONFIRMED POSSIBILITY EXISTS… As the wording progressed, Demerest’s features, in the light’s reflection, tautened. At the end he acknowledged briefly and signed off without comment.

Demerest handed the message pad to Anson Harris, who read it, leaning toward a light beside him. Harris whistled softly. He passed the pad over his shoulder to Cy Jordan.

The Selcal message ended: SUGGEST RETURN OR ALTERNATE LANDING AT CAPTAIN’S DISCRETION.

As both captains knew, there was a question of command to be decided. Although Anson Harris had been flying tonight as captain, with Demerest performing first officer duty, Vernon Demerest–as check pilot–had overriding authority if he chose to exercise it.

Now, in response to Harris’s questioning glance, Demcrest said brusquely, “You’re in the left seat. What are we waiting for?”

Harris considered only briefly, then announced, “We’ll turn back, but making a wide slow turn; that way, passengers shouldn’t notice. Then we’ll have Gwen Meighen locate this guy they’re worried about, because it’s a sure thing one of us can’t show up in the cabin, or we’ll alert him.” He shrugged. “After that, I guess we play it by ear.”

“Okay,” Demerest assented. “You get us faced around; I’ll handle the cabin end.” He depressed the stewardess call button, using a three-ring code to summon Gwen.

On a radio frequency he had been using earlier, Anson Harris called air route control. He announced laconically, “This is Trans America Two. We seem to have a problem here. Request clearance back to Lincoln, and radar vector from present position to Lincoln.”

Harris’s swift reasoning had already ruled out landing at an alternate air-port. Ottawa, Toronto, and Detroit, they had been informed at briefing, were closed to air traffic because of the storm. Besides, to deal with the man they were concerned about back in the cabin, the crew of Flight Two needed time. Returning to Lincoln International would provide it.

He had no doubt that Demerest had reached the same conclusion.

From Toronto Air Route Center, more than six miles below, a controller’s voice responded. “Trans America Two, Roger.” A brief pause, then: “You may begin a left turn now to heading two seven zero. Stand by for an altitude change.”

“Roger, Toronto. We are commencing the turn. We’d like to make it wide and gradual.”

“Trans America Two. A wide turn approved.”

The exchange was low key, as such exchanges usually were. Both in the air and on the ground there was mutual awareness that most would be gained by calm, least by dramatics or excitement. By the nature of Flight Two’s request, the ground controller was instantly aware that an emergency–real or potential–existed. Jetliners, in flight at cruising altitude, did not abruptly reverse course without a major reason. But the controller also knew that if and when the captain was ready, he would officially declare an emergency and report its cause. Until then, the controller would not waste the time of the crew–undoubtedly occupied with urgent business of their own–by asking needless questions.

Whatever help was sought from air route control, however, would be given without query, and as speedily as possible.

Even now, on the ground, procedural wheels were turning. At Toronto Air Route Center, located in a handsome modern building some fourteen miles beyond the city limits, the controller receiving Flight Two’s transmission had summoned a supervisor. The supervisor was liaising with other sectors, clearing a path ahead of Flight Two, as well as altitudes immediately below–the last as a precaution. Cleveland Center, which earlier had passed the flight to Toronto Center and now would receive it back, had been alerted also. Chicago Center, which would take over from Cleveland, was being notified.

On the flight deck of Flight Two, a new air route control message was coming in. “Begin descent to flight level two eight zero. Report leaving flight level three three zero.”

Anson Harris acknowledged. “Toronto Center, this is Trans America Two. We are beginning descent now.”

On Harris’s orders, Second Officer Jordan was reporting to Trans America dispatch, by company radio, the decision to return.

The door from the forward cabin opened. Gwen Meighen came in.

“Listen,” she said, “if it’s more hors d’oeuvres, I’m sorry, but you can’t have them. In case you hadn’t noticed, we happen to have a few passengers aboard.”

“I’ll deal with the insubordination later,” Demerest said. “Right now”–he mimicked Gwen’s English accent–we’ve got a spot o’ bother.”

Superficially, little had changed on the flight deck since a few moments ago when the message from D.T.M. Lincoln had come in. Yet, subtly, the relaxed mood prevailing earlier had vanished. Despite their studied composure, the three-man crew was all-professional and sharp, their minds at peak acuity, each sensing the adjustment in the other two. It was to achieve such moments, responsively and quickly, that years of training and experience marked the long route to airline captaincy. Flying itself–controlling an airplane–was not a difficult achievement; what commercial pilots were paid high salaries for was their reserve of resourcefulness, airmanship, and general aviation wisdom. Demerest, Harris, and–to a lesser extent–Cy Jordan, were summoning their reserves now. The situation aboard Flight Two was not yet critical; with luck, it might not be critical at all. But if a crisis arose, mentally the crew was ready.

“I want you to locate a passenger,” Demerest told Gwen. “He isn’t to know that you’re looking for him. We have a description here. You’d better read the whole thing.” He handed her the pad with the Selcal message. She moved nearer, holding it under the hooded light beside him.

As the aircraft rolled slightly, Gwen’s hand brushed Vernon Demerest’s shoulder. He was conscious of her closeness and a faint famfliar perfume. Glancing sideways, he could see Gwen’s profile in the semidarkness. Her expression as she read was serious, but not dismayed; it reminded him of what he had admired so much earlier this evening–her strength in no way lessening her femininity. In a swift, fleeting second he remembered that twice tonight Gwen had declared she loved him. He had wondered then: had he ever truly been in love himself? When you kept tight rein on personal emotions, you were never absolutely sure. But at this moment, instinct told him, his feeling about Gwen was the closest to loving he would ever know.

Gwen was reading the message again, more slowly.

Momentarily he felt a savage anger at this new circurnstance which was contriving to delay their plans–his own and Gwen’s–for Naples. Then he checked himself. This was a moment for professionalism only. Besides, what was happening now would merely mean delay, perhaps for a full twenty-four hours after their return to Lincoln; but eventually the flight would go. It did not occur to him that the bomb threat might not be disposed of quickly, or that it would fail to end as tamely as most others.