Queen Victoria's Revenge

 

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CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Also by Harry Harrison Published by Tor

Praise

Copyright

 

For Tony's godfather

LARRY ASHMEAD

ONE

Forty-five thousand feet above the surface of the earth the sky is clear dark blue, a world of emptiness between outer space and the white blanket of the clouds far below. The air here is far too thin for any creature to breathe, but is solid enough substance for the gaping mouths of jet engines. This is their realm, great silver craft such as the DC-10 that now hurtled into visibility, streaking through the rarefied atmosphere at six hundred miles an hour, arching over the landscape of North America eight and a half miles below. A new leviathan of the skies with an immense single tail that rose almost sixty feet above the fuselage and supported the bulky cylinder of a giant engine. The insignia above the engine was the proud red crescent and star of Moslem, accompanied by the delicate curls and twists of an Arabic inscription. For the benefit of the unbeliever, and to conform to the exigencies of international law, the message was translated lower on the tail in roman lettering.

AIR MECCA
it read, and these same words were spelled out on both sides of the fuselage.

No sound could possibly be heard through the airtight walls of the giant airship, sound-proofed to cut out the roar of the three immense turbo fan engines, and the sounds inside were weak enough. Some screams, wails of fear, guttural curses. Harsh commands were issued, backed by the authority of the gun barrel, until with some reluctance they were obeyed. The instructions were printed on paper and very clear.

With ponderous ease the plane tilted up on one wing and executed a slow turn, then settled onto its new course. Invisible radio messages crackled from its antenna.

*   *   *

“No,” Tony Hawkin said into the mouthpiece of the telephone in response to the syrupy voice that cajoled in his ear. “No, I don't really think we could possibly be interested in chocolate handcuffs. Yes, I do know that the chocolate bullets have been a solid selling line, but bullets are, you know, meant to be expended. An edible handcuff seems to be a contradiction in itself. Yes, good-bye.”

Hanging up, he surveyed his little kingdom with a professional eye. The book and souvenir shop of the Federal Bureau of Investigation appropriately located in the lobby of the FBI Building in Washington, D.C., was doing its normal trade. Small children and their larger parents were pawing over and buying items from his irresistible collection of toy fingerprint sets, gilt badges, black-framed photographs of the former director, books of great crimes (solved) and photographs of master criminals (apprehended). His two assistants bustled and wrapped while the merry chime of the cash register sang its golden song. It was a scene that should have filled any shopkeeper's heart with joy—yet why was he frowning? Thin and of medium height, neatly but not showily dressed as the Bureau commanded, tanned and black-haired and not unattractive, his nose perhaps a little on the large size, he was a fine figure of a man at ease in his own domain. Still the acid dripped steadily in his vitals and he was sure that if he did not already have an ulcer one was just around the corner. For although his body was in this stronghold of law enforcement his soul was still in the National Gallery. Not by choice had he been parted from his Degas and Da Vincis, Turners and Tiepolos; but by the force of draft. Circumstance had plucked him from the world of art and transformed him into an inadvertent and most reluctant lawman. Despite the success and adulation of his newfound calling his single, burning wish remained steadfast: he wanted out. The acid dripped and the ulcer twinged.

A forceful movement caught his eye. Two stern-faced and soberly dressed men, in step, were plowing a straight path through the aimless millings of the tourists. This was not an uncommon occurrence for, in addition to giving guided tours and providing material for television programs, the Bureau still had a positive role in national law enforcement. Agents came and agents went and none was to say where and why. Which was fine with Tony—the less he knew about the operations of the Bureau the happier he was—except these two agents seemed to have their steely gaze firmly planted on
him.

Unerringly they approached and, with each doomlike footstep, Tony's heart sank a bit more. Memories of previous forced employment unreeled before him: a knife between dead shoulder blades, beatings, screams in the night, hurried journeys and ugly violence. Not again! Yet even as he breathed the wish he knew it was a vain one. Footsteps came close and stopped, solid blue jaws leaned near. A breath redolent of mint and Binaca, empty of alcohol or tobacco, breathed in his ear.

“Top priority emergency, Agent Hawkin. Come with us.”

This last was more a courtesy than a request for, even while the agent was talking, strong hands were laid on Tony's arm in some complicated manner that appeared to be a friendly clutch while in reality was an iron embrace that lifted and propelled him along between the matched pair. He made paddling motions with his feet so his toes would not drag and scuff his shine.

In an instant they were out of the lobby and a moment later down a long hall. Doors opened before them and closed behind them, an elevator lifted them skyward and more doors greeted them until their journey ended in a spacious office before a large desk behind a door labeled simply 2135. The two guides departed without a word and Tony brushed the wrinkles from his sleeve. “I think there has been a mistake,” he said.

“So do I, Hawkin,” Ross Sones said. “So do I. I know you did well on Operation Buttercup, but I don't really think this is your piece of cake.”

“Agreed. See you around, Ross.”

“However,” Sones said, and the authority in his voice stopped Tony as he was turning away, spun him about and dropped him into the waiting chair, “however, orders are orders. And these are right from the computer.” He tapped the accordion folds of computer readout on the desk as though they were sacred scripture, his head lowered with reverence. The three strands of thin hair pasted across the bald expanse of his skull served only as reminders of their long-vanished brethren. With his beady eyes, pimp's hairline, mustache, thin nose and gold-rimmed pince-nez glasses he looked the part of a failed confidence man. Tony knew him to be a humorless and highly efficient FBI agent.

“Orders for what?” Tony said, dully. Like a rabbit in the noose he had abandoned all hope of salvation. Sones ignored the interruption.

“Request came through, secret and urgent, for an agent with certain qualifications. You were the only name the computer produced.”

Tony hated the gross bulk of the omniscient machine. “Can't you tell it I have ulcers and ask for the runner-up? What are the qualifications?”

“That information is classified.” A deep buzzing sounded from his desk as though a giant captive bee were calling for release. “There's the signal. We go in now.”

The conference room was brightly lit, humming with activity, shrill with ringing phones. Most of the action was centered on the long table where a number of men were doing interesting things with a great deal of money. This was being unloaded, a bundle at a time, from a large suitcase at the far end, where every grasping hand moved under the piercing and unblinking gaze of a big man in a lumpy brown suit.

“Hello, Stocker,” Tony said as he passed and was answered by a suspicious quick look from under the beetling brows of the Treasury agent.

“Ah hope yore not involved in this affair, Hawkin.” His voice was hard as tool steel. “Still that matter of a hundred dollars from Mexico…”

“Well if everyone is so wildly enthusiastic about having me there will be no problem with my leaving.”

“Hawkin, here.”

The command was crisp, the voice used to authority. This was the top agent Tony knew only as X, the man who had involved him with the almost catastrophic Mexican affair. He now appeared to be in charge of the present operation—whatever it was—and Tony hurried over in response to the command, resisting the urge to come to attention and salute, this reflex rising from the depths of his brain where it had been drilled in during his term of involuntary service in the Army.

“Sir?”

“Take off your shoes.”

Carried away by the current of events, he sat dumbly and did as he had been ordered, with the unquestioning obedience of any Watergate conspirator. His shoes were whisked away. X shook a computer printout accusingly.

“We needed an agent with specific attributes and yours was the only name produced.” Still the same wild enthusiasm for Tony's participation.

“I'm sure another agent could be found who would be more qualified,” Tony said, smiling hopefully.

“That's not what the computer thinks. I need an agent who can speak Spanish and is familiar with handling large sums of money…”

“There must be lots of those.”

“… and who is in this building now. Do you know what this is?” He handed Tony a glossy photograph of a large airplane.

“It is a glossy photograph of a large airplane.”

“That is obvious.” X's voice was blurred since, for some reason, he was speaking with his teeth clamped tightly together. “I mean what
kind
of an aircraft.”

“Passenger?” Tony said hopefully and the clamped teeth ground slowly from side to side.

“Sones. Get the intelligence report and see that he is completely briefed on the DC-10 before he leaves.”

“It's a DC-10,” Tony said, but was ignored. X tapped the photograph with a hard finger.

“One of these was skyjacked five hours ago. It will be coming in to Dulles in about half an hour. There is a ransom to be paid.” Tony started to ask something about shooting out tires then, wisely, refrained. “We know ransom isn't the answer in most cases but this one has both political and religious overtones.” Apparently satisfied with these gnostic statements he turned his attention back to the table, pausing only to throw an afterthought over his shoulder. “You'll be boarding with the money.” With little formality Sones pulled Tony aside and rustled a sheaf of papers.

“The DC-10 has three General Electric CF6-6D turbo fan engines each putting out forty thousand pounds of thrust. It seats…”

“Sones! The plane later. Would you mind telling me first about these political and religious overtones? I have a feeling I should know.”

Sones pondered this, taking off his glasses and polishing them, while frowning deeply to help the pondering. A conclusion was reached.

“This plane is named the Hadji and is owned by Air Mecca. This is a Mideast carrier that specializes in ferrying pilgrims to Mecca, the holiest city of Islam in Saudi Arabia, fifty miles from the port of Jidda. Up until now it has been a small operation using war-weary C-47's. However it has expanded and purchased this jumbo jet. The Hadji, with two hundred and eighty-three pilgrims from Asia, landed for refueling at Los Angeles. The passengers were disembarked for this. They reboarded and the plane started for the next stop for passengers in Dakar, before proceeding to Mecca. However it appears that an unknown number of skyjackers boarded with the pilgrims and have now seized the plane. They threaten to destroy it and all the passengers, and themselves, of course, if they do not immediately receive two million dollars. We are marking the money now.”