Queen Victoria's Revenge (5 page)

“Ramon—get everyone out of here except yourself.”

Tony left with the other skyjackers on his heels and the door slammed behind him. Jasmin Sotiraki was awake and sitting up, her large eyes questioning as he went and sat beside her.

“You are not going to believe what I have to tell you.”

“I believe anything of these
cochons.”

“Would you believe that the boss, Ramon, speaks perfect English and the entire Spanish-speaking thing is some kind of complex hoax?”

“What kind of hoax?”

“I have no idea—but that big skyjacker, the Cuban disguised as an Arab, is really a Scotsman … don't look at me in that funny way. I'm telling you the truth. And the two things
have
to tie in together. The entire Spanish bit was so everyone should think about Cubans.” He snapped his fingers and a gleam of newfound intelligence burned in his eye. “Think Cuban and
not
Scotch! But why? Because Scotland is hooked onto England and we are over England right now, flying low. Which could mean…”

The whir, grind and thunk from below their seats finished the sentence for him.

“The landing gear has been lowered,” Jasmin said redundantly.

“We're coming in for a landing.”

Tony jumped to the window and saw brilliant green fields and trees rushing by below, a stream, then a village, then they were lower still. He hammered on the seat with his fist.

“Brussels, the Spanish bit, everything was misdirection. This is where we were heading all the time.”

The seat-belt light came on and, after some preliminary scratching, Haycroft's voice sounded through the plane.

“This is the captain speaking. We are coming in for a landing and I think it is going to be a very rough, perhaps disastrous landing. I will do my best but you must take all precautions possible. You must be seated. Sit well back in your seats and pull your seat belts tight. Then bend forward and take your ankles in your hands. This position is the best protection possible. I repeat…”

He did not repeat. The microphone must have been taken away from him because Ramon came on and, in a slightly shrill voice, repeated the captain's instructions in Spanish. There was an immense bustle as the skyjackers rushed to find seats. Tony did as he had been instructed after a last, horrified glance at the treetops streaming by, apparently under the extended landing flaps on their wings. A strobe light in the wing tip was flashing cheerily.

Down they drifted and farther down. Tony steeled himself for the impact, which seemed endlessly delayed. Jasmin, also bent over and clutching her ankles, smiled at him warmly: the stewardess doing her job to the end. What end? His heart began to thud like a triphammer as though getting the most out of its last moments.

A giant impact shook the fabric of the airplane, which instantly began to vibrate and shake as though the wheels were running over railroad ties. At the same time the power was reversed in the engines and 120,000 pounds of thrust fought to stop the hurtling weight. The terrible hammering continued—they were suddenly hurled sideways and Jasmin screamed—then they were going straight again.

Until, with a last groaning bounce, heave and skew, the ship settled forward, shuddered and stopped. The engines whined down into silence.

They were on the ground.

With shaking fingers Tony snapped open his belt and sat up. In the last seconds of its spectacular landing the DC-10 had stopped running straight so, when it had finally halted, it was standing crossways on the runway. Through the window Tony could see about two hundred feet of dusty, narrow concrete with weeds growing up through the cracks in the slabs. Beyond the end of the runway was green grass, a fence and the hind ends of a number of cows who were departing in some haste across the meadow. He knew just how they felt. He turned to Jasmin, who was sitting up, looking very pale and fanning herself with a magazine.

“Are you all right?”

She nodded weakly. “Yes. But I must just sit quiet for a few moments.”

She was the only quiet one. The instant the plane had stopped the flight-deck door had burst open and, at gunpoint, the flight crew had been rudely thrust out. Captain Haycroft came last, propelled along swiftly by the burly Scot. Battery power was still on, for the lights burned cheerfully and the door opened smoothly when the handle was pulled. Since he was being ignored for the moment, Tony slipped to the rear of the plane, as unobtrusively as he could, and looked out of a window on the port side.

He discovered what all the bumping had been about. Stretching off into the distance was the runway, terminating in a group of seedy and dilapidated buildings: a deserted airport obviously, built for aircraft of a different age. Smaller aircraft undoubtedly, because when the ponderous DC-10 had landed it had dropped right through the concrete of the runway and had plowed up the entire length of it. Three deep ruts, twisting and turning from time to time, led right up to the airplane, dark soil mixed with broken chunks of concrete. And there, racing along beside the runway in a boiling cloud of dust, were a car, a truck and a bright red fire engine. His appreciation of this fascinating sight was interrupted by a now familiar jab of a gun muzzle into his tender ribs accompanied by an order to go forward with the others.

The two pilots, the flight engineer and Jasmin had been herded into the front rows of seats across the plane from the open door. Tony joined them there under the shepherding muzzle of a submachine gun. They all watched the events in progress with a great deal of interest; this included the guard who kept looking over his shoulder. There was a good deal of shouting outside and moments later the top of a ladder, rising like an elevator, appeared at the door with its rider, a solid-looking man who could have been a close relative of Angus—who instantly spoke to the newcomer in a far from brotherly way.

“Are you daft bringing that bloody great fire engine? It'll be reported and the police will be right behind you.”

“We had to, laddie. Painter's van with the ladders broke down—this was all we could steal in time. You have it, the money?”

Memory of this cheered Angus, who smiled for the first time.

“Och, aye! Two million of those American bank notes. Let's be off.”

As though these words were a summoning cue there could be heard a distant clanging of alarm bells rapidly growing louder. “The rozzers!” the man on the ladder cried, and instantly vanished from sight.

Everyone stared. Clearly framed in the open doorway was a now familiar cloud of dust and racing vehicle. Only this car was a low black sedan topped with flashing lights and loud with jangling alarm bell.

At last the gun-waving Cubans had something to bang away at and they made the most of the opportunity. With an earsplitting roar of sound every machine gun and pistol went off, while one enthusiast even hurled a hand grenade that exploded far closer to the plane than to the approaching vehicle, sending fragments whining and thudding into the DC-10's skin. Spurts of dust rose up all around the police car, most far wide of the mark as the guns jumped about in unaccustomed hands. But a message of sorts was received by the policemen, for the car swerved wildly, spun about and drove behind the high dirt walls of a bunker where it vanished from sight. Clouds of dust rose from the walls of this revetment but since it had obviously been built to shield an airplane from heavy bomb fragments, the screaming bullets had no effect. After a great deal of shouting and pushing Ramon managed to stop the firing. In the resultant silence an amplified voice could clearly be heard.

“This is the police. You are involved in the commission of a serious crime and have fired upon us. You will surrender at once.”

The only response to this were some colorful Gaelic and Spanish oaths and a few more shots.

“Quickly. Out of the plane before they return the fire,” Ramon shouted. Angus looked at him with scorn.

“The police have no guns. But they do have radios, which is worse. Let's unload. We have the two vehicles and we'll rendezvous as planned…”

“We must have hostages to prevent capture.”

“It's not wise.”

“It's the wisest thing we can do. We'll take the girl and the FBI man, one in each car. The police won't dare stop us.”

The big Scot started to protest, then shrugged. “All right—but let's go
now!”

“Everyone out!”
Ramon ordered and there was a dive and struggle in the entrance. Before leaving he snapped open the suitcase and took out a bundle of hundred dollar bills and threw it to Jorge with a sharp order. Angus scowled at this, but said nothing. Jasmin screamed in ineffectual protest as she and Tony were bundled swiftly down the ladder. The last he saw of her was when she was being pushed into the back of the high, thin truck labeled
ACME STEAM LAUNDRY
along with most of the Cubans. The newly arrived Scot jumped behind the wheel of an elegant maroon Rolls-Royce. Angus pushed Tony into the front seat next to him, then climbed in himself. Ramon was wedged in the center of the back seat with one of his Cuban gunmen on each side of him. The suitcase with the money was on his lap, clutched tightly. The instant they were all in place the engine hummed to life and the car surged smoothly down the runway and away, while the truck vanished in the opposite direction.

“The truck is slow,” Ramon said, looking back out of the rear window. “It can be followed, seen, stopped…”

“Not to worry,” Angus reassured him. “They only have eight miles to go, it's all been worked out. There is a bit of forest there with a narrow track. The van will block it, it's stolen in any case, while they get away in the other cars. A half mile after that and they'll be on the M2 motorway and well on their way. We'll be doing the same thing a bit further on.”

The skyjackers seemed reassured by this, but Tony wished they wouldn't talk so graphically. He knew perfectly well what happened to hostages who knew too much. Sinking lower in the seat he tried to think himself invisible. With effortless ease the big car slid silently along the narrow track between the hedges, then twisted around a corner to an even narrower road that ran beside a high stone wall. A right-angle turn brought them into a lane covered by arching trees and revealed a farm tractor sideways across the road before them.

Tony had a split second to brace himself against the dash as the brakes locked and they screeched to a shuddering halt with the bumper lightly touching the high tractor wheel.

On the instant both Scots turned and dived into the rear seat. By accident or design they both used Tony's shoulders as launching pads. Large hands grabbed and pushed hard and he was forced down and out of the seat. A thrashing boot caught him in the back of the head, steel hobnails biting deep, and he ended up twisted and feeling halfbroken, dazed and gasping, jammed under the dash with his legs splayed out on the seat above him.

As in a nightmare he saw great ugly men loom up on all sides of the car, staring through the windows, tearing open the doors in back. They were wielding bicycle chains like heavy whips, effectively too if the thuds and screams meant anything.

It was over in a matter of seconds. The men vanished, there was the quick sound of running feet and an automobile engine that raced wildly. Gears were engaged with a jangling clash and the sound of the car dimmed and vanished.

With infinite care Tony writhed around onto the front seat then, clutching the back, rose up slowly. Other than the tractor the road was empty. Birds sang sweetly among the branches above. Two of the skyjackers were sprawled motionlessly, half in and half out of the car, blood oozing slowly from their battered heads. Ramon sat, unmoving, in the middle of the rear seat staring at Tony,

“Don't blame me, it wasn't my idea.”

The Cuban did not answer. Then Tony noticed that his tongue hung limply from between his teeth and that his head lay at a most unnatural angle. Tony reached out and waved his hand inches away from the staring eyes; they did not move.

Even before he looked around Tony knew that the suitcase of money would not be there.

FIVE

It had been quickly and efficiently done. The roadblock, the sudden attack—all that Angus and the driver had to do was see that the Cubans did not draw their weapons for a few seconds until the reinforcements arrived. Brutal and sure. Tony opened the door and climbed shakily out. The birds still sang with great enthusiasm and from behind the hedges in the nearby field there came a sudden crashing like a large animal about to attack. Tony, still groggy, pulled a limp skyjacker farther out into the road and patted his clothes; he had a gun in his jacket pocket. It came free with some struggle, a short-nosed revolver of some kind, and Tony turned and faced the source of the thrashing. Were they coming back to finish him off? He would sell his life dearly. His thoughts were still fuzzy and when he shook his head to clear it it only hurt more.

What was he worried about? If they had wanted to kill him they could have done that before they left. Hesitantly, he strode over to the hedge, gun ready, and looked behind it.

A man lay there, trussed in ropes, with a red bandanna handkerchief stuffed into his mouth and tied in place. He wore high rubber boots, dirt-splattered trousers, was gray of hair and red of skin—and bulging his eyes at Tony so they stood out of his head.

“Oh, sorry.” Tony put the gun away. “I thought they were coming back.” He ungagged the man and bent to untie his ropes.

“Ptah! Dirty buggers. Asked me the way they did then, bash, and me off the tractor and in the weeds. I'll have the law…”

“Just the thing. Look, there's more involved in this than you realize. I'll stay here and make sure these hijackers don't leave—”

“Hijackers, aye! Hijacked my tractor.”

“They've done more than that. Look, get to a phone or the police. Tell them we have some of the airplane skyjackers here. Can you do that?”