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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 qualif
ications?”

  “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.”

  Tony let this rather startling information sink in for a moment until one glaring inconsistency surfaced.

  “Well that’s all very nice—but what has the speaking of Spanish to do with Arabs and Moslems?”

  “Nothing. But the skyjackers speak only Spanish. They are anti-Castro Cubans.”

  Any expected, or unexpected, answer to this was pre-empted by the arrival of a great gaunt old man with a mean cast in his eye and Tony’s shoes in his hand. The curl of his lip assured another enthusiastic acceptance of Tony’s presence. Old Fred, the FBI weapons specialist, had never taken kindly to Tony.

  “You are not going to be armed, blast it, which is probably all for the best, considering…” A world of statement lurked behind the last word, memories of Tony on the firing range, guns dropped, targets missed, eyes closed. “But these shoes may make a difference. The right heel is resealed in place and contains a radio with a transmitting range of a quarter of a mile and a battery life of twenty hours. The microphone is here on the side—see it?—keep your blasted fingers off it. Try not to move your feet when you’re talking to those crumbbums so we can monitor your conversation. Now, the other shoe—on this one the blasted left heel pivots from the rear like this and contains seven small grenades, see them? Don’t take them out, blast it! One of them could blow up this entire room. Put the shoes on. This is a dummy of one of the grenades, you will see it is labeled dummy in yellow. To activate this blasted grenade you pull up on this pin here and then you throw it because it explodes three seconds after the pin is pulled. Is that all clear?”

  “Very,” Tony said coldly and bent to put his shoes back on, more than a little tired of the general assumption that his intelligence and ability fell somewhere between a microcephalic idiot and a spastic basket case. After all he was an art historian—it was their idea to call him an FBI agent. He was probably the only person in the room who had ever heard of the Mannerists or knew something more about Van Gogh than the fact he had cut his ear off. This reassurance helped not in the slightest.

  “Don’t stamp your blasted heel too much. Them grenades can be tricky sometimes.” As he spoke this morale-building advice Old Fred produced a snub-nosed revolver in a quick-draw holster, neatly imprinted with the initials FBI, which he fitted into place on Tony’s belt.

  “What’s this? What’s this? A minute ago you said I wasn’t going to be armed. Are they supposed to think this is a carbuncle on my hip?”

  “Blasted skyjackers expect an agent to be armed. They’ll search you and find this.”

  “Very generous of the FBI to turn over dangerous weapons to known criminals.”

  “Nope. Gun’s rigged to explode if anyone tries to fire it. And if they really search you they’ll find this. Should satisfy them.”

  This was what appeared to be a length of thick wire that had been looped at each end. Old Fred quickly wrapped it around Tony’s wrist and taped it into place, then slid his watch back down to cover its presence.

  “Gigli saw,” he explained. “Used in brain surgery for sawing out hunks of skull. Got notches in it like teeth. Blasted tough. Can saw bars or be used as a garrote to choke someone. Blasted handy.”

  “Just what I have always needed. Is that all?”

  “All from me.”

  “The DC-10 has a cruising speed of six hundred miles an hour…”

  “Sones, please, a little less airplane and a li
ttle more information on the skyjacking. How did they manage this thing with all the precautions we are supposed to have?”

  “The details are not completely clear. The passengers deplaned in Los Angeles while the plane was refueling. There are a lot of them and I understand the transit lounge was pretty full. Also they were dressed in an unusual manner, you know, robes and things. It appears the skyjackers were similarly dressed and just boarded with the crowd.”

  “Weapons too?”

  “Plenty of them. They made the captain describe their arms. Pistols, submachine guns, grenades, satchel charges, bayonets.”

  “No anti-tank guns?”

  “None were reported.”

  “I’m surprised. They seem to have gotten everything else they needed aboard.”

  “There will be an investigation.”

  “Which won’t help me in the slightest. So this small army is aboard and makes its presence known after they take off. How many of them are there?”

  “Captain Haycroft, the plane’s commander, reported twelve. They seized control of the ship and diverted to Dulles Airport here in Washington. They also asked for the two million dollars to be waiting when they landed. They threatened to kill one passenger a minute for every minute they had to wait for the money. After sixty minutes, or sixty passengers, they will blow the entire plane up. The money has been provided.” He waved in the direction of the long table where the industrious agents were still stamping the bills with invisible identification of many kinds.

  “I should hope so. Who put up the cash?”

  “Treasury is providing the cash. But there were some quick phone calls and ten of the Arab countries, the oil ones of course, have guaranteed two hundred thousand dollars each.”

  “Then what?”

  “When the money is aboard they agree to release most of the hostages. They want the plane refueled and after takeoff will announce their destination. The plane has a wingspan of one hundred and fifty-five feet, four inches…”

  “Hawkin, let’s go.” X’s voice cut through the murmur of the room and pulled Tony to his feet as though he had been jerked by a rope. The head agent stood scowling down at the repacked suitcase, agleam with mint-fresh greenies. “We have used radioactive marking so these bills can be detected by a geiger counter or similar device. Under black light the legend SKYJACKED CURRENCY is revealed. The right-hand edge of every bill is coated with a saccharin solution very sweet to the tongue. And—Buenos días, señor Hawkin. Como está usted?”