Authors: Jon Land
“I would suggest that in this case the terms and complications are meaningless,” Stimson followed with barely a pause. “Results are all that matter.”
“At what cost?” McCall challenged. “McCrackenballs doesn’t obey orders and has proved an embarrassment to this government every time we’ve sent him into the field.”
The President leaned forward. “McCracken what?”
McCall cleared his throat.
“It’s a long story,” Stimson replied.
“We’ve got loads of time. Easton’s funeral isn’t for two days,” the President said bitingly.
“I’ll sum up the man we’re dealing with here as succinctly as I can,” Stimson continued as if he had memorized the words. “The early stages of McCracken’s career were routine enough. Two decorated tours in ’Nam with the Special Forces. Lots of medals. After the war the Company put him to use in Africa and later South America. Deep cover. McCracken’s specialty was infiltration.”
“Along with teaching schoolchildren how to make Molotov cocktails,” McCall added.
“His orders were to promote resistance against the rebels.”
“And there was hell to pay for his little escapades with the kiddies once the papers got hold of them. If we hadn’t covered our tracks in time, the whole episode would have made the Nicaraguan training manual business look like back-page news.”
“He was following orders,” Stimson reiterated.
“No, Andy, he was interpreting them in his own unique manner.” McCall shook his head as if in pain, turning toward the President. “We sent him to London to train with the SAS.”
“Buried him there, you mean,” Stimson snapped.
“But he dug himself up quite nicely, didn’t he?” McCall shot back. “There was an unfortunate episode where an Arab group nabbed a plane and threatened to shoot a passenger every minute the authorities exceeded their demands deadline. The British were convinced they were bluffing. McCracken was certain they weren’t. In the end, by the time the SAS stormed the plane, four passengers were dead.”
“Oh, Christ …”
“McCracken screamed at British officials on national television, shouted that they had no … balls.”
“
His
word?” the President asked.
“His
exact
word,” nodded McCall. “Then to reinforce his point, he went to Parliament Square and blew the balls right off Churchill’s statue with a machine gun, at least the general anatomical area under the statue’s greatcoat.”
The President looked dumbfounded.
Stimson leaned forward. “Because innocent people died at Heathrow. McCracken can’t stand civilian casualties.”
“And he’s convinced he’s the
only
man who can avoid them,” McCall countered. He swung back to the President. “McCracken’s a goddamn lone ranger who won’t even let Tonto play. Dismissal at his level was, of course, out of the question. So we started moving him around from one petty post to another to avoid further embarrassments. He finally settled as a cipher operator in Paris.”
“And he’s stuck it out, hasn’t he?” Stimson challenged. “Does everything he’s told to from confirming scrambled communications to sorting paper clips even though it’s probably busting him up inside.”
“An agent could do a lot worse.”
“Not an agent like McCracken. It’s a waste.”
“More a necessity, Andy. He’s brought all this on himself.”
“Fine. Then I’ll take the responsibility for lifting it off.” Stimson’s eyes found the President’s. “Sir, I would like McCracken reassigned from the Company to the Gap to take the place of Easton.”
“Out of the question!” McCall roared.
“Which,” the President began with strange evenness, “would have been my exact reaction if you told me yesterday that one of our agents was going to be gunned down at a bordello in the company of two pubescents. Andy, if you want to use McCracken to clean up this mess we’ve got, then use him. Just get it done.”
McCall’s face reddened. “Sir, I must protest—”
“The matter is closed, Barton.” The President sighed. “In the past twenty-four hours, we’ve had a deep-cover agent murdered and a space shuttle blown right out of the sky. Nathan Jamrock will probably be here tomorrow with a report indicating that little green men destroyed
Adventurer
and, who knows, maybe the same little green men visited Madame Rosa’s this afternoon carrying Mac-10s instead of ray guns. Wonder where they’ll strike next?”
A heavy knock came on the Oval Office door. Before the President could respond, his chief aide stepped swiftly into the room.
“Sorry to intrude, sir,” said the wiry, bespectacled man, “but we’ve just got word a jet has been seized by terrorists in Paris with over a hundred Americans on board.”
The President’s empty stare passed from McCall to Stimson, then to neither. “Well, boys, it looks like my question’s been answered.”
“SO WHAT ARE THEY
asking for?” Tom Daniels, chief of CIA operations in France, asked Pierre Marchaut, Sureté agent in charge of the seizure at Orly Airport.
Marchaut regarded the American patiently as he moved away from the telephone and consulted his notes. “The usual things,
mon ami
. Release of political prisoners being held in French jails, safe passage to the country of their choice, a message to be read over the networks this evening.”
Daniels strode abruptly to the window and looked out over the 767 in question, apart from other aircraft on one of Orly’s main runways.
“The deadline?” he asked Marchaut.
“The first batch of prisoners must be delivered here within two hours.”
“Delivered
here
? Great, just great. And if we refuse?”
“They will blow up the plane.” The burly Marchaut, whose face was dominated by a pair of thick black side-burns, shrugged. “Did you expect anything different? The terrorists also requested fresh meals for their hostages.”
“How compassionate …”
“My thoughts exactly.”
A thin man walked quickly into the operations room with a manila folder open in his hands. He spoke so rapidly in French that Daniels was barely able to keep up with him.
“We have just received positive identifications of the two male and one female terrorist involved. They are known professionals wanted in a combined total of seventeen countries. They have all killed before, especially the bearded leader, an Arab named Yachmar Bote. The woman has been linked to a number of brutal assassinations as well.”
“So now we know they are capable of doing everything they say,” Marchaut concluded grimly.
“If they’re caught, it means the death sentence,” said his assistant. “They have nothing to lose.”
“Wonderful,” Daniels moaned, starting for the phones. “I’d better call Washington.”
“What about the explosives?” Marchaut asked.
His assistant shrugged. “Inspection of pictures snapped through windows reveal heavy wiring and what appears to be plastique. But without visual inspection there is no way to be sure.”
“And the positions of the hijackers?”
“The bastards are clever. One is always seated among the passengers, presumably holding the trigger for the explosives.”
“Then a raid is out of the question,” Marchaut said with his eyes on Daniels, who had hesitated before lifting up the phone. “And so, I’m afraid, is acceding to their demands.”
Daniels stepped forward, closer to Marchaut. The others in the room, French police and airport officials, surrounded them in a ring.
“Then our only alternative is to play a waiting game,” the American said. “That would have been my suggestion anyway. It’s worked before and I don’t buy the explosives bit at all.”
“Yes,” Marchaut added, “once the deadline passes, the advantage shifts to us. Perhaps there is a way to use this request for food to our advantage. …”
“The hijackers won’t eat it,” came an American voice from outside the circle. “The passengers are their biggest worry, not you clowns. You know, feed the prey before you slaughter them. Keep them full and happy.”
The fifteen or so men and women gathered in the emergency operations center turned toward a tall athletic-looking man with dark hair and perfectly groomed black beard highlighted by a slight speckling of gray. His skin was tanned and rough, that of a man accustomed to the outdoors and quite comfortable in it. A bent nose and a scar running through his right eyebrow marred an otherwise ruggedly handsome face. His piercing eyes were almost black.
“Oh, no,” muttered Daniels.
“You know this man?” Marchaut asked, taken aback.
“Unfortunately.” Then, to the stranger, “McCracken, what in hell are you doing here?”
“All the movies were sold out, so I had to seek my entertainment elsewhere,” Blaine McCracken said. “I’m not disappointed. You people really know how to put on a show. Really give a guy his money’s worth.”
“Get out of here this instant!” Marchaut ordered.
“Intermission already?”
Marchaut started forward. McCracken’s eyes froze him.
“Do as he says, Blaine,” Daniels advised.
“And miss the finale? Not on your life, Tommy my boy.” He moved forward just a step. “You guys should really listen to yourselves. It’s a scream, let me tell you.”
“Who is this man?” a now uncertain Marchaut asked Daniels.
“He works in the CIA equivalent of the mail room over here.”
“Then what—”
“I’ll tell you what, Marchaut,” McCracken said abruptly, and the Frenchman reeled at mention of his name. “You assholes are talking about waiting the terrorists out, going beyond the deadline, and all you’re going to get for it is a planeload of hamburger. And in case you guys didn’t know it, there are forty seats in tourist being taken up by kids from a junior high in Fort Lee, New Jersey. Tell you what else, Marchaut, take a good look at the leader Bote’s file. He’s a walking psycho ward. He’s been trying to get himself killed in a blaze of glory for years. This is right up his alley, always was, right back to the time I met up with him in Chad.”
Confused, Marchaut swung toward Daniels. “I thought you said he worked in the … mail room.”
“I’m a man of many hats,” Blaine told him. “And the one I’ve got on right now tells me these terrorists
want
to blow the plane up. Allah must be running a special on martyrdom this week. Their demands can’t possibly be met. If
you
know that, don’t you think they do?”
Daniels stormed forward, eye to eye with McCracken. “You’re finished, Blaine. No more second chances, no more token appointments. Maybe they’ll send you home in a box.”
“Get this man out of here!” Marchaut screamed in French to a pair of uniformed policemen who grasped McCracken at the elbows.
“As long as you’re ordering boxes,” Blaine said, allowing himself to be led backward, “see if you can get a group rate, Tommy my boy. You’re gonna need plenty of them before this day is done.”
The police forced Blaine from the room and closed the door behind them. Agitated, Marchaut stepped nervously to the window, looking out over the captured 767.
“You must learn to keep your subordinates on a tighter leash,
mon ami
,” he said to Daniels.
“McCracken’s not just an underling,” the American replied. “He’s a damn pariah, the scourge of American intelligence.”
“Knowing your country’s methods, I am surprised this man has remained on the active list so long.”
Daniels simply shrugged. The elimination of McCracken had been discussed many times. But how could he explain to the Frenchman that no intelligence overlord wanted to be the one to approve the sanction for fear that failure would cost him his life? McCracken had many enemies, but his capacity for survival and, more, his instinct for revenge, kept them from contemplating true action.
Minutes passed in the operations center. Words were exchanged with nothing said or decided. The decision was thus made. The deadline was now only an hour away, and it would pass with none of the terrorists’ demands met.
The emergency phone linking Marchaut to various positions around the 767 beeped twice. The Frenchman picked it up.
“
Oui?
” His mouth dropped, face paling. “Someone’s
what
? No, I didn’t order it. No, I don’t want—Hold for a second.”
Marchaut dropped the receiver and moved to the window with a dozen officials right in his tracks. They all saw a man driving a front-end loader, the kind used to transport meals from airport kitchen to plane galley, behind the 767 toward its loading bay. The driver passed out of sight quickly but not before Daniels glimpsed enough of his face through a pair of binoculars.
“Oh shit,” he muttered.
McCracken took a heavy swallow of air as the loader neared the red and white jet. He had come to Orly Airport as soon as word of the seizure had reached his small office cubicle—over AM radio, not cipher. Officials had no reason to involve him in such pursuits any longer. And, in fact, Blaine had driven to Orly determined to remain merely an observer, until examination of the runway area and obvious procrastination on the part of officials involved convinced him that asses were being dragged, as usual, and that other asses were going to become chopped meat as a result.
Didn’t they understand what they were dealing with? Didn’t they realize you couldn’t keep playing with terrorists and expect to win? Not these anyway, not Bote and whatever stooges he had brought along this time.
A raid on the plane was the only chance the passengers had to survive. And since the French were too busy picking their nails, McCracken would take it upon himself to do the dirty work. A one-man operation. Much better that way. The terrorists’ request for food had provided his cover.
He might have been able to walk away from the whole episode if it weren’t so clear history was about to repeat itself and innocent lives were going to be lost again. Five years ago in London, authorities had twiddled their fingers while terrorists squeezed triggers with theirs. McCracken wasn’t about to let that happen again. His mistake in London had been to go after a statue’s balls after it was over. He should have gone after the testicles of the damned officials who couldn’t make up their minds in time. Flesh and blood would have made his point better than ceramics.