"I do not know, Nassif," Jamil put his back to the door, his rifle across his chest. He wiped his hands on the stock. The stock became very shiny.
"He was unarmed."
"I saw his eyes."
"So?"
"They were dark. And very deep."
"So?"
"And dead. They were a dead man's eyes. They unnerved me."
Nassif called out to his men, dispersed through the 747, "All of you. Look for that man. See where he went!"
From the rear of the plane, beyond rows of passengers who sat with tight, tired faces, their hands tied with plastic loops, another kaffiyeh-masked gunman called back, "He disappeared under the wing."
"Look to the other side. When he comes out, fire at him through the windows. Ya Allah! Hurry!"
Several of the gunmen surged to the opposite side. They tore screaming passengers from their seats and threw them into the aisles. A few were clubbed into unconsciousness to quiet them. The hijackers pressed their cloth-covered faces to the windows.
"Do you see him?"
Heads shook in the negative.
"He must still be under the plane!" Nassif hissed. "Perhaps he is cowering in fear."
"Not that one," Jamil croaked. "I saw his eyes. They were unafraid."
"What can one unarmed man do under this plane except cower?" snapped Nassif, cuffing Jamil angrily. There came a series of loud pops and the nose of the aircraft sank slowly.
Under the plane, Remo withdrew a steellike finger from the last of the front tires. It hissed and settled. Casually he worked his way back to the wing gears. He popped the right-hand tires with the same finger, and performed the identical operation on those on the left. Then he collapsed the hull wheel assemblies.
The 747 now sat on ruined tires. It wasn't going anywhere. Remo hadn't wanted the craft to take off while he figured out the best way into the aircraft.
Normally he would have simply gone into the hatch, fast and furious, and taken out anyone who got in his way. But a 747 usually carried about five hundred passengers on its two decks. There was no telling how many hijackers there were or how they were deployed. Even Remo couldn't clean them all out without bullets flying and grenades detonating. The kaffiyehs told him he was dealing with Middle Eastern hijackers. The worst kind. They might be prepared to martyr the entire craft to make some obscure political point.
So Remo opted for a careful approach. The popping tires would make them jumpy, but there was no way around that.
Remo crouched down under a hull wheel assembly. Years ago, when skyjackings became a popular expression of political discontent, Dr. Smith had made Remo sit through a droning lecture about the structural plans of modern aircraft. Bored, Remo made paper airplanes with the briefing papers and sailed them so they nicked Smith's earlobes, alternating right, left, right, left. Smith, although his pinched face tightened, kept on reading from his prepared notes and showing slides on a big screen until Remo had run out of paper. The experience had convinced him that his superior was not normal, and the realization soured Remo's mood for a month.
Remo tried to remember that lecture now. Some aircraft, Smith had told him, could be accessed through the wheel wells if a person had the right tools. Was the 747 one of those?
Remo stared up the wheel well. He couldn't tell by looking. But he started yanking bolts and undoing screws anyway. He got a panel half-loose. Then he carefully pried it free so that it made no noise.
A woman's travel case fell down. Remo caught it and set it aside. Good. That meant the luggage compartment was above him.
Remo slithered up the wheel well, shrinking his ribs so that he passed through the tightest spot easily.
He found himself lying on rows of tagged luggage. Above his head, feet moved softly, erratically.
Placing both sets of fingers against the ceiling, Remo waited until his questing hands picked up the pressure of moving feet. When he made contact, he moved with the feet, keeping them just above him. The feet stopped. Remo sensed a casual shifting of one foot to the other. Nervousness. But not panic. Good. That meant a hijacker and not a passenger.
Remo withdrew one hand and went to work on the plate above his head. He sheared the heads of the bolts with the edges of his free hand. With the other, he balanced the plate in place, elbow locked against the weight of the hijacker.
Carefully he tested the plate. When he dropped his hand, it lowered a millimeter. Not enough for the man standing on it to notice, but enough for Remo to know that the only thing keeping the plate in place was his hand.
Remo set himself. He heard no other footsteps. But that didn't mean there weren't other hijackers nearby. Remo jumped back.
Light spilled into the hold. The plate smashed down. A man in khaki and kaffiyeh tumbled down with it. Remo leapt for the opening. It just happened that Remo's right foot used the man's head for a launch point. His skull shattered under the recoil of Remo's kicking leap.
Remo went straight up. He grabbed the overhead molding and spread his feet so that when he let go, they landed on either side of the missing plate.
"Who the hell are you?" a male passenger gasped. Remo shushed him.
"Part of the replacement crew," he whispered. "The airline's tired of paying this crew's overtime."
"You're kidding," the man said, serious-faced.
"Where's the nearest hijacker?" Remo asked.
"In the john. Back of the plane. I think he has the runs. There's another one in the cockpit."
"Any others?"
"On the upper deck," a woman hissed. "Please be careful. My sister is up there."
"I'll try not to wake her," Remo promised. "Anyone know how many hijackers in all?"
"Six."
"No. Only four."
"I think I counted eight."
"Never mind," Remo said, working his way toward the john. "I'll count them myself."
Remo knocked on the lavatory door.
"What is it?" a voice asked in heavily accented English.
Remo said, "Need to use the john. Could you pick it up in there?"
"Who? Who is that speaking?" the man hissed shrilly.
"Hold it down in there," Remo warned. "Passengers are trying to sleep. Now, are you coming out, or do I come in?"