The big front doors of the hangar went up with a clang, awakening Shayne. A thin sliver of daylight came into the dark cone through the crack in the door. When he heard movement aboard the plane, he closed the door the rest of the way and rearranged his cramped body so it wouldn’t interfere with the free movement of the control wires. If the plane kept to schedule, it would be leaving in ninety minutes.
A tractor hooked onto the plane’s nose and towed it out onto the field. Shayne heard the fuel tanks being filled. The stewardesses entered the galley and began talking in confidential tones about the party in the hotel the night before. Joe Lassiter, the pilot, had drunk gallons, and he was suffering from the usual morning-after symptoms now.
“But he doesn’t frighten me half as much as some of the ice cubes I’ve flown with on scheduled runs,” one of the stewardesses commented. “He makes his mistakes on the ground.”
Time went by, the plane filled, and eight o’clock came and went. The stewardesses were kept busy. At 8:20, with the engines still warming up, both girls were in the galley at the same time, stealing a few quick gulps of coffee.
“Three passengers still missing,” one girl said. “Samuel Thompson-I don’t even remember what he looked like, do you?”
“Definitely. I had a tentative date with him at eleven o’clock last night and he never showed up. Just as well. He was sort of a creep.”
“A hell of a time for Georgie-boy to take off. Who’s going to look after the baggage?”
“You and me, naturally. Funny about Mike Shayne. I wonder what happened to him.”
The first girl made a shivering sound. “Now there’s one of the sexiest creatures God ever made.”
Shayne grinned in the darkness. The other girl said scornfully, “Sue, don’t let your glands run away with you. He scares me. I wouldn’t mind partying with him, but-”
A buzzer sounded.
“Yes, Mr. Moss. No, Mr. Moss. Let him wait. That man has a mean pair of eyes. What was the Hochberg woman telling you about Shayne?”
“He expects to catch up to us in Caracas. I don’t know if I’m imagining things, but I don’t think she was this tense yesterday. What a kooky bunch. I just hope Shayne-well, you have to admit that was weird in the casino last night.”
“I’ll tell you one thing about that stud. He can take care of himself.”
Shayne, in the tail cone, hoped she was right.
Presently the noise of the motors rose to an excited whine. The plane began to move. The jets cut loose and blew them into the air.
The pilot completed a long climbing turn and leveled off. The wires on both sides of Shayne moved imperceptibly, responding to small changes made in the cockpit. The only sound was that of air whispering along the fuselage.
The next time the stewardesses were both in the galley they were talking about a new passenger who had come aboard at St. Albans. Again, something out of the ordinary had happened, for passengers rarely joined a tour a day after it was underway. And this passenger, too, was anything but ordinary: a swarthy, handsome Brazilian with jumpy eyes. He had asked for a double Scotch and drunk it like medicine.
Suddenly the plane was shaken by a sharp explosion.
A glass shattered a few inches from Shayne’s head. After a long moment’s silence, he heard one of the girls whisper, “My God, Sue. What was that?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
The buzzers were clamoring. Shayne pulled the pillows out of his way. His fingertips were on the edge of the sliding panel. As far as he could tell, the plane was flying normally, with no unusual vibration. One of the passengers in the rear of the cabin called back, demanding to know what had happened.
“Better check with Lassiter,” one of the girls said in a low voice.
“Here he comes.”
Shayne got a better foothold, ready to push off. Lassiter’s voice, easygoing and unexcited: “Did you kids hear a bang?”
“Did we!”
“Now stop shaking, dear. Nothing’s wrong with the engines. Nothing shows on the instruments. We’re on full power and everything’s answering. Where did it seem to come from?”
“Right underneath, Joe. I thought it was in one of the luggage compartments.”
Lassiter considered for a moment. “I wonder if we’re getting any tail-cone vibration.”
Apparently he squatted, ready to pull the sliding panel. His next words came from that level. Shayne’s teeth came back from his lips.
“Hell with it,” Lassiter said, and stood up. “If we’ve got one of those insurance nuts who bring in time bombs in their luggage, we’d better get back to St. Albans and check it out.”
All the buzzers were sounding now. Shayne heard Lassiter’s departing footsteps.
He pulled the door open far enough to look out. The stewardesses had begun moving up the aisle, flashing professional smiles. After Lassiter passed, a man rose and followed him into the cockpit.
The plane banked. Then it rocked and began to turn back in the opposite direction. The first stewardess swung around to look at her friend.
Almost immediately a voice came over the public address. “Ladies and-”
It was Moss’s voice. It broke off abruptly, to resume again an instant later.
“Ladies and gentlemen. This is not your captain speaking. Kind of hectic up here for a minute. Everything under control. Jaime, they’ve got a stupid idea about turning back to St. Albans, so let’s us spring into action.”
Another man went to the front of the cabin. When he turned, he was seen to be wearing a grotesque monster mask.
“This is a robbery, folks,” the public address said. “We hope nobody’s going to get hurt. This airplane has been taken over by the Venezuelan Armed Forces for National Liberation.”
A delayed scream sounded from the rear of the cabin.
“I could give you a little political lecture,” Moss was saying, “but I’m afraid it wouldn’t stay with you. So we’re passing out pamphlets, one for each passenger. Read it at your leisure. My colleague at the front of the cabin is named Jaime Sanchez. He’s a professional revolutionary. The reason he’s wearing that horrible mask is so you won’t be able to describe him to the police. Some of you probably saw him when he came aboard, but you’ve forgotten what he looks like, haven’t you? I don’t want you to remember that he has a scar over his left eye, pockmarks, and a missing lower tooth in front.”
He gave a high, happy laugh, which made the loudspeaker vibrate. “I’m holding a pistol to your captain’s head, and he intends to do exactly what I tell him. If he tries any funny stuff and I have to spatter his brains over the windshield, don’t be alarmed. You may hear the gun but don’t give it a thought. I’m a qualified pilot. I’ve logged twenty thousand miles in DC-8s. And the boys up here will be glad to help me with advice and assistance, I feel sure. Jaime, get to work.”
The masked bandit at the front of the cabin called, “Money and jewelry, passports. Watches, travelers checks, credit cards. Drop in the bag.”
He shook out a canvas U.S. mail sack and offered it to the passengers in the front seats. Moss came back on the public address.
“Don’t hold out, any of you people. When you read those pamphlets, you’ll understand the reason we need money, to overthrow a corrupt and inefficient and murdering government. And don’t forget it’s deductible. You’re really making a political contribution, but this way you can tell the Internal Revenue Service you’ve been robbed. Did you follow that?”
After each passenger contributed, Jaime gave him a pamphlet. Suddenly he reached out and cuffed somebody. Dropping the sack, he pulled a woman into the aisle. She was one of the tour’s single women; Shayne had seen her with Mary Ocain. The robber held her erect and ripped her dress to the waist. She huddled her arms together.
The voice on the public address said, “I keep thinking of things to tell you. Some of you are going to think you can get away with slipping a couple of bills in your shoe. Don’t. Jaime’s a kind of fanatic. He wants your cooperation. He doesn’t want to feel he’s forcing you to contribute against your will. Now this would be a foolhardy thing to pull with just the two of us, wouldn’t it? We have friends and sympathizers scattered throughout the plane. They’re watching you. Viva the Front of National Liberation!”
Jaime had punctuated this speech with slaps and blows. Shayne snicked back the slide of the forty-five and moved the door another inch. The robber broke the straps of the woman’s bra and turned it inside out. A small ring skittered into the aisle. He pounced on it and held it up for everyone to see.
Crane Ward finally came to his feet. “You’ve made your point. Let the woman alone.”
Jaime’s mask had huge pop eyes, a bad scar or a burn, a craggy underslung jaw. Lowering his head, he caught Ward by the front of his clerical vest and yanked him around.
“Because she hide something, I give her a kick in the pants. If a man tries to hide something, I give a crack with the gun on the side of the cheek. That way everybody knows to give me all their money.”
He walked Ward back to his seat and sat him down hard. He ground his fist deliberately against Ward’s nose and laughed.
“I spit on priests.”
He spat through the mouth hole, then wrenched the half-undressed woman around and did as he had promised-gave her a powerful kick which lifted her off the floor.
“Anyone else?” he shouted. “All of you, give everything you have and I promise we will use it for guns and ammunition to overturn the Yanqui puppets.”
His sack filled rapidly. Deciding arbitrarily that one of the old men was holding out on him, he pulled him into the aisle to be searched. Finding nothing, he apologized, gave him a pamphlet and moved on.
He bowed elaborately to the two stewardesses, in the last seat in the cabin.
“Such pretty girls. Maybe you would like to join us in the mountains? We need women to cook and mend clothes and sleep with us.”
“Thanks very much,” one of the girls said drily. “We appreciate the thought, we really do.”
Reaching down, he touched her face gently. “So pretty. Keep your money.”
He continued into the galley and bawled out loudly, “Everybody straight ahead. Look around once and I promise you-”
He dropped the sack and dried his hand on his pants. Gradually he lowered the gun until it was pointing at the floor. Shayne slid the panel open, seized the bandit’s gun hand in both his own and dragged down hard.
For that first instant, he used his full strength. The hard jerk got the movement started, and then Shayne was able to apply leverage to twist the arm. He completed the pull by releasing the wrist and delivering a short, punishing blow to the unprotected skull behind the right ear. The bandit sagged to the floor.
Moss, on the public address, was denouncing American imperialism. As far as Shayne could tell, the little flurry of movement in the galley had gone unnoticed. He ripped off the rubber mask and pulled it over his own head. Freeing the mail bag, he pulled it around to cover the Brazilian’s head and shoulders. He stood up with the forty-five.
“Got everything, Jaime?” the voice on the public address said. “You must have by now. We’ll be over Aruba in a minute. Can’t you find the buzzer? I’m worrying up here. The captain’s worrying.”
Shayne found a button labeled Cockpit and pushed it quickly. But apparently the hijackers had arranged a more elaborate signal. Moss backed into view through the curtain at the end of the passageway to the cockpit. Shayne, in his monster mask, gave him the OK signal with thumb and forefinger. Moss nodded and disappeared.
Going down the aisle, Shayne tapped Ward on the shoulder. The Negro started violently. Shayne took him back to the galley. Here he pressed the Brazilian’s thirty-eight into his hand, made a quick silencing motion, and started back up the aisle.
As he was passing Mary Ocain’s seat, the plane seemed to crash into a wall. Everything not strapped down went flying, including Mary and Shayne. He landed painfully. Mary caromed off the back of the seat in front of her and ended in the aisle beside him. She had a twenty-two automatic in one fist. He clamped his big hand over it and whispered, “Cut it out. I’m Shayne.”
“Oh, God. I was going to-”
Moss’s voice called, “Nothing to worry about. Ran into a little turbulence. Jaime, let the stews take orders for drinks. The captain wants Scotch, I’m certain. I think I’ll have the same.”
Shayne picked his way along the aisle, which was littered with bags and glasses and boxes of Kleenex. He entered the cockpit.
Moss, as he had announced, was holding a gun to the back of Lassiter’s neck. The co-pilot and flight engineer, both looking pale and scared, glanced at Shayne, then turned their heads quickly.
Moss saw the reflected mask in the windshield. “It’s OK. It’s OK. No sweat. Do you know what this madman tried to do? Kick us downstairs. I saw it coming, and luckily there’s nothing wrong with my reflexes. Get back there and tell the girls to hustle up with the Scotch.”
Shayne touched the nape of Moss’s neck with the forty-five. “Drop the gun.”
Moss’s head jerked around, then held steady. “Is that you, Shayne? Where the hell did you fall from, you son of a bitch?”
Shayne said patiently. “Open your hand and let it go.”
Moss shook his head. “Too many charges against me. Don’t be in such a hurry!” he said sharply as Shayne’s hand came up to take the gun. “I’ve got a bad rap waiting in the Congo, and I’ll be damned if I go back there quietly. You’ll do me a favor by shooting me. I’ll kill Joe to make you shoot. Shoot first if you want to, I’ll get him with the twitch.”
“We’ve got a co-pilot,” Shayne said. “He can take the plane down.”
“Mike!” Lassiter protested, his hands frozen on the controls. “Listen to what you’re saying, for God’s sake.”
Moss said hurriedly, “Make a deal, Shayne. No tricks. You’ve got your airplane back. Let me parachute over the oilfields. It’s only a fifty-fifty chance, but I generally do OK at even money-Stay where you are!” he told the copilot, who had slipped out of his seat. “Whatever you do, don’t slug me. That’s a sure bullet in Joe’s head.”
“Clancy,” Lassiter said pleadingly. “We don’t want to be vindictive with this guy. Hell, it’s politics, and who cares?”
“You don’t believe that,” Moss said with a white, crooked grin. “I never heard of the National Liberation Front before yesterday.”
“Did you take that gold at LaGuardia, Moss?” Shayne said.
“Don’t talk about gold. We’re talking about life and death.”
Clancy, the co-pilot reached around Shayne and touched Moss lightly on the neck. Moss jerked away.
“What was that?” he said sharply. “What are you trying to pull? Clancy, break out a chute. Fair’s fair. Nobody lost anything. They’ll all have a good story to tell when they get back home.”
Clancy said, “I think he’s got us by the short hairs, Joe. Why don’t we let him jump? The chances are they’ll pick him up before he can get out of the country. And the big thing is, you’ll be alive.”
“Something in that,” Lassiter agreed.
All at once, Moss’s shoulders lost their tension. He lowered the gun, turned around and smiled at Shayne.
“Mike Shayne. You look great in that mask, baby. It does something for you.”
Shayne picked the gun out of his fingers. Lassiter breathed out in relief.
“You won’t give us any more trouble now, will you, Jimmy? You’re going to put your hands out for the handcuffs.”
“Absolutely,” Moss agreed. “But it was a good try. We lost a man last night, and to tell you the truth, I didn’t think we could make it with just the two.” He leaned back against the wall. “Somebody say something about a drink?”
Shayne sent the co-pilot a questioning glance.
“A tranquilizer,” Clancy explained. He showed Shayne a small disposable syringe. “When somebody went out of his head in the old days, he could break up the plane. Now you hit him with a needle and he starts agreeing with you.”
“You’re so right,” Moss said pleasantly. “Why shorten your life by fighting and hustling? Look at that.”
He waved out the window. They were flying above the cloud deck, and the fleecy cumulus beneath them was piled up in fantastic storybook formations. They passed a break in the clouds and saw the sea far below.
“Lovely,” Moss said. “But after the first couple of years in the business, we never look at it, do we, Joe?”