The Commander chuckled easily along with the rest of the flight staff, then returned once more to business, asking Sergeant Wynanski if he was all fixed for provisions. Wynanski replied that he had been furnished by the White House with a list of the ministers’ dietary requirements, which he had augmented through discreet inquiries at the hotel and at the palace. He still had to pick up a few items from the markets in Manama.
‘Good work, Sergeant,’ Fairman commended him, ‘you have about an hour. That applies to everyone. I’ll want cabin personnel aboard by 1600 hours. Flying crew to Ops by 1650. You’ll find minibuses outside this hotel half an hour before reporting times. Roll-out’s at 1805.’
Wynanski and his staff and most of the flying crew drifted away; Fairman stayed to take Sabrina on one side. As a new crew member, she got the Commander’s introduction to Air Force One at full strength on the patriotism scale. Fairman also impressed her with the importance of their current assignment.
‘This isn’t going to be just a milk run,’ the Colonel said gravely. ‘We’re using Air Force One mainly because our own Energy Secretary, Mr Hemmingsway, will be on board – but let me assure you that we do wish to impress the OPEC ministers; we want to make them feel good. I need hardly tell you, if you’ve been keeping up with the news, that if they don’t come in with us on this oil deal, then they’re likely to cut back production so far that we’ll be riding bicycles and reading by candlelight back in the States for years to come. Nothing, but nothing, must go wrong on this trip, Carver; so – be alert, polite and efficient at all times. A good stewardess can make the world of difference to a military flight. Chief Steward Wynanski’s something of a martinet, but I guess you’ll have him eating out of your hand in no time, just like the rest of us.’
Sabrina felt herself going hot and was framing a suitably tart reply when Fairman held up a warning hand. ‘Just teasing, honey, just teasing,’ he assured her.
‘So was Major Latimer, sir,’ she replied sweetly, ‘and, as I recall, you hauled out his ass for it.’
Fairman regarded her appraisingly, and grinned. ‘Somehow I don’t think you really need any advice from me, Carver,’ he said.
Axel Karilian paced the floor of his Geneva apartment and bayed into the telephone. ‘It is important – vital – that Jagger contacts me here as soon as possible,’ he roared. ‘Do you understand that, Stein?’ Karilian sneaked a sideways glance at the menacingly imperturbable Myshkin, lounging on a sofa nursing a generous Chivas Regal.
‘It’s not long to zero-hour there,’ Stein protested. ‘For God’s sake, Axel, Jagger will be very busy, with Smith and Dunkels breathing down his neck the whole time. It’ll be very difficult to contact him.’
‘You must!’ Karilian insisted. ‘There has to be a way.’
Modesty, a strong suit with Doctor Stein, veiled the slyness with which the little Swiss produced his trump card, mostly for the benefit of Myshkin, whom he correctly guessed was in Karilian’s apartment. ‘Of course,’ Stein said smoothly, ‘Jagger can
be contacted discreetly. I have, as it were, an open channel to him.’
‘Then use it! Jagger must call. There are new instructions to be passed to him, which alter the entire picture of the operation. Hot from Moscow, Stein – and they have to be obeyed. Get on with it.’ He banged the telephone down and was uncomfortably aware of Myshkin’s gaze, directed at him through barely-raised eyelids.
It took Jagger half an hour from receiving Stein’s message before he could elude Dunkels for long enough to make a telephone call. The ringer’s blood chilled when the cold, precise voice of Myshkin talked to him first in Russian and then repeated his orders in English to establish absolute clarity.
‘As I understand it, Jagger,’ Myshkin said, ‘Mister Smith’s plan is to – ah – interfere, shall we say, with the operation of Air Force One sufficiently to enable him to make a financial gain from the situation in which the OPEC ministers will consequently be placed. I do not wish to go into further detail on an open line.’
Jagger confirmed the details. Karilian nervously pressed together the damp palms of his hands, and Myshkin continued, ‘Up to a point that is still satisfactory, but we feel that greater advantage can be gained by us if the affair concludes in a more – ah – drastic way. Do you follow me?’
‘I – I don’t, I’m afraid,’ Jagger replied uncertainly.
Myshkin gave an exasperated grunt. ‘I can see I shall have to be more specific,’ he said caustically.
‘It is of crucial importance to us, Jagger, that America comes badly out of this episode – as badly as can possibly be imagined. And there is surely one way to persuade the OPEC states not merely to refuse to sign the oil accord, but actually to sever relations of any kind with the United States.’ Both sides of the conversation were in English now; Myshkin had to make absolutely sure that Jagger understood him.
The ringer gasped in disbelief. ‘You can’t mean – you can’t—’
‘But I do,’ Myshkin said. ‘That is precisely what I mean. You will kill the OPEC ministers, and the surviving crew members of Air Force One. You may leave us to deal with the genuine McCafferty.
‘How you do it, Jagger, is your business. But do not fail me. Whatever happens, do not fail. Even if you are the only person alive on Air Force One when it is finished, that will be acceptable. But you must accomplish this task.’
Jagger put down the receiver in his Bahrain hotel and took the elevator to the ground floor. As he stepped on to the ground floor, Dunkels hurried forward and grabbed his arm.
‘Get into uniform,’ the German snapped brusquely. ‘We leave in five minutes. Achmed’s reported that the pigeon is sitting up begging to be plucked.’
McCafferty and Bert Cooligan came down the steps of Air Force One to meet the advancing posse of uniformed senior Bahraini policemen, all armed to their splendidly white teeth. McCafferty stopped and scuffed one of his shoes over a mark on the hardstand. Cooligan grinned. ‘That is not, sir,’ he whispered, ‘a crack, and even if it were, it’s not on the runway.’
Mac then met the police – who had tactfully placed themselves under his orders – and handed them copies of the security schedule. After their brief exchange, he and Cooligan walked on to the terminal building, where an Arab toyed with the strap of his binoculars case and decided to visit the men’s room. McCafferty looked up at the roof of the terminal, and saw three machine-gunners placed strategically along the parapet.
‘Check those guys out, Bert,’ he murmured. ‘Make sure they know that they’re to fire indiscriminately at any, and I mean any, unauthorised person getting within fifty yards of the Air Force One steps. Give ’em copies of the programme, too; I don’t want to be shot when I lead in the convoy. I’m going back to the hotel. I need a shower and a drink and another chat with Hemmingsway before we get the motorcade under way. OK?’
Cooligan said ‘Ciao,’ and Mac went through the terminal out into the street, in the wake of a tall, well-groomed young Arab in a Savile Row suit, who had a leather binoculars case swinging from his shoulder.
Mac carefully surveyed the front of the airport, where the police detachments were manoeuvring into their positions, and so missed the barely perceptible signal which the Arab, known as Achmed Fayeed, made to a cab-driver who was separated from the main gossiping bunch at the head of the taxi rank. The driver, who had