No Fear
by Philip J. Lees
I had the card ready, and as soon as the opportunity presented itself I walked up to the obvious man in charge, keeping my hands by my sides and endeavoring to look as relaxed and non-threatening as possible. The man glared at me, but before he could say anything I held the card up in front of his face.
I could tell he didn’t like it. He left the silenced plastic assault pistol to dangle on its strap under his arm while he took the card and peered at it close up, flexed it between his fingers, turned it over as if something on the back might reveal it as a fake.
“Scan it,” I said. “You’ll see it’s genuine and up to date.”
He scowled, but I knew he must have a scanner on his person—he and all his men should have one apiece, that was the rule—and he knew that I knew, and so on.
The scowl suited him and I guessed it was the expression he had practiced most, as my own was the one of bland good will I wore at that moment. He had swarthy features, with cheeks pocked by old acne scars, dark hair, a thin beard and a mustache. His nose was broad for an Arab and had been broken at least once some time in the past. Incongruously, there was a faint scent of aftershave about him, or perhaps cologne.
He pulled the scanner from an inside pocket, slipped the card into the slot and waited for the readout. The scanner appeared to be nothing more than a mobile phone manufactured by my company. The secondary function of this model was not something we advertised.
“I have my wife with me,” I said. “You understand?”
He looked over my shoulder to where Sharon was sitting waiting for me, her hands writhing in her lap like baby kittens. Sharon was my executive secretary, not my wife, but there was no need for him to know that and the card only covered family members. In any case, Sharon’s duties, by our mutual agreement, extended to some of those services usually provided by a spouse.
There was a small beep and the card popped out. His men must have been on edge because the nearest one half turned at the sound, bringing his weapon up until the leader gestured impatiently, returning him to his station. The other man’s gun was an older model, but I recognized both—they were made by one of our subsidiaries.
Judging from the people waiting in the gate area the flight would be less than half full. Most of them were business passengers like me, dressed the same way I was. Ranks of gray and tan suits; a battalion of barterers. The too-bright fluorescent light bleached the flesh of their hands and faces and emphasized skin blemishes. Some were nervous and perspiring; some seemed stunned, others indifferent. There were maybe half a dozen couples aged from their twenties to fifties, as near as I could estimate. One young couple had a small child, who was asleep in her father’s lap, and a baby, which was crying, muffled by its mother’s terrified embrace. The father was glowering at me as if he knew what I was doing, but that was impossible. Nobody outside the upper echelons of my company knew about the cards. Except for the terrorists, of course.
The leader still wasn’t happy and he processed my card a second time as I repressed a sigh. I wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible. The card was valid, though anonymous. Possession of it was identification enough. He returned it to me and I slipped it into my coat pocket.
The two flight attendants, one pretty and blonde, the other dark, with too much eye makeup, were sitting behind a high desk by the exit to the plane. Their hands were on top of the desk and two terrorists held guns to their heads. Both women’s hands were trembling, whether from fear or from having to keep them in that unnaturally high position I couldn’t be sure.
The Arab led me over towards them and one of his men followed. I didn’t know why the terrorists had taken control while we were still waiting in the gate. Was it their plan all along, or had something gone awry and forced them to act prematurely? Nor did I know why we were waiting here instead of proceeding onto the plane directly. Perhaps they were waiting for the refueling to be completed, so they could take off as soon as everyone was on board. In this glass-enclosed space, with plenty of hostages, they were safe from attack since nobody could get close without being seen. Whatever the reason, I was glad it had happened here and not in the confines of the aircraft. It made it much easier for me to remove myself and Sharon from the situation.
When we passed the place I had been sitting I stopped. The man behind me gave me a shove and I turned to look him in the face, then from him to his commander. The terrorist leader’s scowl intensified, but he jerked his head angrily and the other man backed off.
I took Sharon’s hand and helped her to her feet. With the other hand I pointed to the two wheeled Samsonite bags.
“I have valuable business samples in there,” I said.
The leader stared at me and for the first time I thought he might kill me anyway, despite the card, despite what we both knew would happen to him and to every member of his family if he violated the contract.
Then he said something in Arabic, I supposed, a hawk and spit phrase that made the man behind me stiffen in resistance before he shouldered his weapon and picked up the cases. Sharon put her arm through mine and I could feel her tension in the way she pressed against me as we followed the leader across the room. It was unusual for Sharon to initiate physical contact. Even when providing those occasional intimate services she maintained an aloofness, a reticence; the reluctance I sensed in her added to my own pleasure. Now, with her so close, her aroma aroused me and I hoped she would be appropriately grateful once we were safely away from this and alone, in private.
“You,” the leader said to the blonde flight attendant in heavily accented English. “Let these people out. That way. Then lock the door again immediately. Anything else and you die. You both die. Understand?”
The dark woman’s eye shadow was running and she was blinking rapidly, but she and the blonde both nodded without speaking. The blonde reached into her pocket, very slowly, and took out a bunch of about a dozen keys. She stood up as if moving under water. Her dark colleague remained seated. Streaks of mascara now lined her cheeks.
Behind and to one side of the desk a locked exit led to the boarding passage, which bent in an elbow before connecting to the plane. Anyone trying to get to the aircraft from outside would be clearly visible from in here. On the other side of the desk was a glass door marked “Staff Only” with a lock at floor level. The blonde fumbled through the keys, bent down and unlocked it.
Now there were four guns trained on the flight attendants and none on me or Sharon, I was pleased to see. I took our bags by the handles.
“Thank you,” I said. I let Sharon go first and I followed, wheeling both bags behind me. I heard the click as the door was relocked and for the first time I breathed fully in and out.
From some sense of dignity I resisted the urge to walk quickly, so that Sharon was a few paces ahead of me when she went through the double doors at the end of the corridor. The doors swung closed behind her, then opened again as I pushed through them. As soon as I was through I was grabbed and twisted against the wall, my hands forced high behind my back. Something cold and hard was pressed against the back of my neck, to the left of my spine and aimed upwards. I tried to relax. I was prepared for this, too. The company provided a different model of scanner for issue to the military and security forces.
“My left pocket,” I said, keeping my voice even, my face neutral. “There’s a card inside.”
But there wasn’t. The commando who pulled me around to face him kept his eyes on me and his weapon aimed at my throat while his comrade extracted my wallet and leafed through its contents. His eyes were steel blue under the purple beret.
“Nothing here,” the other soldier said.
“What about the woman?” the first soldier asked, without taking his eyes from mine.
“Her card verifies OK.”
Her card? Who were they talking about? Sharon was a few yards away from me, straightening her coat and looking at the floor. She took the card another soldier handed back to her and tucked it into her purse. She snapped the clasp shut, tilted her head back and shook it slowly, letting her red hair settle back into its customary smooth, shoulder-length drape.
“This man, is he a relative of yours?” my soldier asked her.
“No.” Sharon said. “He’s nobody important.” She looked at me and shrugged, but I could see the hatred in her eyes.
“Goodbye,” she said. Then she turned and walked away.
- End -
© Copyright Philip J. Lees 2006