Assassin

Chapter Fifty-Two

Flight 00

JOHNNY ADARE STARED AT THE MAN CALLED POISON IVY IN amazement. They were toe-to-toe in the sitting room aboard the Pasha’s 747-400, special edition. The little cretin I.V. Soong was standing before him waving a wad of U.S. dollars in his face. One hundred thousand of them, to be exact. First the guy says he wants to test the aircraft’s emergency oxygen system, and then asks, by the way, is the cockpit sealed? Adare immediately grabbed the intercom phone to call Khalid up in the cockpit.

Johnny had started to punch in the cockpit code, but the wiry little fellow grabbed his wrist.

“No!” Soong shouted. “Put it down. You will ruin everything. Just listen for one moment. If you don’t like what you hear, then call the cockpit. Okay? Please!”

That’s when he opened up the smaller of the two shiny black suitcases he’d stowed under the Pasha’s fancy leather sofa. The big one, now empty, had held all the replacement oxygen canisters. This smaller one was full of cash. Johnny eyeballed it carefully. If each wad was U.S. fifty grand, there had to be a million quid in there. A little less than one and a half million dollars. Just the bloody sight of so much cash in one place was enough to make Johnny quietly replace the receiver.

The sun came out on Dr. Soong’s face once more.

“Let’s have a drink, shall we?” Soong said. “Another whiskey? I may join you. My nerves, you see. Rough flight. Shaky.”

Johnny collapsed into the big leather armchair the Pasha used when he was on the phone. Soong went to the bar and poured them each a tumbler of Jameson’s. He handed one to Johnny, took a healthy swig of his own, and sat carefully on the edge of the sofa.

“Good, good,” he exclaimed in his high-pitched voice. “A toast! To your new life as a rich man, Captain Adare.”

“Tell me what’s in the canisters, Doc.”

“It is an—experiment—I am conducting, sir. A test.”

“I ain’t a fucking test pilot, Doc. And I don’t do fucking experiments. Eight miles up, anyway.”

“Ah! Is a good one! No, you don’t have to do anything. You know about what you were originally supposed to be carrying aboard this plane? Something called a Pigskin?”

“Got a rough idea. I don’t want to know.”

“There was a problem with them. Very unstable. Be glad I did not allow them to be loaded on your airplane, believe me, Johnny. Very lucky. My god.”

“I’m a lucky man,” Adare said, deciding to let the “Johnny” pass for now. “What’s in the bloody canisters?”

“I am coming to this. Please. How much is the Pasha paying you for this trip?”

“Two hundred fifty grand. Free and clear.”

“Tsk-tsk. So unfair.”

“What?”

“Khalid is getting one million.”

“What? You’re bloody lying!”

“Shh! Calm yourself, Johnny. It’s not a problem.”

“The bastard’s getting a million?” Johnny said, swallowing his whiskey. “But he tells me he’s getting a quarter of that. Son of a bitch! Ten years we’re flying together and our last job for that fat bastard bin Wazir, he thinks he can screw me over?”

“Grossly unjust! This is why I picked you, Johnny. To have this little chat back here. I pretended fear back in the cockpit so Khalid would not suspect. See?”

“Yeah? Keep talking. So this—experiment—why not just tell Khalid about it? Why pick me?”

“Because I know Khalid’s reputation. By the book. Always by the book. Veddy, veddy British. So that’s why I asked for a private word with you. You are a most reasonable and intelligent man with whom I can do business.”

“And if I said no?”

“I did my research, Johnny. A wife. A sick daughter. No pension. So. A million dollars cash? You saying no never occurred to me. You ask what is in my canisters, I will tell you. It is like I said, an experiment. I am trying out a new drug.”

“A drug.”

“Yes,” Soong said, lying smoothly, and unceasingly amazed at the easy dexterity of his mind. “A mind-control substance. A hypnotic. It will enable me to have the power of autosuggestion over the subjects of my experiment. I am just trying it out. Bin Wazir has generously allowed me to conduct this test on your airplane to America.”

“Mind control, eh? Autosuggestion? Christ. I could see the possibilities in that.”

“Yes, yes! Very exciting. I know what you mean! Of course, what the Pasha has in mind for these young women is something much more—serious.”

Adare went to the bar and returned with the half-full liter of whiskey. He refilled both their glasses—visions of an army of beautiful zombies wandering around America blowing up nuclear power stations—splashing some on the table. He was staring at the contents of the opened suitcase.

“A million dollars. You’re serious?”

“All yours. Count it out for yourself. I trust you.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” Adare said, kneeling beside the opened suitcase. “What do I have to do, Doc?”

“Very simple, Johnny. We return now to the cockpit. All you say about our conversation is that there is no problem. Much ado about nothing. The stupid little airsick wog, whatever. At some point, certainly in the next hour or so, Khalid will need to leave the cockpit to relieve himself. When he does, you and I put our cockpit masks on. Then you seal the cockpit and activate the emergency oxygen in the main cabin. The masks all drop down. Go on the intercom and say there has been a sudden loss of cabin pressure. Inform everyone to stay calm, fit the masks over their faces, and breathe normally.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“What about Khalid? Comes out of the head and sees all those goddamn masks hanging down? He’ll fucking kill me.”

“Khalid? He is no problem, Johnny, trust me. I have planned this operation in great detail. Yes, I had a little last-minute problem with the end product to be delivered but it’s nothing you cannot handle. You are my man. So simple. We have our scheduled rendezvous over the Pacific and—boom—and Johnny lands in L.A. and Johnny walks away with one million dollars.”

Johnny let out a long, low whistle. A bloody millionaire. He could see it, the whole thing. He’d never take any more crap from bin Wazir, his ex-buddy Khalid, anybody. He could even see himself walking away with a lot more than a million. There was almost two million in Soong’s black case. What was he going to do if Johnny just picked it up and walked off the plane? Call the cops? He’d be checking into the Beverly Hills Hotel tonight, not that cheesy dump on La Cienega!

He looked at his new best friend Soong and grinned, already tasting his first martinis in the Polo Lounge.

“Locked up with four hundred women on autopilot?” he said. “I’m not sure I wouldn’t want to trade places with Khalid.”

Poison Ivy laughed so hard Johnny thought he was going to pee in his britches. He stood up and polished off the Jameson’s remaining in his glass. There was an old overnight bag of the Pasha’s in the head. Vintage Louis Vuitton, cost more than his current salary. He retrieved it and stuffed it with the money, throwing in a couple of extra wads, what the hell. It was all his now anyway.

Flight 77

Cherry scootched her knees over so the hottie-tottie could climb over her and slide his cute little bootie into his seat by the window.

Whatever was so “urgent” had taken old Brown Eyes over half an hour. She’d started to wonder if he’d gotten sucked down the toilet. Laugh. She’d heard it happened to pets and babies all the time. Oops! Sorry, Junior! Bombs away! Anyway, her philosophy on the whole airplane bathroom issue could be explained in three little letters. NPR. No. Public. Restrooms. Except in extreme situations, thank you very much.

They had finally started the movie, which was good. Clueless, one of her all-time faves. Leave it to British Airways to show a zillion-year-old movie that everyone on the entire planet had seen a thousand times. Everybody had lowered their shades and the lights were down. She’d been kinda half-watching, half-listening to her headphones (like she didn’t know this whole movie by heart) and half-hoping the brown-eyed wonder would be just a teensie bit—friendlier—now that he was back from doing his, you’ll pardon the expression, business.

Dream on, Cherry.

“Hi. Everything come out okay?” Omigod, had she really said that? Didn’t matter. He hadn’t even heard her. You could talk to a tree or a dog and have a far more interesting conversation.

“Hello? Anybody home?”

Nada.

“I said, hi. Whassup?”

Didn’t even look at her. Hey, don’t wanna talk, that’s cool. He had his cheeseball Taiwanese shaving kit perched on his knees. She thought the MP3 player was coming out again and the earphones, but, uh-uh, he just sat there staring straight ahead holding his stupid dopp kit with both hands.

“Hey. You. Foreign person. What ya got in there? A bomb?”

Nothing. What a nutball.

Staring into space. Like she didn’t even exist. Asshole. After a while she just spaced. He was talking now; not to her but to himself. Whispering like, repeating something she couldn’t hear over and over. She put her seat all the way back and scrunched the crappy cardboard pillow into a little ball under her head.

She must have zonked out because when she opened her eyes, Clueless was over, and they were now showing an old episode of Friends. Gameboy, right in front of her, was now standing up in his seat, facing her, smiling, with his thumb in his mouth. Cute kid, actually. Curly blond bangs on his forehead, big blue eyes. Sparkly. She was sorry she’d kicked his seatback earlier. Larry of Arabia by the window was still at it, whispering to himself. Only now he’d put his shade up and was staring out at something. Like there was really something to see up here. Like, how do you say ‘lame’ in your language?

What the hell was he looking for? That hole in the ozone maybe.

“You are so whack,” she said to his back and then she floated back to la-la land and dreamed of her sweet boo baby back in deepest darkest Connecticut.

Hey, she thought just before she fell asleep, what if she was pregnant? Would that be so bad? Maybe she’d have a kid cute as Gameboy.