on his left and in a few seconds responded. “We are one hundred seven kilometers south-southeast and twelve kilometers above.”
Kilzer relayed the information, and Riegel said, “We have a change in plans. I need you to land there as soon as possible.”
Kilzer felt the sting of sweat on the back of his neck. He did not feel good about disappointing the chief of security ops. “I am sorry, sir, that is not possible. We haven’t filed a flight plan for Hungary. We will have serious problems with immigration and security.”
“Don’t tell me what is possible. Put the airplane on the ground, distribute to the Indonesians their gear, and then get out of there.”
Captain Kilzer did not back down immediately. “How are we supposed to get out of there? We’ll be thrown in jail if we land without authorization, if we—”
“Declare an emergency. Surely you can find a reason to land the plane wherever you want. If you get detained for questioning, I’ll pay your way out. We can smooth things over with the Hungarians after the fact. That’s not your concern. Just make sure the Indonesians are off the plane before you taxi to the tarmac.”
“There is too much security at Budapest Ferihegy. They will surround the aircraft, and we will—”
“Then don’t land there. Find a little regional airport nearby, land the plane, and let loose the men in the back. Do I make myself clear?”
The captain frantically flipped through pages on his multifunction display. He scrolled through electronic charts of all the region’s airports.
“Tokol is forty minutes’ driving time from the city center. Its runway is long enough.”
“Too far! I need the Indonesians in the city center in under an hour!”
Kilzer kept looking. “There is Budaors. It is half the drive time, but the runway is not paved, and it is too short.”
“How short?”
“This aircraft with this load requires one thousand meters on a paved runway in perfect conditons. Budaors is one thousand meters exactly, but there is heavy rain and, as I said, it is unpaved. It will be like mud!”
“Then you should have no problems slowing down before you run out of runway. Land the plane!”
“You are demanding a crash landing, sir! It will be very unsafe.”
“If you want to be safe from me, Captain, you will land that plane in Budaors. Am I clear?”
Kilzer gritted his teeth.
Riegel said, “I’ll have a coach and a driver there to pick them up.”
“Sir, I need to stress again, this will create an incident.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“Roger, sir.”
Kilzer disconnected the call. He squeezed his hands on his control column in frustration.
The copilot asked, “What’s going on?”
“Apparently, Lee, you and I are about to help Indonesia invade Hungary.”
The first officer turned white. “Riegel is an asshole.”
FOURTEEN
For the next hour, Laszlo Szabo used his computer every fifteen minutes to check the numbered Swiss account he’d given Fitzroy. Between his frequent log-ons he packed a suitcase full of essential items for a permanent road trip, called a local car service, and ordered a limo to wait out front at four thirty, destination the Budapest Ferihegy airport. He bought a ticket to Moscow, first-class, and then called an acquaintance in the Russian capital to arrange pickup from the airport there.
Even with all this activity, he still limped over to the riser and looked down through the glass every now and then to check on his prize. The Gray Man sat shirtless on the mattresses in the cold pit, his back against the slimy wall and his eyes fixed ahead.
Laszlo thought nothing about leaving the young man to die; thought nothing of taking a half million euros from Sir Donald the Fat and then reneging on the deal; thought nothing of the ridiculous assertion that the lives of some poor, pitiful schoolgirls hung in the balance of his quickly orchestrated scheme. He’d not been born a sociopath, but he’d learned his way, executed the tenets of the disorder as precisely and with the same attention to detail as he counterfeited passports.
It was no lie when he said it was the Russians who’d removed his soul. He’d lived so long as an informer, had worked with local resistance to help dissidents escape out of the country, and then passed on to the Soviets their routes to the West. He’d played both sides in so many games over so many years that, to Laszlo, there remained no longer any right and wrong, only paths to his own benefit and obstacles to negotiate.
At the one-hour mark, he checked his account. The money had not yet been wired. He called Fitzroy to learn there had been a delay at his bank. He needed just a few more minutes; the funds were en route. Laszlo smelled a rat, swore he would go put a few bullets into the Gray Man’s head himself if the money didn’t come soon, then conversely warned Sir Donald that the CIA would bleed every detail of Cheltenham Security Service’s real operation out of its top killer, and Fitzroy’s own head would be on the chopping block within a day or two of Szabo handing over the man in his pit to the Americans.
Finally, Laszlo granted fifteen minutes more to the convincing Englishman, checked on his prisoner in the hole, and then phoned the driver waiting outside and told him he’d be delayed but to keep the engine running.
Szabo had been cutting it close all his life. If the CIA killers arrived before he left, he’d likely be killed. If they did not, he’d have his new start in Russia.
Captain Bernard Kilzer turned his head slowly to First Officer Lee. The action made the perspiration on his forehead run into his eyes. Lee looked back to his captain and blinked his own sweat away.
Both men’s faces were chalk white.
The Bombardier Challenger stood still in the mud. Out the windscreen both pilots could see only grass and fence obscured by a heavy rain shower. They had used every centimeter of the runway given them, then an additional eighty meters of soggy open field. There was no more.
Kilzer’s heart pounded, and his blood boiled. Riegel had forced them into this situation, a situation that had come within three seconds’ flying time of ending very, very badly, and even though it had not terminated in a ball of fire and an insurance payout to his wife, the German captain had every expectation he would be spending some time as a guest of the Hungarian penal system.
Still, they had survived. This aircraft had been equipped with anti-skid carbon brakes and a “Gravel Kit,” deflectors placed around the tricycle gear to keep runway debris from destroying the plane upon landing. Still, Kilzer and Lee both knew their rented Challenger would not be flying out of Hungary under its own power. The gear and engines were surely damaged, and it would take some serious towing equipment to pull this twenty-million-dollar aircraft out of the sucking mud pit where it now sat.
After a few more seconds to recover from the stress and fatigue of the landing, Kilzer shut down all systems, standard procedure for a fire on board. Now the only sound was the pelting rain against the aircraft’s skin and windows.
In his mayday message to Budaors Airport’s control tower, he’d claimed he smelled smoke in the cockpit. Had he more time to come up with something, no doubt he and Lee could have conceived a ruse that would have been more verifiable. But from the time he’d gotten the call from Riegel to this moment, only thirty-five minutes had passed; in the interim, his wits were fully occupied as he dropped his jet from four hundred knots and seven miles in the air to a standstill beyond the far edge of a rain-soaked, too-short, unpaved runway at an unfamiliar airport.
He’d done damn well, and he knew it. He even thought, in the moment of buoyant optimism that came from
