Airport

Slowly, Bunnie nodded. “Yes.”

“Describe him, please.”

She did so, haltingly at first, then with more confidence.

While the others listened, a picture of D. O. Guerrero emerged: gaunt and spindly; a pale, sallow face with protruding jaw; long scrawny neck; thin lips; a small sandy mustache; nervous hands with restless fingers. When she got down to it, Bunnie Vorobioff proved herself a keen observer.

The D.T.M., now seated at Mel’s desk, wrote the description, incorporating it with a message for Flight Two which he was drafting.

When Bunnie came to the part about D. O. Guerrero barely having enough money — and no Italian money; the man’s nervous tension, the fumbling with dimes and pennies; his excitement on discovering a five-dollar bill in an inside pocket, the D.T.M. looked up with a mixture of disgust and horror.“My God! And you still issued a policy. Are you people mad ?”

“I thought …” Bunnie started to say.

“You thought! But you didn’t do anything, did you?”

Her face drained and white, Bunnie Vorobioff shook her head.

Mel reminded the D.T.M., “Bert, we’re wasting time.”

“I know, I know! Just the same …” The D.T.M. clenched the pencil he had been using. He muttered, “It isn’t just her , or even the people who employ her. It’s us —the airlines; we’re as much to blame. We agree with the pilots about airport flight insurance, but haven’t the guts to say so. We let them do our dirty work …”

Mel said tersely to Customs Inspector Standish, “Harry, is there anything you’d add to the description of Guerrero?”

“No,” Standish said. “I wasn’t as near to him as this young lady, and she saw some things I didn’t. But I did watch the way he held the case, as you know, and I’d say this: If what you think is in there really is, don’t anyone try to grab that case away from him.”

“So what do you suggest?”

The Customs man shook his head. “I’m no expert, so I can’t tell you; except, I guess you’d have to get it by some kind of trickery. But if it’s a bomb, it has to be self-contained in the case, and that means somewhere there’s a trigger, and the chances are it’ll be the kind of trigger he can get to quickly. He’s possessive about the case now. If someone tried to take it away, he’d figure he was found out and had nothing to lose.” Standish added grimly, “A trigger finger can get mighty itchy.”

“Of course,” Mel said, “we still don’t know if the man’s an ordinary eccentric, and all he’s got in there are his pajamas.”

“If you’re asking my opinion,” the Customs inspector said, “I don’t think so. I wish I did, because I’ve got a niece on that flight.”

Standish had been conjecturing unhappily: If anything went wrong, how in God’s name would he break the news to his sister in Denver? He remembered his last sight of Judy: that sweet young girl, playing with the baby from the next seat. She had kissed him.Goodbye, Uncle Harry! Now, he wished desperately that he had been more definite, had acted more responsibly, about the man with the attache case.

Well, Standish thought, though it might be late, at least he would be definite now.

“I’d like to say something else.” The eyes of the others swung to him.

“I have to tell you this because we haven’t time to waste on modesty: I’m a good judge of people, mostly on first sight, and usually I can smell the bad ones. It’s an instinct, and don’t ask me how it works because I couldn’t tell you, except that in my job some of us get to be that way. I spotted that man tonight, and I said he was ‘suspicious’; I used that word because I was thinking of smuggling, which is the way I’m trained. Now, knowing what we do — even little as it is — I’d make it stronger. The man Guerrero is dangerous.” Standish eyed the Trans America D.T.M. “Mr. Weatherby — get that word ‘dangerous’ across to your people in the air.”

“I intend to, Inspector.” The D.T.M. looked up from his writing. Most of what Standish had been saying was already included in the message for the Flight Two.

Tanya, still on the telephone, was talking with Trans America’s New York dispatcher by tie line. “Yes, it will be a long message. Will you put someone on to copy, please?”

A sharp knock sounded on the office door and a tall man with a seamed, weatherworn face and sharp blue eyes came in from the anteroom. He carried a heavy topcoat and wore a blue serge suit which might have been a uniform, but wasn’t. The newcomer nodded to Mel, but before either could speak, the D.T.M. cut in.

“Royce, thanks for coming quickly. We seem to have some trouble.” He held out the notepad on which he had been writing.

Captain Kettering, the base chief pilot for Trans America, read the draft message carefully, his only reaction a tightening at the mouth as his eyes moved down the page. Like many others, including the D.T.M., it was unusual for the chief pilot to be at the airport this late at night. But exigencies of the three-day storm, with the need for frequent operating decisions, had kept him here.

The second telephone rang, cutting through the temporary silence. Mel answered it, then motioned to Ned Ordway who took the receiver.

Captain Kettering finished reading. The D.T.M. asked, “Do you agree to sending that? We’ve dispatch standing by with a Selcal hook-up.”

Kettering nodded. “Yes, but I’d like you to add: ‘ Suggest return or alternate landing at captain’s discretion,’ and have the dispatcher give them the latest weather.”

“Of course.” The D.T.M. penciled in the extra words, then passed the pad to Tanya. She began dictating the message.

Captain Kettering glanced at the others in the room. “Is that everything we know?”

“Yes,” Mel said. “It is, so far.”

“We may know more soon,” Lieutenant Ordway said. He had returned from the telephone. “We just found Guerrero’s wife.”

The message from D.T.M. Lincoln International was addressed,CAPTAIN ,TRANS AMERICA FLIGHT TWO , and began:

UNCONFIRMED POSSIBILITY EXISTS THAT MALE TOURIST PASSENGER D.O. GUERRERO ABOARD YOUR FLIGHT MAY HAVE EXPLOSIVE DEVICE IN HIS POSSESSION. PASSENGER WITH NO LUGGAGE AND APPARENTLY WITHOUT FUNDS INSURED SELF HEAVILY BEFORE DEPARTURE. WAS OBSERVED BEHAVING SUSPICIOUSLY WITH ATTACHE TYPE BRIEFCASE CARRIED AS HAND BAGGAGE. DESCRIPTION FOLLOWS …

As the D.T.M. had foreseen, it took several minutes for a connection to be established, through company radio, with Flight Two. Since the earlier Selcal message to the flight, concerning its stowaway Mrs. Ada Quonsett, the aircraft had moved out of Trans America’s Cleveland dispatch area into that of New York. Now, company messages must be passed through a New York dispatcher for relaying to the flight.

The message, as Tanya dictated it, was being typed by a girl clerk in New York. Alongside the clerk a Trans America dispatcher read the first few lines, then reached for a direct phone to an operator at ARINC — a private communications network maintained cooperatively by all major airlines.

The ARINC operator — at another location in New York — set up a second circuit between himself and Trans America dispatch, then punched into a transmitter keyboard a four-letter code, AGFG, specifically assigned to aircraft N-731-TA. Once more, like a telephone call to a single number on a party line, an alerting signal would be received aboard Flight Two only.

A few moments later the voice of Captain Vernon Demerest, responding from high above Ontario, Canada, was audible in New York. “This is Trans America Two answering Selcal.”

“Trans America Two, this is New York dispatch. We have an important message. Advise when ready to copy.”

A brief pause, then Demerest again. “Okay, New York. Go ahead.”

“CAPTAIN, FLIGHTTWO,” the dispatcher began. “UNCONFIRMED POSSIBILITY EXISTS …”

Inez had still been sitting quietly, in her corner near the food counter, when she felt her shoulder shaken.