Airport

“No, because we know all about you. You’ve got quite a record, Mrs. Quonsett.”

More passengers were watching and listening now; one or two had left their seats to move closer. Their expressions were sympathetic for the old lady, critical of Gwen. The man in the aisle seat, who had been talking with Mrs. Quonsett when Gwen arrived, shifted uncomfortably. “If there’s some misunderstanding, perhaps I can help …”

“There’s no misunderstanding,” Gwen said. “Are you traveling with this lady?”

“No.”

“Then there’s nothing you need concern yourself about, sir.”

So far, Gwen had not let herself look directly at the man seated farthest away, by the window, whom she knew to be Guerrero. Nor had he looked at her, though she could tell by the inclination of his head that he was listening intently to everything that was being said. Also without being obvious, she observed that he was still clasping the small attache case on his knees. At the thought of what the case might contain she experienced a sudden, icy fear. She felt herself tremble, with a premonition of something terrible to come. She wanted to run, return to the flight deck and tell Vernon to handle this himself. But she didn’t, and the moment of weakness passed.

“I said we know all about you, and we do,” Gwen assured Mrs. Quonsett. “You were caught earlier today as a stowaway on one of our flights from Los Angeles. You were placed in custody, but you managed to slip away. Then, by lying, you got aboard this flight.”

The little old lady from San Diego said brightly, “If you know so much, or think you do, it won’t do any good arguing about it.” Well, she decided, it was no good worrying now. After all, she had expected to get caught; at least she hadn’t been until after she’d had an adventure and a good dinner. Besides, what did it matter? As the redheaded woman back at Lincoln admitted, airlines never prosecuted stowaways.

She was curious, though, about what came next. “Are we going to turn back?”

“You’re not that important. When we land in Italy you’ll be handed over to the authorities.” Vernon Demerest had warned Gwen to let it be thought that Flight Two was proceeding on to Rome, certainly not to admit that they were already turned around and heading back. He also impressed on her that she must be rough with the old lady, which Gwen had not enjoyed. But it was necessary to make an impression on the passenger Guerrero, to carry out Demerest’s next step.

Though Guerrero didn’t know it — and if all went well, he would not know until too late to make any difference — this entire performance was solely for his benefit.

“You’re to come with me,” Gwen instructed Mrs. Quonsett. “The captain has had a signal about you, and he has to make a report. Before he does, he wants to see you.” She asked the man in the aisle seat, “Will you let this woman out, please?”

For the first time the old lady looked nervous. “The captain wants me?”

“Yes, and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Hesitantly, Mrs. Quonsett released her seat belt. As the oboe player moved out, unhappily, to let her pass, she stepped uncertainly into the aisle. Taking her arm, Gwen propelled her forward, conscious of hostile glances all around — directed at herself — as they went.

Gwen resisted an impulse to turn, to see if the man with the case was watching too.

“I’m Captain Demerest,” Vernon Demerest said. “Please come in — as far forward as you can. Gwen, shut the door and let’s see if we can squeeze everybody in.” He smiled at Mrs. Quonsett. “I’m afraid they don’t design flight decks for entertaining visitors.”

The old lady from San Diego peered toward him. After the bright lights of the passenger cabin from which she had just come, her eyes were not yet adjusted to the cockpit’s semidarkness. All she could make out were shadowy figures, seated, surrounded by dozens of redly glowing dials. But there had been no mistaking the friendliness of the voice. Its effect and tone were far different from what she had braced herself to expect.

Cy Jordan pushed an armrest upward on an empty crew seat behind Anson Harris. Gwen — gently, in contrast to her behavior of a few minutes ago — guided the old lady into the seat.

There was still no turbulence outside, which made it easy to move around. Though losing height, they were still far above the storm, and despite the airplane’s speed of more than five hundred miles an hour, it was riding easily as if on a calm, untroubled sea.

“Mrs. Quonsett,” Vernon Demerest said, “whatever happened outside just now, you can forget it. It’s not the reason you were brought here.” He asked Gwen, “Were you pretty rough with her?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Miss Meighen was acting on my orders. I told her to do exactly what she did. We knew one particular person would be watching and listening. We wanted it to look good, to have a plausible reason for bringing you here.”

The big shadowy figure speaking from the right-hand seat was becoming clearer to Ada Quonsett now. From what she could see of his face, he seemed a kind man, she thought. At the moment, of course, she had no idea what he was talking about. She looked about her. It was all very interesting. She had never been on a flight deck before. It was much more crowded and a smaller space than she expected. It was also warm, and the three men whom she could now see were all in shirtsleeves. This would certainly be something else to tell her daughter in New York — if she ever got there.

“Grandma,” the man who had introduced himself as the captain said, “do you get frightened easily?”

It seemed an odd question, and she thought about it before answering. “Not easily, I think. I get nervous sometimes, though not as much as I used to. When you get older there isn’t a lot left to be frightened of.”

The captain’s eyes were fixed searchingly on her face. “I’ve decided to tell you something, then ask for your help. We don’t have too much time, so I’ll make it fast. I suppose you’ve noticed the man sitting next to you, back in the cabin — on the window side.”

“The skinny one, with the little mustache?”

“Yes,” Gwen said. “That’s him.”

Mrs. Quonsett nodded. “He’s a strange one. He won’t talk to anybody, and he has a little case with him that he won’t let go of. I think he’s worried about something.”

“We’re worried, too,” Vernon Demerest said quietly. “We’ve reason to believe that in that case he has a bomb. We want to get it away from him. That’s why I need your help.”

One of the surprising things about being up here with the pilots, Ada Quonsett thought, was how quiet it was. In the silence which followed what had just been said, she could hear a message coming in on an overhead speaker near where she was seated. “Trans America Two, this is Toronto Center. Your position is fifteen miles east of Kleinburg beacon. Advise your flight level and intentions.”

The man in the other front seat, on the left, whose face she hadn’t yet seen, was answering. “Toronto Center from Trans America Two. Leaving flight level two niner zero. Request continued slow descent until we advise. No change in our intentions to return for landing at Lincoln.”

“Roger, Trans America. We are clearing traffic ahead of you. You may continue slow descent.”

A third man, at a little table to her right, facing still more dials, leaned across to the one who had been speaking. “I make it an hour and seventeen minutes in. That’s using forecast winds, but if the front’s moved faster than expected, it could be less.”

“We are going back, aren’t we?” Mrs. Quonsett found it hard to restrain the excitement in her voice.

Demerest nodded. “But you’re the only one who knows, besides ourselves. For the time being you must keep it a secret, and above all, Guerrero — that’s the man with the case — mustn’t find out.”

Ada Quonsett thought breathlessly: was this really happening to her? It was all quite thrilling, like something on TV. It was a little frightening perhaps, but she decided not to think too much about that. The main thing was — she was here, a part of it all, hobnobbing with the captain, sharing secrets, and what would her daughter say about that?

“Well, will you help us?”

“Oh, of course. I expect you want me to see if I can get that case away …”

“No!” Vernon Demerest swung farther around, leaning over the back of his seat for emphasis. He said sternly, “You must not so much as put your hands on that case, or even near it.”

“If you say so,” Mrs. Quonsett acknowledged meekly, “I won’t.”