no sense, no damn sense at all. An East German spy who is Binnie Vance murders a Russian agent. The daughter of an SS officer who is also Binnie Vance marries a Jew and then kills him. And if I read you, this Issa steals the lead azide and lays it on the Jewish Defense League.”
“It wasn’t programmed that way. They didn’t mean to kill Stillman. He was set up for the Russian’s death, and when he didn’t follow the script, she killed him. He had the J.D.L. connection. It made sense. It was just a question of time. A few hours more, and every piece would have fallen into place.”
“All right. I go along with you. Just tell me why they killed the fat man.”
“For one thing, it led to Stillman and the Jewish Defense League. Or maybe he read her too well and told her all bets were off. Or maybe he was a double agent. Or maybe she was. Or maybe he balked at the notion that it was worth blowing up an airplane with over two hundred people on board just to kill five agronomists and lay the blame on the Jewish Defense League and the Zionists. Or maybe he got on to the notion and decided that it was senseless. Or maybe he didn’t know one damn thing, and for reasons of their own the Russians decided to get rid of him and sent her to do the job. You can take your choice, Sy.”
“Do you think we’ll ever know?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
They were on the San Diego Freeway now, screaming south at eighty miles an hour.
“Better all around if we stay alive,” Beckman said casually.
“We’ll stay alive.”
“I should have called the L.A. bomb squad.”
“I don’t want them there with that damn truck of theirs. I don’t want anything to alarm Miss Binnie Vance.”
“It still don’t make sense, a woman cold enough to marry a man just to set him up like that.”
“She’s pretty cold, but maybe when she married him she didn’t have that in mind. She could have found out about his big contribution to the J.D.L. and decided that he was a proper candidate. Who knows? I would guess that she planned the whole thing, but why not give her the benefit of the doubt? It’s the last benefit she’ll have.”
“I read a book about that Munich massacre of the Israeli athletes by the Palestinians at the seventy-two Olympics. The East Germans could have saved a couple of them,” Beckman said. “Their quarters were right across the street. They didn’t. They just watched the whole thing, cold as ice.”
They were close to the airport now. Masuto turned off the freeway onto Century Boulevard, and a few minutes later they came to a stop in front of the National Airlines gate. Phillips was already there, waiting with two uniformed airport police. He was a slow-moving, ruddy-faced man, whom Masuto had encountered half a dozen times through the years, and he unhurriedly shook hands with both of them.
“Sy Beckman, my partner.”
“What have you got, Masuto?” Phillips asked him.
“You know about the Russian agronomists?”
“Right. We got extra security from here right into the plane.” He looked at his watch. “They should be here in about half an hour. Six seats first class on the regular flight to Miami.”
“Six seats?”
“They got an interpreter who travels with them. We’re trying to keep it very low key. We don’t expect any trouble.” He looked at Masuto keenly. “Are you bringing me trouble?”
“Some. Any minute now, a belly dancer called Binnie Vance will get out of a taxi or some other car. She’ll be carrying a suitcase which will contain four ounces of lead azide and maybe another ten pounds of dynamite or some other explosive. It’s probably rigged with an altitude detonator or a time device. She has almost certainly bought a ticket on the plane to Miami, but she has no intention of going there. She’ll check the bag through on her ticket, and then go back to the Ventura Hotel where she’s the opening act tonight.”
“You’re putting me on.”
“No. I’m giving it to you straight. It’s a long, twisted story that we have no time to go into. Just take my word for it.”
“You’re not talking about a hijack. You’re spelling out a plan to blow up the plane and kill everyone on board.”
“Right.”
“But why?”
“How the devil do I know? A new terror tactic, an excuse to start a war, a tactic for a new wave of anti- Semitism.”
“Who’s behind it?”
“There too. She’s East German. The others are Arabs. Maybe the Palestinians, maybe the Germans, maybe the Russians. They got it set up to lay it on the Jewish Defense League.”
“What does she look like?”
“Medium, good-looking, green eyes, dark hair, good figure. I suggest you put your two men over at the baggage entrance, just in case. We’ll cover the main entrance.”
“She’ll be carrying the bag?”
“I think so. That lead azide is volatile. Tell your men to handle with care.”
He walked off with the two uniformed police. When he returned, he looked at his watch and said, “Four-ten. The Russians will be arriving in the next ten minutes or so. The plane boards at four thirty-five. Suppose she doesn’t show?”
“Then we’ll put them on another plane and go through every piece of baggage.”
“That won’t be easy.”
“It’s easier than dying, isn’t it?”
“All I got is your say-so, Masuto.”
“You got mine,” Beckman whispered. “Over there.”
A taxi had pulled up to the curb, about thirty feet short of where they were standing. A smartly dressed woman in a black pants suit got out and reached into the cab. The cab driver came around the cab to help.
She gave him a bill. “I’ll do it. Keep the change.”
She reached into the cab again and drew out a medium-sized Gucci suitcase.
“Is that her, Masao?” Beckman asked softly.
“That’s our girl. Let her check the suitcase through. Then we’ll take it.” Masuto turned his back to her. “She knows me,” he explained.
“She’s giving it to the luggage porter,” Beckman said.
Masuto heard her say, “The five o’clock flight to Miami. Will it be leaving on time?”
“Usually does, ma’am. Could I see your ticket?”
She gave him the ticket, and he wrote her baggage check and handed it to her. Then he took the suitcase and put it on his cart.
“Get the suitcase,” Masuto said to Phillips. “We’ll take care of her.”
“Okay.”
“And then have one of your men call the bomb squad.”
As Masuto turned around, she was entering the airline terminal. Masuto and Beckman followed her. “Now?” Beckman wanted to know.
Masuto shook his head. “Let’s see what she does.”
Keeping their distance, they followed and saw her enter the ladies’ room. They stood at the ticket counter, waiting; a few minutes later she emerged and walked to the exit and out to the sidewalk. She went to the curb and waved to a cab. Then they closed in.
“You don’t need a cab, Miss Vance,” Masuto said. “We’ll give you transportation.”
Two airport policemen, about forty feet away, stood on either side of the Gucci bag. Phillips strolled toward them.
“Detective Masuto,” she said. “How odd-” She noticed the bag and broke off. Beckman cuffed her wrists.
“Damn you, what are you doing?”
“I’m sorry. You’re dangerous, lady.”
Masuto said, “Mrs. Stillman, I am arresting you for the murder of your husband, Jack Stillman, for the murder
