glided into his mind, the notion that it might have been pulled from the curtains at the old woman’s house. It wasn’t particularly thick, but it was strong and there had been enough of it to go around his ankles many times.
He didn’t think he was going to be wriggling his way out of it anytime soon.
He glanced out of the small oval window on the cabin wall facing him. He couldn’t see any clouds. There was nothing out there but endless blue sky, clear and unblemished. He tried to figure out what direction they were flying in. The sun seemed to be streaming into the cabin from the front of the aircraft, slightly to the right and at about a forty-five-degree angle. It had the bright intensity of a morning sun. It seemed to indicate that they were flying east. East, from somewhere in central Turkey.
He pictured the map. Nothing good was east, not for him. Syria. Iraq. Iran. Not the friendliest of places for an American FBI agent.
His blood pressure spiked further.
He looked at the Iranian. “We’re heading east.”
The Iranian didn’t respond.
Reilly said, “What, your visa run out?”
The Iranian smiled thinly and said, “I miss the food.”
Reilly glanced down at the man’s hand. It didn’t look great. Its dressing was loose and messy, and it was heavily stained with blood.
Reilly nodded in its direction. “You might need some help cutting up your steaks.”
The Iranian’s smile disappeared. He smoldered quietly for a beat, then his right hand flew up and punched Reilly again. He breathed in deeply and said, “Hang on to that thought. You’ll need it on your way down.”
A flood of unpleasant images cascaded through Reilly’s mind. Images of hostages held for years in grimy cells deep inside hostile territory, chained to walls, beaten and abused and forgotten until some nasty illness finally liberated them from their torment. He was about to say something, then he remembered something else and his blood pressure shot further into the red zone.
The report. The one he’d been given back in Istanbul.
The one about the Italian airport official with the pulverized bones. The one they thought had been tossed out of a helicopter or a plane.
Alive.
He flushed the fear away and snared the Iranian’s smug look. “I don’t even know your fucking name.”
The Iranian debated answering for a beat, then seemed to decide there was no harm in it and said, “It’s Zahed. Mansoor Zahed.”
“Good to know. Wouldn’t want you buried in an anonymous grave. That’s just not right, is it?”
Zahed gave him a thin smile. “Like I said. Hang on to that one too. You’ll have plenty of time to savor it.”
THE IRANIAN EYED REILLY CURIOUSLY.
Although he thought he’d decided what to do with him, he was still of two minds about it. Both options were very attractive.
He could still take Reilly back to Iran. Lock him up in some isolated hellhole in one of the country’s prisons. Have fun with him for years to come. The agent would be a great source of intel. They’d break him, without a doubt. Then he’d tell them everything he knew about FBI and Homeland Security procedures and protocols. On top of recovering the trove of Nicaea, capturing and bringing back the head of the Counterterrorism Unit of the FBI’s New York City field office—and without leaving a trail of bread crumbs at that—would be a spectacular coup for Zahed.
It all sounded rosy—until reality crept back in. Zahed was a pragmatist and knew how it could actually play out. He knew he’d probably end up losing control of Reilly’s fate. Even if Zahed tried to keep his presence quiet, the American agent was such a prize that word would get out. He’d stir a lot of interest. Others would get involved. Others who might have other ideas about how best to make use of such an asset. At some point, they might even decide to use Reilly as a bargaining chip for something they wanted badly. If and when that happened, he would be freed. At which time, Zahed knew, the man would make Zahed’s life hell, even from several thousand miles away.
That possibility made the option unacceptable.
No, he thought again. He’d made the right decision. He couldn’t take Reilly back to Iran with him. Besides, the option he’d chosen would give him immense pleasure. It would be a moment he’d never forget, one he’d savor for the rest of his days. It was just a shame he wouldn’t be able to see Reilly’s mangled body after he had hit the surface of the water, which, to someone traveling at that speed, would feel just as hard as concrete. The agent would be dead before he even got a taste of the salt water.
Zahed enjoyed letting the image play out for a moment in his mind’s eye, then plucked an internal handset off the wall and hit two keys.
Steyl, in the cockpit, picked up instantly. “Is he up?”
“Yes. Where are we?”
“We just entered Cyprus airspace. About half an hour from landfall.”
“Let’s do it,” Zahed said.
“Okay,” Steyl replied.
Zahed hung up and smiled at Reilly. “I’m really, really going to enjoy this.”
Then he punched him again.
Chapter 62
Niner Mike Alpha, we have a problem. Unable to maintain cabin pressure. Request descent flight level one two zero.”
The controller was quick to respond. “Niner Mike Alpha, are you declaring an emergency?”
Steyl kept his tone even. “Negative, not at this time, Mike Alpha. We suspect an unlocked door. We need to depressurize, lock it, and repressurize. It’s happened before.”
“Roger, Mike Alpha. Descend at your convenience. No known traffic below you. Base of controlled airspace at eight thousand feet. Good luck.”
Steyl thanked the tower, then adjusted the autopilot pitch control wheel upward, causing the plane’s nose to tilt downward, and throttled back, dramatically reducing power from both engines. This made the aircraft think it was landing and triggered the landing gear alarm to remind its pilot to drop the gear. Steyl had anticipated the loud, continuous beep that wailed briefly through the cabin and hit a button by his right knee to kill it.
With its nose pitched down by fifteen degrees, the Conquest started a sharp descent from its cruising altitude of twenty-five thousand feet down to twelve thousand. It was the maximum cabin altitude the aircraft’s systems would allow Steyl to request, given that the cabin was already pressurized. Accordingly, Steyl turned the pressurization control knob clockwise to its maximum position, getting the compressors to raise the cabin altitude from its cruising setting of eight thousand feet to the less comfortable, reduced-oxygen equivalent of twelve thousand feet. At a rate of change of five hundred feet per minute, it would take eight minutes for the pressure to get there. Then, once inside and outside pressures were equalized, Zahed would be able to open the cabin door. The Iranian had told Steyl he wanted Reilly to have the longest fall possible, and although Steyl knew it was possible to open the door from a couple of thousand feet higher, twelve thousand was a safer bet. From that height, Reilly’s drop would last a little over a minute. Steyl knew that as far as Zahed was concerned, longer would have been better, but a minute was still long enough. It would still feel like an eternity to anyone, especially when that person was aware of what was lying in wait at the end of it.
REILLY HEARD THE ENGINES WHINE DOWN, felt the cabin pitch forward and the plane start to drop, and knew what was happening.
A spasm of fear rocked him, but instead of paralyzing him, it jump-started his mind and threw it into survival mode. There wasn’t much he could do, given how he was tied up, but he had to try something.
