why the flight cabin did not respond. In twelve years of flying, this was a new experience for him.
He was still trying to fathom the mystery when the flight attendant rushed up and said something. At first he ignored her, but the urgency in her voice got through to him.
'What . . . what did you say?'
'We're over land!'
'Land?'
'Directly beneath us,' she said, eyes blank with confusion. 'A passenger pointed it out to me.'
Rubin shook his head doubtfully. 'Impossible. We have to be over the middle of the ocean. He probably saw lights from fishing boats. The captain said we might spot them during our descent for the meteorology study.'
'See for yourself,' she pleaded. 'The ground is coming up fast. I think we're landing.'
He stepped over to the galley window and looked down. Instead of the dark waters of the Atlantic there was a glimmer of white. A vast sheet of ice was slipping under the aircraft no more than 240 meters below. It was near enough for the ice crystals to reflect the strobe flashes from the navigation lights. He froze, uncomprehending, trying to make some sense out of what his eyes told him was true.
If this was an emergency landing, why hadn't the captain alerted the main cabin crew? The 'Fasten Seat Belts' and 'No Smoking' signs had not been turned on.
Almost all of the U.N. passengers were awake, reading or engaged in conversation. Only Hala Kamil was sound asleep. Several representatives from Mexico, returning from an economic mission to the World Bank headquarters, were huddled around a table in the tail section. Director of Foreign Financing Minister Salazar talked in grim undertones. The atmosphere around the table was dampened by defeat. Mexico had suffered a disastrous economic collapse and was going through technical bankruptcy with no monetary aid in sight.
Dread flared within Rubin, and the words rustled from his mouth: 'What in hell is going on?'
The flight attendant muttered as Her face paled and her eyes widened.
'Shouldn't we begin emergency procedures?'
'Don't alarm the passengers. Not yet anyway. Let me check with the captain first.'
'Is there time?'
'I don't know.'
Controlling his fear, Rubin walked quickly, almost at a jog, toward the cockpit, faking a bored yawn to divert any curiosity at his rapid step.
He whipped the curtain closed that shielded the boarding entryway from the main cabin.
When he tried the door. It was locked.
He frantically rapped his knuckles against the door. No one answered from inside. He stared dumbly at the thin barrier that blocked the cockpit, his mind an incredulous blank; and then, in a flash of desperation, he lashed out his foot and kicked in the door.
The panel was built to open outward, but the blow smashed it against the inner wall. . Rubin stared into the cramped space of the cockpit.
Disbelief, bewilderment, fear, they swirled through his mind like a flood hurtling down a shattered dam.
One swift glance took in the slumped form of the men, Oswald's head on the floor, face up, ever, staring sightlessly at the cabin roof. Lemk had seemingly vanished.
Rubin stumbled over Oswald's body, leaned across the panel-staring through the wind The massive summit of the Hofsjokull loomed beyond the bow of the plane no more than ten miles away The flickering n lights silhouetted against the rising ice, the uneven surface with ghostly shades of gray and green.
Driven by panic, the steward climbed into the pilot's seat and firmly clutched the control column.
He pulled the wheel toward his chest.
Nothing happened.
The column refused to give.
Glancing at the panel, he observed that it showed a slow but steady increase in altitude. He yanked at the wheel again, but harder this time. It gave slightly. He was stunned by the unyielding pressure.
There was no time to think straight. He was too inexperienced to realize he was trying to override the automatic pilot with brute strength when only twenty-five pounds of pressure was required to overpower it.
The sharp, cold air made the glacier appear near enough to reach out and touch. He pushed the throttles forward and hauled back on the control column again. It gave sluggishly, like the wheel of a speeding car that lost its power steering, and inched back.
With agonizing slowness the Boeing lifted its nose and swept past the icy peak with less than a hundred feet to spare.
Down on the glacier, the man who had murdered the bona fide Flight 106
pilot, Date Lemk, in London and taken his place, peered into the distance through a pair of night glasses. The northern lights had faded to a dim glow, but the uneven rim of the Hofsjokull still showed against the sky.
The air was hushed with expectancy. The only sounds came from the two-man crew who were loading the flights transmitter beacon into the hull of a helicopter.
Suleiman Aziz Arnmar's eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and he could make out the broken ridges scarring the wall of the ice floe.
Ammar stood like a statue, counting the seconds, waiting for the small speck of flame that would mark the crash of Flight 106. But the distant fireball did not materialize.
Finally Ammar lowered the glasses and sighed. The stillness of the glacier spread around him, cold and remote. He pulled off the gray-haired wig and threw it into the darkness. Next he removed a pair of specially handcrafted
