Bellow settled into his window seat with a book extracted from his carry-on bag. It was a volume on sociopathy by a professor at Harvard under whom he’d trained some years before. The rest of the team members just leaned back, skimming through the onboard magazines. Chavez looked around and saw that his team didn’t seem tense at all, and was both amazed at the fact, and slightly ashamed that he was so pumped up. The airline captain made his announcements, and the Boeing backed away from the gate, then taxied out to the runway. Five minutes later, the aircraft rotated off the ground, and Team-2 was on its way to its first mission.
“In the air,” Tawney reported. “The airline expects a smooth flight and an on-time arrival in . . . an hour fifteen minutes.”
“Great,” Clark observed. The TV coverage had settled down. Both Swiss stations were broadcasting continuous coverage now, complete with thoughts from the reporters at the scene. That was about as useful as an NFL pre-game show, though police spokesmen were speaking to the press now. No, they didn’t know who was inside. Yes, they’d spoken to them. Yes, negotiations were ongoing. No, they couldn’t really say any more than that. Yes, they’d keep the press apprised of developments.
Like hell, John thought. The same coverage was reported on Sky News, and soon CNN and Fox networks were carrying brief stories about it, including, of course, the dumping of the first victim and the escape of the one who’d dragged the body out.
“Nasty business, John,” Tawney said over his tea.
Clark nodded. “I suppose they always are, Bill.”
“Quite.”
Peter Covington came in then, stole a swivel chair and moved it next to the two senior men. His face was locked in neutral, though he had to be pissed, Clark thought, that his team wasn’t going. But the team-availability rotation was set in stone here, as it had to be.
“Thoughts, Peter?” Clark asked.
“They’re not awfully bright. They killed that poor sod very early in the affair, didn’t they?”
“Keep going,” John said, reminding all of them that he was new in this business.
“When you kill a hostage, you cross a large, thick line, sir. Once across it, one cannot easily go backward, can one?”
“So, you try to avoid it?”
“I would. It makes it too difficult for the other side to make concessions, and you bloody need the concessions if you want to get away—unless you know something the opposition does not. Unlikely in a situation like this.”
“They’ll ask for a way out . . . helicopter?”
“Probably.” Covington nodded. “To an airport, commercial aircraft waiting, international crew—but to where? Libya, perhaps, but will Libya allow them in? Where else might they go? Russia? I think not. The Bekaa Valley in Lebanon is still possible, but commercial aircraft don’t land there. About the only sensible thing they’ve done is to protect their identities from the police. Would you care to wager that the hostage who got out has not seen their faces?” Covington shook his head.
“They’re not amateurs,” Clark objected. “Their weapons point to some measure of training and professionalism.”
That earned John a nod. “True, sir, but not awfully bright. I would not be overly surprised to learn that they’d actually stolen some currency, like common robbers. Trained terrorists, perhaps, but not good ones.”
And what’s a “good” terrorist? John wondered. Doubtless a term of art he’d have to learn.
The BA flight touched down two minutes early, then taxied to the gate. Ding had spent the flight talking to Dr. Bellow. The psychology of this business was the biggest blank spot in his copybook, and one he’d have to learn to fill in—and soon. This wasn’t like being a soldier—the psychology of that job was handled at the general-officer level most of the time, the figuring out of what the other guy was going to do with his maneuver battalions.
“In the air,” Tawney reported. “The airline expects a smooth flight and an on-time arrival in . . . an hour fifteen minutes.”
“Great,” Clark observed. The TV coverage had settled down. Both Swiss stations were broadcasting continuous coverage now, complete with thoughts from the reporters at the scene. That was about as useful as an NFL pre-game show, though police spokesmen were speaking to the press now. No, they didn’t know who was inside. Yes, they’d spoken to them. Yes, negotiations were ongoing. No, they couldn’t really say any more than that. Yes, they’d keep the press apprised of developments.
Like hell, John thought. The same coverage was reported on Sky News, and soon CNN and Fox networks were carrying brief stories about it, including, of course, the dumping of the first victim and the escape of the one who’d dragged the body out.
“Nasty business, John,” Tawney said over his tea.
Clark nodded. “I suppose they always are, Bill.”
“Quite.”
Peter Covington came in then, stole a swivel chair and moved it next to the two senior men. His face was locked in neutral, though he had to be pissed, Clark thought, that his team wasn’t going. But the team-availability rotation was set in stone here, as it had to be.
“Thoughts, Peter?” Clark asked.
“They’re not awfully bright. They killed that poor sod very early in the affair, didn’t they?”
“Keep going,” John said, reminding all of them that he was new in this business.
“When you kill a hostage, you cross a large, thick line, sir. Once across it, one cannot easily go backward, can one?”
“So, you try to avoid it?”
“I would. It makes it too difficult for the other side to make concessions, and you bloody need the concessions if you want to get away—unless you know something the opposition does not. Unlikely in a situation like this.”
“They’ll ask for a way out . . . helicopter?”
“Probably.” Covington nodded. “To an airport, commercial aircraft waiting, international crew—but to where? Libya, perhaps, but will Libya allow them in? Where else might they go? Russia? I think not. The Bekaa Valley in Lebanon is still possible, but commercial aircraft don’t land there. About the only sensible thing they’ve done is to protect their identities from the police. Would you care to wager that the hostage who got out has not seen their faces?” Covington shook his head.
“They’re not amateurs,” Clark objected. “Their weapons point to some measure of training and professionalism.”
That earned John a nod. “True, sir, but not awfully bright. I would not be overly surprised to learn that they’d actually stolen some currency, like common robbers. Trained terrorists, perhaps, but not good ones.”
And what’s a “good” terrorist? John wondered. Doubtless a term of art he’d have to learn.
The BA flight touched down two minutes early, then taxied to the gate. Ding had spent the flight talking to Dr. Bellow. The psychology of this business was the biggest blank spot in his copybook, and one he’d have to learn to fill in—and soon. This wasn’t like being a soldier—the psychology of that job was handled at the general-officer level most of the time, the figuring out of what the other guy was going to do with his maneuver battalions.
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