least a dozen wires—all in different colors—from the Semtex through the detonator to the timer. Most would be dummies that would have no effect at all if cut. But one would be an instant detonator that would override the timer and set off the plastic explosive immediately.
None of which would have been a problem if the timer wasn’t set. Bolan could simply fold the attaché case back up, take it to his seat and turn it over to Dutch authorities when they landed in Amsterdam.
But all hope of such a simple end to the problem flew from the Executioner’s thoughts as he looked at the timer. It had been set.
And the bomb was going to explode in 43 seconds.
THE EXECUTIONER REACHED down and lifted the kitchen timer in his hand, taking a long shot and simply pushing the start-stop button. As he’d suspected, it changed nothing. It had obviously been disconnected somewhere inside because the seconds continued ticking away.
By now, many of the passengers had recovered from shock. Questions assaulted him from all sides. Several of the passengers had unbuckled their seat belts and were starting to rise, curious to see what was inside the attaché case and what the Executioner was doing.
“Sit down! Everybody!” Bolan called out in a loud, authoritative voice that caused the men and women to drop immediately back down into their seats. As he turned back toward the front of the plane, he saw both Paxton and Margie running down the aisle to meet him. Paxton had another SIG-Sauer jammed into his belt, which could only mean that he’d successfully neutralized the first terrorist they’d spotted in first class.
Margie looked puzzled. But Paxton took it all in immediately. “How long have we got?” he asked.
The Executioner glanced back down to the timer. “Thirty-eight seconds,” he said. Turning his eyes quickly to Margie, he said, “Tell the captain to unlock the master lock to the main door in first class.” Margie started to turn.
“And tell him to slow speed to the bare minimum,” the Executioner added.
The woman nodded as she ran back in the direction from which she’d come.
“You’re going to try to throw that thing out the door?” Paxton asked incredulously.
“That’s the plan.”
“You open that door at this speed and altitude and you’ll get sucked out of the plane,” Paxton warned.
“That’s why I told her to have the pilot slow down,” Bolan said.
Paxton and Bolan sprinted back through the coach cabin into first class.
Bolan addressed the six men who were still seated there, their eyes wide in fear. “Quick! I need you to take off your belts and give them to me.”
Immediately, the men unbuckled themselves and began sliding their belts out of their pants. While they were so engaged, the Executioner turned back to Margie. “Get on the phone and tell the captain to drop the oxygen masks. It’ll give the passengers something to do,” he explained.
When the Executioner had gathered all six of the belts, he tossed three of them to Paxton. The Ranger had figured out what he had planned and he buckled one strip of leather through his own belt, then began linking the others together. Bolan did the same with the three belts in his hands, hoping the buckles and any other weak spots in the leather would hold.
The Executioner linked his last belt to that of Paxton’s, then turned to the cabin door. He had just enough length in the makeshift retention straps to reach the handle. Swiftly twisting it, he heard the whir of a million bees’ wings as he slid the door open. At the same time, he felt himself suddenly pulled forward. His own belt, attached to the leather chain, threatened to cut him in two the waist. He swallowed hard, trying to equalize the pressure in his ears as the atmosphere suddenly changed. Glancing downward, he saw that he had eight seconds left on the timer. He swallowed hard again. Even if the bomb didn’t explode, it felt as if his eardrums would.
Taking a final look down at the timer, the Executioner saw only the number 4. Before it could turn to 3, he leaned forward, assisted by the vacuum, and pushed the attaché case through the opening.
A second later, a barely audible popping sound issued forth through the galelike wind outside the doorway. The sound was so small—so seemingly insignificant in the distance—that it was almost an anticlimax to the near destruction and deaths it had almost caused. Bolan closed the door.
The threat was over. For now, at least.
But as the Executioner walked back and dropped into his seat, he knew that while his actions had saved the lives of the several hundred people on the plane, he had been unsuccessful in at least one way.
He and Paxton had flown commercial to keep a low profile upon entering the Netherlands. There was no chance of that now. By the time they touched down in Amsterdam the pilot would have radioed all that had happened aboard the 747 to the tower. There would be long interviews with police, which took time away from the mission. But worse than that, the airport would be a carnival of newsmen and-women shouting questions and popping flash in their faces.
Bolan and Brick Paxton would not go unnoticed, they’d be celebrities. Their pictures would be on the front page of every newspaper in Europe and quite possibly the rest of the world.
The Executioner leaned back against his seat, shut his eyes and frowned. Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth began to turn upward as a plan took shape in his mind.
A LIGHT SNOW HAD BEGUN falling over the city of Marken by the time Abdul Hassan slid his heavy overcoat over his navy blue blazer, placed the woven tweed fedora on his head and wrapped his muffler around his neck. He descended the back stairs of his hotel to avoid having to speak to the desk clerk but, as luck would have it, the hotel manager was sweeping the stairwell near the rear door when he reached the ground floor.
The manager looked up in surprise when he heard Hassan’s footsteps coming down the last flight of stairs. But he smiled. “It is not that cold outside,” he said in Dutch as he dumped the contents of his dustpan into the large rubber trash can he had rolled into the stairwell along with the broom. “You will soon be sweating.”
Hassan forced a laugh. He didn’t like surprises like this, didn’t like being noticed at all when he was in Marken. Which was why, while he lived only a few short miles away in Amsterdam, he always came to town the night before he was to meet his contact. And why he never stayed at the same hotel. But such coincidences were sometimes unavoidable, and he had his cover story ready, as always.
“You seem to forget,” Hassan replied in Dutch, “that I come from a country where 120-degree temperatures are not unusual. To me, it is freezing out there.”
The two exchanged another short, polite round of laughter. As Hassan reached for the door, the manager’s eyebrows lowered in either concern or curiosity—Hassan wasn’t sure which. But he expressed concern.
“You should use the front door,” the man said. “Marken is not a violent town like Amsterdam. Still, there is crime, and the alleys are not safe.”
Hassan shrugged. “I suppose you are right,” he said. “But I am only out for a short walk. And it is only a few steps down the alley from the door to the street. I will be all right.”
Now it was the manager’s turn to shrug. “Suit yourself,”
