The Lion's Game by Nelson DeMille Read Free Book Online Page B

He’d watched thousands of jumbo jets make this approach, and there was absolutely nothing about this particular approach that troubled him, except for the fact that even now the aircraft’s radios were eerily silent.
    “Four.”
    Stavros decided to talk directly to the person in charge of the rescue teams. He picked up a radiophone that was pre-set to the Ground Control frequency and transmitted, “Rescue One, this is Tower.”
    A voice came back on the speaker. “Tower, this is Rescue One. How may I help you today?”
    Oh, God
, Stavros said to himself,
another wise-ass
. It must be the qualification for the job. Stavros said, “This is Mr. Stavros, Tower Supervisor. Who is this?”
    “This is Sergeant Andy McGill, first guitar, Guns and Hoses. What can I play for you?”
    Stavros decided that what he didn’t want to play was this idiot’s game. Stavros said, “I want to establish direct contact with you.”
    “Established.”
    “Okay ... subject aircraft is in sight, McGill.”
    “Right. We see him, too.”
    Stavros added, “He’s on track.”
    “Good. I hate it when they land on top of us.”
    “But be prepared.”
    “Still NO-RAD?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Two miles,” said Hernandez and added, “Still on track. Altitude eight hundred feet.”
    Stavros relayed this to McGill, who acknowledged.
    “One mile,” said Hernandez, “on track, five hundred feet.”
    Stavros could clearly make out the huge jetliner now. He transmitted to McGill, “Confirm a 747-700. Gear down, flaps seem normal.”
    “Roger that. I got a fix on him,” McGill replied.
    “Good. You’re on your own.” Stavros ended his transmission and put the radiophone down.
    Hernandez left his console and stood beside Stavros. A few other men and women with no immediate duties also lined up at the windows.
    Stavros watched the 747, mesmerized by the huge aircraft that had just passed over the threshold of the runway and was floating down toward the concrete. There was nothing about this aircraft that looked or acted any differently from any other 747 touching down. But suddenly, Ed Stavros was certain that he wouldn’t be home in time for dinner.

CHAPTER 5
    The van dropped us off at the International Arrivals terminal in front of the Air India logo, and we walked to the Trans-Continental area.
    Ted Nash and George Foster walked together, and Kate Mayfield and I walked behind them. The idea was to not look like four Feds on a mission, in case someone was watching. I mean, you have to practice good trade craft, even if you’re not real impressed with your opponents.
    I checked out the big Arrival Board, and it said that Trans-Continental Flight 175 was on time, which meant it was supposed to land in about ten minutes, arriving at Gate 23.
    As we walked toward the arrival area, we scoped out the folks around us. You don’t normally see bad guys loading their pistols or anything like that, but it’s surprising how, after twenty years in law enforcement, you can spot trouble.
    Anyway, the terminal was not crowded on this Saturday afternoon in April, and everyone looked more or less normal, except the native New Yorkers who always look on the verge of going postal.
    Kate said to me, “I want you to be civil to Ted.”
    “Okay.”
    “I mean it.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    She said, with some insight, “The more you bug him, the more he enjoys it.”
    Actually, she was right. But there’s something about Ted Nash that I don’t like. Partly, it’s his smugness and his superiority complex. But mostly, I don’t trust him.
    Anyone waiting for an international flight is outside the Customs area on the ground floor, so we walked over there and worked the crowd a little, looking for anyone who was acting in a suspicious manner, whatever that means.
    I assume that the average terrorist hit man knows that if his target is protected, then the target is not going to come out through Customs. But the quality of terrorists we get in this