Skyhammer (29 page)

Curtis leaned close. “That’s him.” He tapped a finger below the dash. “A couple of minutes into Sector ninety-four. We’ve
cleared out the rest of the traffic.”

“When do we get started?” Farraday asked.

Cook had to show him how to use the radio first. Then Curtis was back, handing him a telephone receiver.

“The FBI negotiator wants to talk to you.”

Farraday turned to check with Boyce, who nodded, whispering, “For the record.”

Farraday identified himself. “And who am I speaking to?”

“L’Hommedieu,” a sharp, clipped voice answered. “Brian. Special agent. Have you got a pen, Mr. Farraday? 1 want you to write
down some things.”

“Such as?” It was probably a waste of time, but he would play along.

“First write down ‘objective,’” the agent said. “I want you to keep in mind the objective at this point—the only objective—which
is to get him to land the plane. So write that down after the word ‘objective.’ You must remember it, Mr. Farraday, above
all else. We’re not trying to talk him out of his intent, only into landing.”

Farraday had dutifully written the word ‘objective,’ at the top of the legal pad Cook had supplied him. But he resented the
agent’s tone. It was condescending. Of course they had to get Pate down first. But the only way to do that was to make a deal
with him. “Is this really necessary?” he asked, unable to keep a note of irritation out of his voice.

“Yes it is,” the agent responded. “You know the subject’s intention.”

“I know he has made a specific threat. His intention isn’t completely certain.”

The agent was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, “But you know his motivation—his rationale. Do you know what’s going
on inside him?”

Farraday put down the ballpoint Cook had given him and took out his fountain pen. This agent—he would have to get his name
again—was not helping at all. “Actually, I have a problem with the scenario you’re pushing.” Farraday tested the point of
his pen, drawing a line on the page. “First because our pilots are carefully monitored; second because this particular one
is, according to his own record, very competent; and third because I know human nature. Why do you think he wants to talk
to me? He’s not crazy, he wants a guaranteed deal. A million, five million—whatever. You know the real scenario as well as
I do. I make the deal—that’s my part in this. He lands to collect, and then you people do your part.”

“Except he’s not after money,” the agent said immediately, as if he hadn’t even been listening. “I’m certain of that, Mr.
Farraday. He wants revenge on you and—”

“Of course he wants to portray that motive.” Farraday looked at Boyce again, saw in the pained expression on the lawyer’s
face that he had spoken too sharply. He went on in a more placid tone, “But why would he actually want to kill himself? Isn’t
it a bit ridiculous to believe he would?”

The static buzzed softly for a half dozen seconds. Then the agent said, “You wouldn’t be willing to admit to him any guilt
in this?”

Guilt? Farraday wanted to laugh. “I’m willing to offer some concessions.”

“But no confession.”

He did laugh now, a soundless snicker he couldn’t hold in. “Confession of what?”

The static buzzed again. “All right,” the agent said. “Let me explain this. The subject may well be in a delicate balance
right now. Caught between following through and giving up. Letting him talk to you is extremely risky. If you treat him badly
at all, his reaction might well be to remember just why he’s doing this. You must let him talk—let him tell you whatever he
has to tell you, however he wants to. Don’t antagonize him by demeaning his motive, which is more than revenge. I think that,
because he stayed on, agreed to work for you, he feels guilty.”

This was something new. Farraday glanced back at Boyce again. The lawyer gave a tiny shake of his head, meaning, Farraday
supposed, that true or not it didn’t matter. “I understand,” Farraday said to the agent. “We’ve already decided exactly that.”

“Then that’s good,” the agent said after a moment, as if he hadn’t expected Farraday’s response. “So I also want you to understand
that you must at least
try
to blame yourself. Take the guilt from him if you can. And then offer him an option that’s better than what he’s got. I want
you to offer to meet with him, on board the plane.”

Farraday had been about to agree again—anything to get the agent to finish—but this was preposterous. “That’s not at all possible—”

“Wait!” the agent interrupted. “I’m not asking you to
do
it. Just
offer
to do it.”

“He may be asking you to lie,” Boyce whispered. “Get him to state that.”

Boyce was right. “You’re asking me to lie?” Farraday said.

“No, it’s a hypothetical situation.”

“I don’t see the difference.” Farraday did, though. No, technically he wouldn’t be lying. Too bad.

“Just tell him you’d trade yourself for the people,” the agent said now. “If he guarantees not to simply kill you. And if
he says he’ll give you his word, take it. Show that you trust him. It also shows you can be trusted. If there’s one thing
Pate might respond to from you, it would be that. And besides, you would meet with him, wouldn’t you? If your safety could
be guaranteed?”

Farraday had written down “trust,” and now he began to draw circles around the word. Of course trust was the base ingredient.
He had known that all along. “The idea here,” he said, “is that I’m worth so much that he’ll be willing to land just to make
the trade.”

The agent didn’t answer at first. Then he said, “That’s right. You can explain to him just how valuable you are.”

Farraday sat back. He needed to think about this. He needed minutes with Boyce, somewhere else, not here in this room of eavesdroppers.
His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and now he could see them, all interested no doubt, though Curtis was at the far end
of the center aisle talking to a man in a uniform—Air Force? Yes, he could make out the wings. For a moment Farraday wondered
why the Air Force was involved, but then he realized they were probably going to try to get Pate to land at some nearby air
base. If Pate did agree to meet him, would he also have to travel out to some godforsaken strip of concrete in the middle
of the desert?

Farraday stared at the tiny green dash dragging its little block of numbers slowly across the screen in front of him. It seemed
so inconsequential, and he felt suddenly ridiculous. He had meant to be on his way back to Phoenix soon and home in another
hour, off on a ten-mile run. He would need that when this was finished. Maybe the room wasn’t so confining, now that he could
see, but he still did not like being there. It reminded him of something—or somewhere—he did not like. An attic? Somewhere
in an attic in a large house. It didn’t have the smell, but it had the boys acting like men. Not like these men, though. The
memory was unpleasant but intriguing. He knew he’d recalled it before—had run his mind over it the way you might run your
hands over your mother’s underthings in a bureau drawer—guiltily, with some kind of disgusting curiosity. And just as suddenly
now, he shoved his mind shut on the memory. No, it was only the clutter, the organized chaos here he didn’t like, the monotonous
hum of controllers talking to pilots. It gave him the sense that a frantic disorder lay just below the surface. His grandfather’s
upstate New York marble quarries had always appalled him for this reason. All the finished white stone, cut into smooth slabs—that
was satisfying, not the rough-hewn blocks lying in the dirty rubble on the quarry floor. He didn’t like the uncertainty that
came from such disorder. He preferred careful, precise planning. His meeting notes often ran twice as long as anyone else’s.
He usually memorized his speeches. If he was late to anything, it was by design. “No surprises,” he would tell his staff at
the end of every planning session. “Cover all the bases.” And woe to anyone who left something to chance.

Which was why this situation infuriated him. No matter how carefully he planned, he still could not control the little people,
with their private wills, their petty stubbornness and cardboard pride, mewing to get their own way. This FBI agent, these
nerd controllers surrounding him. This Pate. What was he but some crackpot bastard? A boozer, probably, staring at a failed
life and trying to blame it all on
him
, Jack Farraday. As if the whole thing were something personal. As if he gave a fuck. He’d ruined men a hundred times more
important than any Pate. Deliberately. That was part of the game, and if you played you accepted losing. None of this kamikaze
crap. He hated it, having to fake concern for a worm, playing it soft, as he had all morning at the pilots’ meeting. As his
grandfather had always said, cold stone cut harder. His grandfather had made the family’s first fortune playing it the hard
way, without compromise. Unlike Farraday’s father, who’d wanted him to be a politician, a senator, maybe even president some
day. That was his father’s idea of power, crawling on your belly to get what you wanted.

But business was politics. Farraday couldn’t deny that. Even the best had to crawl once in awhile. So he would let this Emil
Pate dump on him. And then he’d tell Pate how worried he was about all the rehired strikers—no lie in that, they were a constant
source of trouble. He’d say he wanted to take care of them the right way. Maybe he really would toss them a bone, make the
rest of the New World pilots jealous so they’d turn their heat on the old Westar bunch. Why not? It wouldn’t be his fault
if Pate forced him to make some concessions.

Farraday stared again at the tiny green blip on the screen. The idea was actually intriguing. A PR plus at no real risk.

“All right, I’m willing to offer myself,” he told the agent. “Anything else?”

“Fine. Thank you, Mr. Farraday.” The agent sounded immensely relieved. “Now, here’s the way this will work. I’ll be in your
other ear, giving you advice as—”

“Thank you,” Farraday cut him off. “But that won’t be necessary.” Then, before the agent could object, Farraday handed the
phone to Cook. He wasn’t about to let the agent yammer at him the whole time. “Let’s do it,” he said to Curtis, who had returned.
“I’m ready.”

Cook plugged his own audio cord into an overhead jack. “Okay, I’m going to try to contact him.” He keyed his mike. “New World
Five-fifty-five, Albuquerque,” he transmitted.

They waited, but there was no answer. A dozen seconds passed. Farraday stared at the glowing green symbol that represented
the airplane. It moved in little jumps, he noticed, one every second or so, along with its block of data, and now he noticed
something else—another, fainter smudge of green, a fraction of an inch behind 555’s. It seemed to be keeping pace with it
but jumping out of synch.

“What’s this?” he asked Cook, pointing to it.

Cook seemed startled. “It’s nothing,” he said quickly. “ —An echo, we call it. You get them sometimes. This equipment’s pretty
old.”

As Cook made another transmission, Farraday stared again at 555’s radar image, wondering what would cause an echo. For some
reason it didn’t look like an echo.

Suddenly his headset crackled, and Farraday forgot about radar echoes. A voice said, “Yeah, Albuquerque. Triple Nickel’s on.”

It was a heavy, deep voice, and it was steeped in fatigue, no mistake about that. Farraday swiveled around and glanced back
at Boyce hunched forward in his chair. Boyce nodded in return; he’d heard it too—Pate sounded worn out, demoralized. And ready
to give up?

“Mr. Pate,” Cook transmitted, “John Farraday is standing by to talk to you.”

They waited for a response, but none came.

Cook shrugged. “Go ahead, Mr. Farraday. He’s on.”

Farraday took a breath, then squeezed the key attached to the microphone’s cord. “This is John Farraday speaking.” He waited,
but there was no reply.

“Try again,” Cook urged.

“This is John H. Farraday,” he transmitted. “Do you hear me, Mr. Pate?”

“I hear you,” Pate answered dully. Then he was silent again. Farraday adjusted the headset. Pate’s slow responses were irritating,
but they had to mean he was already on the verge of giving up.

“Mr. Pate,” he transmitted. “Do you remember the old proverb about getting a mule’s attention? Well, I’m the mule, stubborn
as hell. But I’ve got to admit, you’ve hit me right between the eyes with a two-by-four, Mr. Pate.”

Again there was no answer. Glancing down at the word “objective” on his pad, Farraday pressed the microphone switch again.

“Mr. Pate, we’d very much like to work out an arrangement that would allow you to land and save yourself and the rest of the
people on board.”

A dozen more seconds passed. Then Pate said, “Talk to me Jack.”

So it was
Jack
to his
Mister
Pate, was it? Farraday suppressed his resentment. At least Pate was ready to deal. In fact it had come so easily he was even
a little disappointed. No venting first? All he had to do now was lay out the terms and get this over with? It pleased him,
too, that the FBI agent was apparently wrong. Pate wasn’t needing a confession from him. Still, a little wouldn’t hurt.

“
Mr
. Pate,” he transmitted, “I’m taking full responsibility for this. I’m to blame. Do you see what I’m saying? I’m fully prepared
to reevaluate the whole seniority system, bring in guarantees for the rehires. I’ll pledge that to you, if you’ll just land
the plane and let the people get off. That’s all you have to do.”

He released his switch. The headset crackled once and then there was only static again. A half minute passed. What was Pate
up to now?

Curtis, who was on the headset to Washington, leaned over. “L’Hommedieu wants to talk to you.”

Farraday shook his head.

“Pledge?” Pate said suddenly.

“Right,” Farraday transmitted. “I’m very serious about this. I never give my word on anything unless I intend to back it up.”

“And how’re you going to back it up, Jack?” Pate answered. “How will you set things right?”