Air Force One is Down

‘Uh-uh,’ she said, shaking her head.

‘They ain’t supposed to like booze,’ Wynanski said, patiently, ‘but from time to time, and especially when they’re out of Ayrabia, they – well – indulge, if you get me. But still they can’t appear to, and they don’t like you to know it, nor anybody else. Right? So. Read down the list again – out loud, so Fenstermaker don’t make a tit outa herself as well. Sorry, Fenstermaker. Nothin’ personal about yah boobs.’

Sabrina spluttered, but regained control and recited from the print-out.

‘Tea with milk and sugar.’

‘That’s straight tea – real tea, from leaves; with milk and sugar, like it says,’ Wynanski pronounced.

‘Tea with sugar but no milk,’ Sabrina intoned.

‘Scotch,’ said Wynanski firmly, ‘on the rocks, no water.’

Sabrina’s mouth dropped open. ‘Ohhh,’ she breathed.

‘’Bout time, too,’ Wynanski snarled. ‘Continue.’

‘Tea with lemon.’

‘Vodka. Ice. Lime juice.’ Sabrina made tiny notations.

‘Black coffee, no sugar.’

‘Cognac, neat,’ Wynanski supplied.

‘Tea – no sugar, no milk,’ Sabrina read. Wynanski looked puzzled. ‘Gimme that,’ he ordered, and scanned the list. Then his brow cleared, and a beatific smile illumined his battered face. ‘How about that?’ he whispered, ‘one o’ these guys got the hots fer Jack Daniels. Whooppee!’

Through the open hatch of the Boeing, the far-off wail of police-car sirens reached Sabrina’s ears. The motorcade, she calculated, must be on the causeway by now.

She found herself keenly anticipating the flight, whatever dangers it might hold. Especially, she was looking forward to seeing McCafferty again. He had made, she decided, quite an impression on her.

Philpott gazed meditatively for the umpteenth time at the computer print-out, dog-eared now, which was pinned to the front of Smith’s UNACO file. ‘Two down,’ he said, ‘three to go.’ He darted an exasperated glance at the ominous barrage of clocks, adjusted for time-zones and the individual preferences of more than a score of countries, sitting atop the electronic mural in the bureau’s nerve-centre, naggingly pushing forward the time for action. ‘And one just about coming up.’

‘Sir?’ Basil Swann inquired.

‘Just thinking out loud,’ Philpott returned. ‘All set for Bahrain?’

Swann replied with a trendy ‘Affirmative’. Air Force One, he supplied, would take off inside half an hour, on schedule. Sabrina Carver – ‘Airman First Class Carver’ – was already on board the Boeing, and Colonel Joe McCafferty, according to his invariable procedure, would board last of all, after delivering the OPEC emissaries.

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