Blind Panic Page 6

  President Perry grinned and said, “Welcome to the White House, Mr. President. I trust you had a comfortable journey. Sorry about the uninspiring weather. Not like the last time Marian and I visited Moscow, and you put on that spectacular blizzard for us.”

  This was hurriedly and rather flatly translated, while President Petrovsky continued to smile and nod. He was a small man, with protuberant eyes. Marian Perry always called him Gollum.

  “I prefer warm,” Petrovsky replied through his interpreter. “And don’t they say that a little rain has to fall in everybody’s life?”

  After all of the formal introductions in the Diplomatic Reception Room, with President Perry’s dog, Sergeant, circling around and furiously slapping his tail against everybody’s legs, the president ushered Gyorgy Petrovsky along the corridor to the Oval Office. Marian Perry glanced at Doug Latterby as he gently nudged President Perry away from the wall, and Doug Latterby raised his eyebrows to show her that he was beginning to believe they could actually pull this off. After all, halfway through his second term, David Perry had been president long enough to be familiar with every turn along the way to the West Wing.

  They sat in the Oval Office with President Perry flanked on one side by Vice President Kenneth Moran, and by Doug Latterby on the other. Secretary of State George Smirniotakis was also there, tugging out his large white handkerchief every now and then to blow his nose, and Warren Truby, director of the FBI, who Marian Perry had once described as “Herbert Hoover’s less cheerful brother.”

  As the butler brought coffee and cakes and tollhouse cookies, Doug Latterby leaned close to the president’s left shoulder and murmured, “Petrovsky is slightly more to your right. That’s it. And keep your eyes a little lower.”

  Eventually the doors of the Oval Office were closed, and President Perry said, “Gyorgy, I think we can cut to the chase. You’ve had all the briefing papers, but just for the record, the reason I’ve asked you here today is to ask for your active assistance. At least three highly organized gangs of Russian criminals are bringing fear and corruption and a great deal of human misery to every major city throughout the United States.

  “Once it was the Sicilians and the Mafia. Now it’s Russians and Ukrainians, and they’re into everything—drugs, prostitution, gambling, fraud, and theft on a scale such as we’ve never encountered before.”

  Gyorgy Petrovsky listened to the translation. Then he said, “America has always advertised itself as the land of opportunity, where anybody can make good, no matter what their place of birth.”

  “Oh, for sure,” said President Perry. “But there’s a heck of a lot of difference between making good and making off with somebody else’s goods. There’s a heck of a lot of difference between opportunity and extortion.”

  Gyorgy Petrovsky shrugged. “Every orchard produces one or two bad plums. I cannot see how you can hold me personally responsible for the misdeeds of a few people who happen to have been born in Russia. You admitted them to your country, after all. It is up to your own law enforcement agencies to curtail their activities, and your courts to punish them. All I can say is that if you wish to impose on these people the severest of penalties, I will give you nothing but my blessing.”

  “I’m afraid I need more than your good wishes, Gyorgy.” President Perry was finding it difficult to judge whether Gyorgy Petrovsky was being deadly serious or mildly sarcastic. “I need your active cooperation.”

  Normally at this point, he would have stood up and walked behind Gyorgy Petrovsky’s chair, so that the Russian would have had to turn his head awkwardly around in order to reply to him. But now that he was blind, it was out of the question. He couldn’t afford to stumble or to lose his sense of direction.

  “In particular,” he said, “we need to nail down a character called Lev Khlebnikov, who runs a highly sophisticated drugs-and-prostitution racket in New York City. So far we haven’t been able to bring any charges against him, because nobody will give evidence against him. The most humane way that he deals with anybody who crosses him is to tie them over a mailbox, douse them with gasoline, and set fire to them.”

  “I know of this man.” Gyorgy Petrovsky nodded.

  “Then there’s Viktor Zamyatin, who operates out of Cincinnati. He’s not as powerful as Khlebnikov, but his activities are spreading all across the Midwest—labor rackets, protection, arson, prostitution, drugs. You name it, Zamyatin’s got his finger in it.”

  “I know also of this man,” said President Petrovsky. “He is what you call ‘a piece of work,’ yes?”

  “That just about sums him up.”

  “So, what do you expect me to do? You want my security people maybe to kidnap these two men and spirit them back to Russia? I don’t want them any more than you do.”

  “Of course not,” said President Perry. “But almost all of the money that Khlebnikov and Zamyatin make out of their illegal operations is being laundered through banks in Moscow and St. Petersburg. We’re talking billions of dollars everyyear. I need you to clamp down on those banks and freeze any and all of their assets. Also, I need you to confiscate all of their property in Russia—houses, yachts, you name it. I want those two guys to be left with nothing but their undershorts.”

  “This is easy to say, but not so easy to do. There are laws of confidentiality, even in Russian banking. Also, I would be seen as acting at the behest of a foreign power, which would not exactly enhance my presidential authority, would it?”

  “Maybe not—” the president began.

  “Little more to the left, sir,” Doug Latterby told him in an urgent murmur.

  “Maybe not,” the president continued, adjusting his position in his chair. “But the damage that these two men are inflicting on the social and financial fabric of America is such that if you are disinclined to cooperate voluntarily, I’ll have to consider persuasion.”

  “Persuasion? You mean you are going to lean on me?”

  “You can put it any which way you like. But if you continue to allow Khlebnikov and Zamyatin to launder their money through Russian banks, I intend to begin a systematic reduction of financial assistance to the Russian Federation. For every one billion dollars that Khlebnikov and Zamyatin spirit out of the United States, based on FBI estimates, I will order the withholding of ten billion dollars of aid, loans, and investments.”

  There was a very long silence, interrupted by coughing and embarrassed shuffling. The president could only imagine what kind of expression Gyorgy Petrovsky had on his face.

  “Gollum angry,” said Doug Latterby under his breath. “Gollum very, very angry.”

  When at last he replied, Gyorgy Petrovsky sounded preternaturally calm, but even before his words were translated, the president could tell how furious he was. “I think we should adjourn this meeting. I require time to consider what you have suggested, and to talk to my deputies. After all, this has radically altered our relationship; don’t you think? I came into this room thinking we were political allies, equals.”

  “We still are,” the president insisted. “Nothing has changed that.”

  “You don’t think so? Allies don’t threaten one another.”

  “Allies don’t allow the scum of the earth to rob the people who matter to them, and refuse to do anything to help.”

  Gyorgy Petrovsky stood up. Doug Latterby cupped the president’s elbow in his hand to indicate that he should stand up, too.

  “I will consider very seriously what you have said, David," said Gyorgy Petrovsky. “I will give you my response as soon as I can.”

  “Listen,” said the president, “I want you to know that whatever we’re discussing here, it doesn’t affect our personal friendship.”

  “Of course not. I understand what pressure you are under. But you also have to see the situation from my point of view. Oh—before I forget, let me show you the latest picture of our two villains.”

  He took a color photograph out of his inside pocket and passed it over. Doug Latterby intercep
ted it and placed it in President Perry’s hand.

  “It’s okay,” said President Perry, handing it back. “I already know what these two bastards look like.”

  Gyorgy Petrovsky stiffened, and stared at President Perry in bewilderment. Then, without another word, he turned and stalked out of the Oval Office, followed hurriedly by his aides and deputies.

  “What’s wrong, Doug?” asked President Perry, turning around.

  “The photograph, Mr. President. I think you kind of missed the emphasis on our. That wasn’t Khlebnikov and Zamyatin. That was President Petrovsky’s children.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  AMA Flight 2849, Atlanta to Los Angeles

  “Cabin crew—fifteen minutes to landing,” Tyler said over the intercom. He was sitting in the copilot’s seat now, with headphones on. “Holy shit,” he added. “I never thought in a million years that I’d ever get to say that.”

  Captain Sherman cleared his throat. “Maybe you should have switched off your intercom before you shared that little nugget with two hundred and nine unsuspecting passengers.”

  “Shit, sorry! Beginner’s jitters, I guess.”

  “Well, I’m sure glad they didn’t hear that.”

  The 747-400 dipped and swayed in the crosswinds. Up ahead of them in the darkness, Tyler could see the sparkling lights of the Southern California coast scattered all the way across the horizon.

  “EO system set?” asked Captain Sherman.

  “Check,” said Tyler.

  “Pressurization set? Humidifier off. Set the airfield altitude so that the plane is depressurized on landing. One hundred twenty-eight feet above sea level, in this case.”

  “Erm…check.”

  “Set the HSIs to radio navigation mode.”

  “Check.”

  “Set auto brakes. Wouldn’t want to touch down safely but find we can’t stop, would we? Don’t think the residents of Inglewood would appreciate it too much.”

  Tyler pulled a pretend-scared face, but Captain Sherman couldn’t see him, and in any case he wasn’t really pretending.

  “Cabin signs and exit lights on. Ignition on. Fuel system set for landing. Fuel heat off. QNH set. Check hydraulics. Landing flaps set at twenty-five degrees.”

  Tyler had to blink the perspiration out of his eyes, and every muscle in his shoulders and upper arms was locked with tension. He was seriously beginning to believe that he couldn’t do this, even if his own life and the lives of more than two hundred other people depended on it. All the movie stunts he performed were meticulously calculated, worked out to the very last millimeter by people who knew exactly what they were doing, and if he suspected that the risks were unacceptable, he simply wouldn’t do them. But with this stunt, he didn’t have any choice. He had to do it. And he had no opportunity to rehearse it, either.

  “Now I want you to locate the flight-management system," said Captain Sherman. “There are two buttons on the glare shield, marked LNAV and VNAV. Take out the Jepp map for LAX. Set it on a hundred-mile scale using the EFIS control panel. When it’s time to land, you’ll get a yellow FM message on the middle screen.”

  Tyler fumbled over setting the Jeppesen map, and the lights of Los Angeles seemed to be frighteningly close already.

  “There’s a knob on the control display unit between our seats. You got it? Twist it until the little numbers go down to one hundred feet above field elevation—two hundred twenty-eight feet.”

  “Okay…done it.”

  “Now announce, ‘Cabins secured for landing.’”

  Tyler could see LAX now, its runway lights tilting as they made their final approach.

  “Press the LOC and G/S buttons on the glareshield," said Captain Sherman. “All three CMD lights should go on.”

  “Yeah, right. Roger, they have.”

  The engines screamed as the 747 descended at two hundred fifty knots toward Runway 7L.

  “Flaps thirty,” said Captain Sherman. “Turn on the auto brakes.”

  “Fifty,” said the radar altimeter in a flat, mechanical voice. “Thirty.”

  For a long moment Tyler was sure that the four-hundred-ton aircraft was flying too fast and too high and they were going to miss the runway altogether. He had prayed only a few times in his life before—prayed and really meant it—but as the 747 sped above the runway at a height of less than ten feet and still hadn’t touched its wheels to the ground, he whispered, “Save me, God.”

  There was a jarring jolt, and the plane bounced off to the left. Then there was another jolt, and then another, and then the 747’s eighteen tires started squealing as if they were a chorus of slaughtered pigs. The plane’s throttles reversed with a thunderous roar, but Tyler could see that it was veering toward the left-hand side of the runway.

  It was still seventy-five feet away from the threshold, however, when it finally came to a halt. Captain Sherman turned blindly toward him and said, “That’s it, Mr. Jones. You’ve done it. Cake.”

  “Hey, come on,” said Tyler. He was trembling with relief, as if he had been holding up a hundred-pound barbell for an hour and had just been allowed to put it down. “I don’t think I could have managed it without this automatic landing gizmo.”

  “You’re right,” said Captain Sherman. “I certainly wouldn’t like to belittle what you just did, but without ALS you would have probably killed the lot of us.”

  “Oh,” said Tyler. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “No offense intended, Mr. Jones. Just being realistic.”

  Outside on the runway, on both sides of the aircraft, they had been joined by fire trucks and ambulances with flashing red lights. The cabin crew had opened the doors and deployed the emergency chutes, and the first of the passengers were sliding down to the runway.

  A sandy-haired man in white shirtsleeves appeared in the cabin doorway, accompanied by the senior flight attendant. He smelled strongly of D&G aftershave. “Captain Sherman? My name’s George O’Donnell, assistant operations manager. The tower informed us about your vision difficulty.”

  Captain Sherman didn’t turn around. “It is not ‘vision difficulty,’ Mr. O’Donnell. I’ve been struck blind, somehow, and so has my crew. This gentleman very bravely assisted us to bring the bird down.”

  George O’Donnell reached across and shook Tyler’s hand. “It’s deeply appreciated, sir. Believe me, AMA will be showing you their gratitude.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Tyler. “All I want to do is get out of here.”

  “Well, we’d prefer it if you didn’t just yet. Not until all of the passengers have been deplaned. We don’t really want them to see the flight crew being assisted off the aircraft because they’ve gone blind. Who knows what kind of legal mess we’d have on our hands if that happened.”

  “With all respect, Mr. O’Donnell, I’m not blind, and I just want to get the hell off of this plane.”

  “I realize that, sir. But there are media people around, and we wouldn’t want you talking to them before we’ve had a full debriefing.”

  “You mean before you’d had the chance to make absolutely sure that this wasn’t AMA’s fault? Or if it was AMA’s fault, how you’re going to explain it away?”

  “There’s no need to take that attitude, sir. Like I say, we’re deeply grateful for what you’ve done. You’re a hero. But it’s my job to think about the airline’s reputation and to make sure that passengers continue to choose AMA with complete confidence.”

  He laid his hand on one of Captain Sherman’s epaulets and said, “We have a paramedics team waiting for you and your crew outside, Captain. Just as soon as the passengers are clear, they’ll be taking you to the Doheny Eye Institute out at Lincoln Heights for a thorough checkup.”

  Tyler took off his headphones, unbuckled his seat belt, and stood up. “You can tell the captain and his crew to wait for the all-clear, Mr. O’Donnell, but I don’t work for you and I’m leaving now and going home.”

  He was at least four inches taller
than George O’Donnell, and probably thirty pounds heavier. George O’Donnell lifted both hands and said, “Okay…have it your way. But I would still ask you please not to talk to the media. We don’t want to create any kind of hysteria, do we?”

  “Hysteria?” Tyler retorted. He was still shaking. “You weren’t on this plane when they told me that the pilot and his crew had gone blind. You don’t even know the meaning of the word ‘hysteria.’”

  George O’Donnell said, “Okay, let’s not have any trouble here,” and stepped out of his way. Tyler turned back to Captain Sherman and said, “I really hope you guys get your sight back, Captain. I’ll call the eye clinic tomorrow, find out how you’re doing.”

  “Thanks,” said Captain Sherman. “And thanks again for saving all of these people.”

  “That’s okay,” Tyler told him. “I wasn’t in a hurry to die, either.”

  He was just about to go back to coach class and retrieve his bag when a distorted voice came over the radio.

  “Tower to AMA 2849! Tower to AMA 2849! Evacuate that heavy fast as you can! We have incoming, out of control!”

  Captain Sherman picked up his headset. “Say again?”

  “Get everybody out of that aircraft as quickly as possible! We have a private jet coming in from the southwest, approximately two hundred seventy knots. It’s locked on Runway 7L and it’s losing altitude fast, but we can’t raise the pilot.”

  Without hesitation Tyler took hold of the navigator’s arm and heaved him bodily out of his seat. He pushed him out of the flight cabin door, and then he grabbed the copilot. George O’Donnell and the senior flight attendant were helping Captain Sherman to unbuckle his harness.

  The first-class lounge was almost empty, except for one or two passengers who were gathering the last of their luggage together, but along the aisle from coach class there was still a line of thirty or forty passengers who were being shepherded by the flight attendants toward the emergency chute. None of them were panicking or pushing. Now that they felt they were safely on the ground, everybody was chattering and joking. “Haven’t been down a slide since I was eight years old!”