The Templar Salvation (2010) (62 page)

It all sounded rosy—until reality crept back in. Zahed was a pragmatist and knew how it could actually play out. He knew he’d probably end up losing control of Reilly’s fate. Even if Zahed tried to keep his presence quiet, the American agent was such a prize that word would get out. He’d stir a lot of interest. Others would get involved. Others who might have other ideas about how best to make use of such an asset. At some point, they might even decide to use Reilly as a bargaining chip for something they wanted badly. If and when that happened, he would be freed. At which time, Zahed knew, the man would make Zahed’s life hell, even from several thousand miles away.

That possibility made the option unacceptable.

No, he thought again. He’d made the right decision. He couldn’t take Reilly back to Iran with him. Besides, the option he’d chosen would give him immense pleasure. It would be a moment he’d never forget, one he’d savor for the rest of his days. It was just a shame he wouldn’t be able to see Reilly’s mangled body after he had hit the surface of the water, which, to someone traveling at that speed, would feel just as hard as concrete. The agent would be dead before he even got a taste of the salt water.

Zahed enjoyed letting the image play out for a moment in his mind’s eye, then plucked an internal handset off the wall and hit two keys.

Steyl, in the cockpit, picked up instantly. “Is he up?”

“Yes. Where are we?”

“We just entered Cyprus airspace. About half an hour from landfall.”

“Let’s do it,” Zahed said.

“Okay,” Steyl replied.

Zahed hung up and smiled at Reilly. “I’m really, really going to enjoy this.”

Then he punched him again.

Chapter 62

N
iner Mike Alpha, we have a problem. Unable to maintain cabin pressure. Request descent flight level one two zero.”

The controller was quick to respond. “Niner Mike Alpha, are you declaring an emergency?”

Steyl kept his tone even. “Negative, not at this time, Mike Alpha. We suspect an unlocked door. We need to depressurize, lock it, and repressurize. It’s happened before.”

“Roger, Mike Alpha. Descend at your convenience. No known traffic below you. Base of controlled airspace at eight thousand feet. Good luck.”

Steyl thanked the tower, then adjusted the autopilot pitch control wheel upward, causing the plane’s nose to tilt downward, and throttled back, dramatically reducing power from both engines. This made the aircraft think it was landing and triggered the landing gear alarm to remind its pilot to drop the gear. Steyl had anticipated the loud, continuous beep that wailed briefly through the cabin and hit a button by his right knee to kill it.

With its nose pitched down by fifteen degrees, the Conquest started a sharp descent from its cruising altitude of twenty-five thousand feet down to twelve thousand. It was the maximum cabin altitude the aircraft’s systems would allow Steyl to request, given that the cabin was already pressurized. Accordingly, Steyl turned the pressurization control knob clockwise to its maximum position, getting the compressors to raise the cabin altitude from its cruising setting of eight thousand feet to the less comfortable, reduced-oxygen equivalent of twelve thousand feet. At a rate of change of five hundred feet per minute, it would take eight minutes for the pressure to get there. Then, once inside and outside pressures were equalized, Zahed would be able to open the cabin door. The Iranian had told Steyl he wanted Reilly to have the longest fall possible, and although Steyl knew it was possible to open the door from a couple of thousand feet higher, twelve thousand was a safer bet. From that height, Reilly’s drop would last a little over a minute. Steyl knew that as far as Zahed was concerned, longer would have been better, but a minute was still long enough. It would still feel like an eternity to anyone, especially when that person was aware of what was lying in wait at the end of it.

REILLY HEARD THE ENGINES WHINE DOWN, felt the cabin pitch forward and the plane start to drop, and knew what was happening.

A spasm of fear rocked him, but instead of paralyzing him, it jump-started his mind and threw it into survival mode. There wasn’t much he could do, given how he was tied up, but he had to try something.

He glanced around. He view was limited by the partition to his right. He could only see the very back of the cabin. He saw a stack of cardboard boxes piled up behind the Iranian, and glimpsed the leather binding of an old codex poking out from the uppermost box. His mood darkened as he remembered that Zahed and his men were now in possession of the trove of Nicaea. He pulled his gaze away from the boxes and surveyed the rest of the space. He spotted a drawer with a green cross symbol on it, under one of the rear seats. The first aid kit. He imagined he’d find a small pair of scissors in there, scissors that could cut through his binds. There was a slight obstacle blocking his way to the kit, in the form of the Iranian, who was watching him like a falcon and caught Reilly’s wandering eyes.

Zahed didn’t say anything. Just brought up his good hand and did a small tsk-tsk wave of his forefinger while giving him a chiding look.

Reilly’s eyes stayed locked on the Iranian, and he managed a wry, relaxed smile. Which caused Zahed’s expression to tighten.

Reilly let out a small chuckle. It might not have been much, but right there and then, unsettling the Iranian, even just a little, felt really good.

CLOSE TO SIX MINUTES AFTER starting its descent, the Conquest leveled at twelve thousand feet. Steyl checked the cabin altitude reading. It was still working its way up to its target.

It was time to get Reilly into position.

He climbed out of his seat and joined Zahed at the back of the cabin.

“Which end do you want?” he asked Zahed.

“Take the legs.”

Steyl nodded.

He grabbed Reilly’s legs firmly and locked an arm around his ankles to keep him in place, then he stepped back, hunched in the low clearance of the cabin, and pulled him off the bench and onto the carpeted floor.

Then he started dragging him toward the cabin door.

Chapter 63

R
eilly hit the carpet with a muffled thud and went ballistic. He was bucking and writhing furiously to free himself from the grasp of the South African, twisting his body left and right while alternating bent knees with sudden kicks despite having both ankles tightly anchored together. Each twist and each kick sent pain ricocheting through him, but he just ignored it and kept fighting. Then from somewhere behind him, the Iranian moved in. Using his good arm, he put Reilly in a choke hold. Reilly was now restrained from both ends and had to fight even harder. The choke was vise-tight, but after several manic twists and lunges, he managed to slip out of the South African’s grip. Using his palms to balance himself, he lashed out at the man with big, two-legged kicks, keeping him at bay while flicking backward head butts to try to hurt Zahed.

“Christ, I thought you were going to sedate the fucker,” the South African blurted as he tried to wrest control of Reilly’s legs.

“No,” the Iranian said, struggling to keep Reilly’s neck tied down with his elbow, “I want him fully awake. I want him to feel every second of it with a clear mind.”

This only spurred Reilly further as he swung his legs wildly, aiming for the South African’s face. His position was too awkward to really put much sting in the kicks, and the man kept blocking them before they connected. Then Reilly decided to double his efforts on the Iranian’s front. The Iranian was the weaker of the two. One decent hit there could be a game-changer.

He had to land it first.

He snapped his head furiously from side to side, like a marlin fighting off a heavy line, trying to shake the Iranian’s grip, widening the strike zone Zahed needed to keep clear of—then he sensed the man within reach and bucked back, arcing his head backward as suddenly and as viciously as he could. The back of his skull connected with some part of the Iranian’s face. He couldn’t tell where it hit, but it was hard enough for him to hear the splatter and feel Zahed’s grip falter. Reilly moved quickly and squirmed his head under the man’s elbow. The Iranian tried to recover, but Reilly’s head has already slipped partially through the man’s bent elbow.

He bit into it like a rabid dog.

Zahed cursed with pain and flicked his arm up, but Reilly wouldn’t let go, sinking his teeth even deeper into the man’s forearm. But focusing on the Iranian made him lose focus on the other man who moved in and managed to hook his arms around Reilly’s ankles, reining him in again. Then Zahed freed his elbow and drove it back down into the base of Reilly’s ear, rattling his head again and allowing the Iranian to put his choke hold back on.

Reilly kept twisting and bucking, but they had him solidly locked in as they wrangled him past the hoard of ancient texts and through the tight space between the two forward-facing club seats, before dumping him face-first onto the small clearing between those and the two rear-facing ones. The floor of the cabin was way too narrow for him to fit across it. They twisted him around so he was lying diagonally, his feet by the front right seat, his head only inches from the base of the cabin door.

“You gonna be able to hold him?” the South African asked.

“Just do what you have to do,” Zahed said, breathing hard as he straddled Reilly’s back, his weight driving Reilly’s tied arms into his back and Zahed’s right forearm—the good one—pressing across the base of his neck, barely allowing Reilly to breathe. “I’ve got him.”