"Yes, you did!" Ned Ordway leaned forward, close to Inez, his face aggressive. For the second time in this room tonight he exhibited nothing of kindness; only the rough, tough savagery of a policeman who needed an answer and would get it. He shouted, "Don't try holding back or lying! It won't work. Tell me what it was you thought." As Inez whimpered: "Never mind that! Tell me!"
"Tonight... I didn't think of it before... the things..."
"The dynamite and caps?"
"Yes."
"You're wasting time! What about them?"
Inez whispered, "They were gone!"
Tanya said quietly, "I have your call, Lieutenant. They're holding."
No one among the others spoke.
Ordway nodded, his eyes still fixed on Inez. "Did you know that tonight, before your husband's flight took off, he insured himself heavily---very heavily indeed---naming you as beneficiary?"
"No, sir. I swear I don't know anything..."
"I believe you," Ordway said. He stopped, considering, and when he spoke again his voice grated harshly.
"Inez Guerrero, listen to me carefully. We believe your husband has those explosives, which you've told us about, with him tonight. We think be carried them onto that Rome flight, and, since there can be no other explanation for having them there, that he intends to destroy the airplane, killing himself and everyone else aboard. Now, I've one more question, and before you answer, think carefully, and remember those other people---innocent people, including children---who are on that flight, too. Inez, you know your husband; you know him as well as anyone alive. Could he... for the insurance money; for you... could he do what I have just said?"
Tears streamed down Inez Guerrero's face. She seemed near collapse, but nodded slowly.
"Yes." Her voice was choked. "Yes, I think he could."
Ned Ordway turned away. He took the telephone from Tanya and began speaking rapidly in a low tone. He gave information, interspersed with several requests.
Once Ordway paused, swinging back to Inez Guerrero. "Your apartment is going to be searched, and we'll get a warrant if necessary. But it will be easier if you consent. Do you?"
Inez nodded dully.
"Okay," Ordway said into the telephone, "she agrees." A minute or so later he hung up.
Ordway told the D.T.M. and Mel, "We'll collect the evidence in the apartment, if there's any there. Apart from that, at the moment, there isn't a lot we can do."
The D.T.M. said grimly, "There isn't a lot any of us can do, except maybe pray." His face strained and gray, he began writing a new message for Flight Two.
PART THREE Chapter Nine
THE HOT hors d'oeuvres, which Captain Vernon Demerest had called for, had been served to the pilots of Flight Two. The appetizing assortment on a tray, brought by one of the stewardesses from the first class galley, was disappearing fast. Demerest grunted appreciatively as he bit into a lobster-and-mushroom tartlet garnished with Parmesan cheese.
As usual, the stewardesses were pursuing their campaign to fatten the skinny young second officer, Cy Jordan. Surreptitiously they had slipped him a few extra hors d'oeuvres on a separate plate behind the two captains and now, while Jordan fiddled with fuel crossfeed valves, his cheeks bulged with chicken livers in bacon.
Soon, all three pilots, relaxing in turn in the dimly lighted cockpit, would be brought the same delectable entree and dessert which the airline served its first class passengers. The only things the passengers would get, which the crew did not, were table wine and champagne.
Trans America, like most airlines, worked hard at providing an excellent cuisine aloft. There were some who argued that airlines---even international airlines---should concern themselves solely with transportation, gear their in-flight service to commuter standards, and dispense with frills, including meals of any higher quality than a box lunch. Others, however, believed that too much of modem travel had become established at box lunch level, and welcomed the touch of style and elegance which good airborne meals provided. Airlines received remarkably few complaints about food service. Most passengers---tourist and first class---welcomed the meals as a diversion and consumed them zestfully.
Vernon Demerest, searching out with his tongue the last succulent particles of lobster, was thinking much the same thing. At that moment the Selcal call chime sounded loudly in the cockpit and the radio panel warning light flashed on.
Anson Harris's eyebrows went up. A single call on Selcal was out of the ordinary; two within less than an hour were exceptional.
"What we need," Cy Jordan said from behind, "is an unlisted number."
Demerest reached out to switch radios. "I'll get it."