Depraved Indifference by Robert K. Tanenbaum Page A

means sure that the deal he had struck would hold. Pillman was obviously running his own game. Karp was dying to find out what it was, but had no levers to pry it out of the FBI as long as the Bureau kept up the appearance of cooperation. Which they were doing, for now, but it remained an open flank.
    The other source of worry was the cops. He called Denton from a phone booth and brought him up to date on the case.
    Denton asked, “You getting good cooperation from my guys?”
    â€œYeah, sure, the best. Only, ah …”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’m getting funny feelings about Arson and Explosion. Are you sure everybody’s playing on the same team?”
    â€œWhat do you mean? Pete Hanlon’s solid.”
    â€œRight. But I hear he’s casting aspersions that the bomb blast might be the result of incompetence on the part of his own men.”
    There was a long pause on the line. Then Denton said, “That’s bullshit. Anything else?”
    Karp sighed. The Blue Wall ran long and high. “Nothing. Except I’d like it made clear that my people collect all the evidence in this case directly from the source. Just in case.”
    â€œYou got it. By the way, you still think this case is a grounder?”
    Karp didn’t think so. It was more like one of those deceptive sinking fly balls behind second base that make backpedaling infielders and onrushing outfielders collide as it drops just out of reach.
    At high noon in Paris, although it was not a particularly hot day, the heat within the cabin of what had been Flight 501 had reached the debilitation zone. An airliner is a thermos bottle; without the cooling provided by its own or ground-based power a couple of dozen human bodies can boil themselves in their own heat within a surprisingly short time. The plane was also nearly out of water and food, and its toilets had stopped working. The cabin stank like a sewer pipe.
    Daphne West was by this time the only one of the cabin crew remaining fully functional. Alice had designated herself as the personal servant of the hijacker group, while Jerry was collapsed in an aisle seat, his face white and clammy with heat prostration.
    Most of the passengers were in the same state. Daphne had scrounged salt packets from the trash and had tried to force tepid salted water down several throats. She had tried to talk Karavitch into at least opening the doors, but he was adamant: security. He was afraid the police would rush the plane. For the same reason he was keeping all ground crew at a distance until a deal had been struck with the authorities, which meant no resupply of food and water. It occurred to her that the suffering of the passengers was another bargaining chip to him.
    She heard a crackling noise outside the plane. A few seconds later, the plane lurched and sank.
    She heard a cry of rage. “Blow them up! Blow them up, the bastards!” Macek was dancing around in the aisle, trying to wrench the pot bomb away from the little guy with glasses, who had it clutched to his bosom. More shouts in that foreign language followed. Daphne heard Alice’s shrill scream over the shouts, and the agonized mooing of the passengers.
    Once again Karavitch restored calm. He waded into the scuffle between his compatriots, shoved them back in their seats, and restored control of the pot to Rukovina. Then he hurried to the flight deck.
    When the tires were shot out, Karavitch understood that a certain portion of the initial plan would have to be abandoned. This did not upset him. He had never expected the reds to allow him to fly over their country. Still, it was well to open the bidding high; if you never gambled for high stakes, you never got rich. Also, the drama of it had made recruiting easier, and would make excellent propaganda in the Croatian community.
    The question was, what to do now. The important thing was to keep out of the clutches of the Yugoslavs. Also, the French were not to be