Chapter 5: Revelation

They crept closer to the jet. There were two sentries standing guard by the steps leading to an open hatch near the rear of the aircraft. They were talking and laughing, seemingly unaware that they were being stalked.

Number Six took the guard on the left, Number Seventy-Seven took the guard on the right. With silence and efficiency, they rendered the guards unconscious. Number Six and Number Seventy-Seven dragged the sentries' limp bodies to a ditch away from the jet.

"Your educated guess was right; my fellow was armed," announced Number Six, as he pulled a pistol from the guard's body. Number Six examined his pistol quickly. It was the real thing, and it was loaded.

Number Seventy-Seven took up a pistol as well. "So was mine. Let's go!"

Number Seventy-Seven and Number Six charged to the jet, bounded up the steps, and ducked into the hatch. They quickly made their way toward the front of the jet, between dozens of crates stacked on each side of the centre aisle.

They found a pilot and a copilot in the cockpit, going over a checklist.

His newfound pistol at the ready, Number Six said, "Now, you two be good chaps, and not make trouble for us, right?"

The startled pilot and copilot turned, and when they saw pistols pointed at them, raised their hands. "Wh— who the devil are you?"

"We are your passengers," replied Number Seventy-Seven. "And we are most anxious to get to London. Please make all preparations to get underway, won't you?"

The pilot and copilot exchanged frightened looks, then the pilot spoke to the copilot. "Close the hatch, Gerry. Let's get ready for takeoff."

"I'll be watching you, Gerry," warned Number Seventy-Seven. "Please don't do anything foolish."

The copilot and Number Seventy-Seven made their way to the rear of the aircraft, leaving Number Six with the pilot.

"How soon can you take off?" Number Six inquired.

"Alm— almost immediately. As soon as we taxi to the runway. But sir, you mentioned taking you to London? We cannot do that, sir."

"Why the devil not?"

"We've been warned, sir, and warned in the most serious fashion, not to deviate from our proper course, sir. Our next destination will not take us in the direction of London, sir."

"What is your next destination?"

"Na— Nassau, sir, in the Bahamas. We have cargo to drop off there, sir, as well as cargo to pick up."

The copilot and Number Seventy-Seven returned. The copilot took his seat and donned his headphones. "Hatch closed and secured," announced Number Seventy-Seven. "So let's get going, shall we?"

The pilot nodded. There was a slight lurch as the aircraft began to roll.

"We seem to have another problem," grumbled Number Six. "They won't fly us to London."

"Oh?" Number Seventy-Seven leveled his pistol at the pilot's head. "You won't fly us to London, eh? Let us discuss that."

"It's— it's not a question of won't, sir," sputtered the pilot. "It's a question of can't. A course change of that kind would be noticed immediately, sir."

"I know from experience," said Number Six, "that they have ways of stopping aircraft that do not fly where they're supposed to fly. Unless we can get away from here without making it look like an unauthorized flight, well, let's just say I don't fancy our chances."

"Well, where is this plane supposed to fly? Someplace else in Europe?"

The pilot gulped. "To the Car— the Caribbean, sir."

"Nassau," Number Six clarified.

Number Seventy-Seven cursed under his breath, then abruptly ordered, "Get this plane in the air. It looks like we're heading to the Caribbean, then."

"Nassau is going to make things difficult," Number Six remarked. "We will be arriving there with no credentials, no identification, and worst of all, no money. We may be stuck in the Bahamas for a very, very long time. At least, if we were going to London, there would be people I could call who would help us."

The copilot suddenly spoke: "Captain, X-Ray wants to know why we're moving."

The pilot responded: "Tell them that we think there's enough of a break in the fog, and that we're behind schedule as it is."

"But, Captain," protested the copilot.

"Just tell them!"

The copilot did as he was instructed. A few seconds later, he addressed the pilot. "X-Ray says go ahead, Captain."

"Would that all airfields be that accommodating," the pilot said dryly.

"Tell me something," Number Seventy-Seven said to the pilot. "We're in the East Atlantic, aren't we?"

"Yes, sir, east side of the Atlantic Ocean."

"We need to fly across the ocean to get to the Bahamas?"

"Yes, sir."

"Could we fly in the direction of the Bahamas, and then, when we're about ninety minutes out, turn south and make for Kingston, Jamaica?"

Number Six clenched his jaw.

The pilot hemmed and hawed: "Well, sir, that's not— that's not our—"

"Could you do it? Would you have enough fuel? Would you be able to navigate to Kingston?"

"Yes, sir, I— I— I could do it."

"Then that is what we are going to do. By the time anyone realizes we've changed destinations, it will be too late to stop us."

Number Six could not keep his peace. "Bad idea!" he snarled.

Number Seventy-Seven seemed to be surprised by Number Six's reaction. "A bad idea, why?"

"In addition to the aforementioned practical hardships— we have no papers and no money— there is one other difficulty we face in Jamaica. We are both wanted men!"

"That was five years ago!"

"But I would wager the Jamaicans would still remember! Do you fancy being stuck in a Jamaican jail cell? I do not!"

"But I know someone in Jamaica who can fix things for us. Just as there are people you could call in London, I have someone I can call in Kingston. He's extremely resourceful. He'd get us everything we need."

"Even if he is able to help you, he might not be inclined to help me."

"Oh, he ought to. He knows you. And you know him. Do you remember Fisher, the photographer, the artist?"

"Fisher: was he that very annoying little man with the glasses?"

"Yes."

"The pest who kept trying to hawk his amateur paintings and whose photography studio could have been mistaken for a disaster area?"

"Yes, that's the fellow. He was my contact; quite a brilliant chap. In Jamaica, he's the one who got me everything I needed. He's the one who arranged for our escapes from the country. If there's anyone who can fix things for us, Fisher can."

The pilot turned around. "Did you hear that, sir?"

Number Two's voice answered. "I most certainly did. You may stop the aircraft, Captain."

Number Seventy-Seven and Number Six turned to see Number Two walking toward them, wearing a satisfied grin. Two armed men followed, and as they reached the cockpit, the two armed men flanked Number Two.

The aircraft came to a gentle halt. Its engines started to wind down.

"You may drop your weapons, gentlemen," Number Two advised pleasantly. "They are not functional firearms."

Number Six let his pistol fall to the floor with a thud. Number Seventy-Seven held on to his.

"So, it was Fisher," said Number Two. "The bespectacled photographer and artist from Kingston who was your contact in Jamaica. I must say, his cover was outstanding. He has my respect and admiration."

Number Seventy-Seven raised his pistol, pointed it at the ceiling of the aircraft, and pulled the trigger. The pistol clicked harmlessly. Number Seventy-Seven held out the useless pistol to Number Two, who took it.

"You have my respect and admiration as well, Number Seventy-Seven," Number Two continued. "Your escape-by-raft misdirection was most convincing. Did you know that when the fog rolled in this morning, I devoted two-thirds of our resources to monitoring your escape by water? Not to stop you, but rather, to make sure your raft escape would be a success! Oh, it was all arranged. The two of you'd be at sea for, oh, three days, then you'd get picked up by a cargo vessel on its way to the Caribbean. Of course, when I realized that you weren't really planning to escape by sea, I alerted the other possible places you might try to go. It didn't matter which escape plan you had; you'd succeed, and you'd be sent to the Caribbean, and naturally, you'd need to seek help from your contact in Jamaica."

Number Seventy-Seven had gone pale. "That was the information you wanted? The identity of my contact in Jamaica?"

Number Two grinned in response, then with a gesture signaled one of his armed men to take Number Seventy-Seven away. The armed man seized Number Seventy-Seven's wrist, and pulled him.

Number Seventy-Seven offered no resistance, but as he was being led away, he pleaded with Number Two: "Don't kill Fisher. For the love of all that is holy, don't hurt him! He's a good man! He has a family! He was just doing his job!"

The grin was gone from Number Two's face. "I am sorry, but I can make you no promises. My role is to acquire the information; others will decide what to do with it."

With that, Number Seventy-Seven was dragged past the rows of crates— some of them now opened, Number Six noticed— and Number Seventy-Seven disappeared from view.

Number Six wondered if he would ever see the man again.

Number Two turned to Number Six. "Thank you for your assistance, Number Six. We couldn't have done it without you."

Number Six was working mightily to keep his emotions in check. "So he was the target of this little operation of yours; not I."

"Yes. Shall we go?"

Number Two walked toward the rear of the aircraft, with Number Six following, and the armed man just behind. As they passed the opened crates, Number Six remarked, "Ah, so you were waiting for us inside these boxes. Must have been stifling." After getting no response from Number Two, Number Six added, "Although I doubt you were confined in there for very long. That was your helicopter we heard arriving, wasn't it, just before we got here?"

Number Two smiled but said nothing. He reached the open rear hatch and began to make his way down the stairs. Number Six scanned the surroundings to see whether he could catch one last glimpse of Number Seventy-Seven, but he was nowhere to be seen. At the bottom of the steps, however, were the two guards that Number Seventy-Seven and Number Six had rendered unconscious.

As he passed the guards, Number Six said to them: "My apologies, chaps. It was nothing personal."

The guards said nothing.

"The helicopter will be returning presently," Number Two remarked pleasantly. "Perhaps when we get back to the Village, you will join me for luncheon?"

"I have no appetite," replied Number Six. "If I may be permitted a small observation, you must have been planning this operation for quite some time."

"Yes, we have been. The idea occurred to one of my predecessors, when he learned that the two of you had worked together quite closely in Jamaica. Do you want to know what the most difficult part of our plan was? Getting Number Seventy-Seven to trust you. Once he was reasonably certain that you could be trusted, we were confident that he would approach you and seek your assistance to escape."

"He trusted me, did he? Pity. I was never quite able to put all my trust in him. I thought he might appear to be a prisoner, while he was actually doing work for you."

Number Two laughed. "So, in Number Seventy-Seven's quaint terminology, you thought he might be a 'mask,' did you?"

"Yes."

"How odd, then, that the one who was actually doing our work for us, the principal 'mask' in this operation, Number Six... was you."

THE END