uniform, he looked like any one of ten thousand airline pilots who

captained international passenger jets.

He removed his identification from a breast pocket and handed it to the

security agent.

"Carrying VIPs this trip?" he asked innocently.

The British guard, correct, immaculately dressed, nodded. "A body of

United Nations people returning to New York including the new

Secretary-General."

"Hala Kamil?"

"Yes."

"Hardly the job for a woman."

"Sex didn't prove a hindrance for Prime Minister Thatcher."

"She wasn't in water over her head."

"Kamil is an astute lady. She'll do all right."

"Providing Moslem fanatics from her own country don't blow her away,"

replied the pilot in a decided American accent.

The Britisher gave him a strange look indeed but made no further comment

as he compared the photo on the I.D. card with the face before him and

read the name aloud. "Captain Dale Lemk."

"any problem?"

"No, simply preventing any," the guard replied flatly.

Lemk extended his arms. "Do you want to frisk me too?"

"Not necessary. A pilot would hardly hijack his own airplane. But we

must check your credentials, to be certain you're a genuine crew

member."

"I'm not wearing this uniform for a costume party."

"May we see your carry bag?"

"Be my guest." He set the blue nylon bag on the floor and opened it. The

second agent lifted out and riffled the pages of the standard pilot's

aircraft and flight operations manuals and then held up a mechanical

device with a small hydraulic cylinder.

"Mind telling us what this is?"

"An actuator arm for an oil-cooling door. It stuck in the open

position, and our maintenance people at Kennedy asked me to hand-carry

it home for inspection."

The agent poked at a bulky object tightly packed on the bottom of the

bag. "Hello, what do we have here?" Then he looked up, a curious

expression in his eyes. "Since when do airline pilots carry

parachutes?"

Lemk laughed. "My hobby is skydiving. Whenever I have an extended

layover, I jump with friends at Croydon."

"I don't suppose you would consider jumping from a jetliner?"

"Not from one flying five hundred knots at thirty-five thousand feet

over the Atlantic Ocean."

The agents exchanged satisfied glances. The duffel bag was closed and

the I.D. card was passed back.

"Sorry to have delayed you, Captain Lemk."

"I enjoyed the chat."

"Have a good flight to New York."

"Thank you."

Lemk ducked into the plane and entered the cockpit. He locked the door

and switched off the cabin lights so any casual observer could not view

his movements through the windows from the concourse above. In

well-rehearsed sequence, he knelt behind the seats, pulled a small

flashlight from his coat pocket and raised a trapdoor leading to the

electronics bay below the cockpit, a compartment that was named by some

long-forgotten joker as the "hell hole." He dropped down the ladder into

pure darkness, underscored by the murmur of the flight attendants'

voices as they prepared the main cabin for boarding and the thump of the