realize he was trying to override the automatic pilot with brute

strength when only twenty-five pounds of pressure was required to

overpower it.

The sharp, cold air made the glacier appear near enough to reach out and

touch. He pushed the throttles forward and hauled back on the control

column again. It gave sluggishly, like the wheel of a speeding car that

lost its power steering, and inched back.

With agonizing slowness the Boeing lifted its nose and swept past the

icy peak with less than a hundred feet to spare.

Down on the glacier, the man who had murdered the bona fide Flight 106

pilot, Date Lemk, in London and taken his place, peered into the

distance through a pair of night glasses. The northern lights had faded

to a dim glow, but the uneven rim of the Hofsjokull still showed against

the sky.

The air was hushed with expectancy. The only sounds came from the

two-man crew who were loading the flights transmitter beacon into the

hull of a helicopter.

Suleiman Aziz Arnmar's eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and he

could make out the broken ridges scarring the wall of the ice floe.

Ammar stood like a statue, counting the seconds, waiting for the small

speck of flame that would mark the crash of Flight 106. But the distant

fireball did not materialize.

Finally Ammar lowered the glasses and sighed. The stillness of the

glacier spread around him, cold and remote. He pulled off the

gray-haired wig and threw it into the darkness. Next he removed a pair

of specially handcrafted boots and took out the four-inch risers in the

heels. He became aware of his servant and friend, Ibn Telmuk, standing

beside him.

"Good makeup job, Suleiman, I wouldn't recognize you," said Ibn, a

swarthy type with a curly mass of ebony hair. "The equipment loaded?"

Ammar asked.

"All secured. Was the mission a success?"

"A minor miscalculation. The plane somehow cleared the crest. Allah

has given Miss Kamil a few more minutes of life."

"Akhmad Yazid will not be pleased."

"Kamil will die as planned," Annnar said confidently. "Nothing was left

to chance."

"The plane still flies."

"Even Allah can't keep it in the air indefinitely."

"You have failed," said a new voice.

Ammar swung and stared into the frozen scowl of Muhammad Ismail. The

Egyptian's round face was a curious blend of malevolence and childish

innocence. The beady black eyes gazed with evil intensity over a heavy

mustache, but they lacked the power of penetration. Bravado without

substance, a facade of toughness, pulling a trigger was his only skill.

Ammar had had little choice in working with lsmail. The obscure village

mullah had been forced on him by Akhmad Yazid. The Islamic idol hoarded

his trust Re a miser, rationing it out only to those he believed

possessed a fighting spirit and a traditionalist's devotion to the

original laws of Islam. Firm religious traits meant more to Yazid than

competency and professionalism.

Ammar professed to being a true believer of the faith, but Yazid was