The Skies Belong to Us by Brendan I. Koerner

Author:Brendan I. Koerner [Koerner, Brendan I.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-88612-5
Publisher: Crown Publishing Group
Published: 2013-06-17T16:00:00+00:00

FLIGHT 364 WAS now so close to Maison Blanche Airport that Holder could make out the beaches along the Mediterranean, still full of bathers soaking up the day’s last rays of sunshine. He became ecstatic at the prospect of stretching out in the sand and splashing in the surf. He knew the stars had steered him right by guiding him to Algiers.

“See, this is a place where a man like me can be free,” he told the crew, a huge smile stretched across his face. “The only place I can be free.”

Newell asked Holder if he might consider leaving the money on the plane so it could be returned to Western Airlines. If he did so, Newell said, the American authorities might let him live in peace. But Holder chuckled at the notion of relinquishing $500,000 without a fight.

“Sorry,” he told Newell. “Money’s not for me. It’s for the poor and needy people all around the world. And maybe if I live that long, I’ll buy myself my own airline someday.”

The plane landed at Maison Blanche at 6:57 p.m. local time. As it rolled to a stop on runway 22, it was surrounded by at least a dozen military vehicles, each crammed with soldiers. A black sedan pulled up to the boarding stairs that were positioned by the plane’s front door. Out stepped a trim man with beady eyes, wearing an extravagantly expensive suit. He walked to the foot of the stairs and waited, his interpreter by his side.

In the plane’s cockpit, Holder was too excited to bid a proper farewell. “I left you something in the oven,” he told Luker. Then he flung the canvas bag full of money over his right shoulder and walked back into the cabin.

Holder found Cathy Kerkow in row 19, gazing out the window at the soldiers who had surrounded the plane. “You go out first, alone,” he said. “They won’t shoot at no woman.”

Kerkow turned away from the window and stared deep into Holder’s eyes. “Roger,” she said, “we walk out there together.” It was clear from her emphatic tone that she would settle for nothing less.

As the couple approached the front door, Holder paused to remove his shoes and socks. He wanted the world to see him in bare feet, a flourish meant to make his emergence from the plane that much more dramatic.

Just like a runaway slave, he thought.

Halfway down the boarding stairs, Holder was met by the man in the finely tailored suit. The man’s interpreter translated his rapid-fire French: “Welcome to Algeria. My name is Salah. You are home now, brother. We are going to be friends. Very good friends.”

What choice do I have? thought Holder as he followed Salah Hidjeb down the stairs toward the waiting black sedan. Before he and Kerkow entered the car, a soldier motioned for Holder to hand over the Samsonite briefcase that was still in his left hand. Holder did so gingerly, and the soldier made sure to avoid putting undue pressure on the copper wire.

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