Killer Eve

(The Day of Flight 921, New York to Paris―JFK Airport)

Rain. Heavy rain. Wind gusts concentrated raindrops into undulating waves on the tarmac. Eve stared out her water-beaded Plexiglas window. The ugly metal terminal building and the concrete below flickered as trees of lightning flashed between clouds.

The parked airplane rocked sideways. This thing’s big―but I guess an airplane’s designed to be affected by the wind. I bet that huge tail sticking up in the air catches everything.

The aluminum cocoon seemed frail shelter from the storm.

No passengers hurried by as they would have in coach; pushing, talking, trying to find an overhead bin. Eve’s seat in business class, next to a window, was invitingly wide. The gray fabric was smooth and somber―its color matching her mood and the rain outside.

The plane seemed reluctant to leave. She looked at her watch, Already late―that’s JFK for you. Oh well, my first appointment’s not until that business dinner day after tomorrow.

Excuse me, is this seat taken?

Eve looked up at the young man wearing a striking azure Armani suit. Though conservatively cut, the unusual lighter blue color made it seem youthful and even a little daring. He sure has the looks to go with such an eye-catching suit. Short brown hair, brown eyes―although not as brown as mine―and trim physique. Maybe six foot two, and a beautiful, sonorous voice.

No, of course not. I’ll put my coat up.

No need, I’ll do it. James knew, of course, that the seat wasn’t taken; it was his assigned seat. He just wanted to be polite to the incredibly beautiful woman he would sit next to all the way to Paris. He carefully folded the waterproof rain jacket and with a sharp eye noticed the expensive jacket label.

My name is James Downey. I didn’t think I was going to make it―my flight from Dallas was 20 minutes late. Going to meet someone in Paris? The young man was smiling as he talked; shoving his briefcase under the seat in front.

And I’m Eve, she replied, offering her hand as she answered his question. Sort of, but this is primarily a business trip for two companies. I’m a consultant for both. I truly hate not telling the truth and nothing but the truth, but I guess providing direction to my companies is kind of like consulting. I’ve always enjoyed Paris though. I’ll probably take a few days off to see old friends, and just enjoy the city again.

Nice of the companies to let you do that.

Eve nodded her head, and gave a half-smile at the thought of her own companies graciously giving her time off. What I really want though is a return to the love and companionship I felt with Adam; that’s when I was happiest. Surely there is at least one more good, smart, ethical man on this planet.

She turned to the window at the sound of a fresh torrent of angry rain sweeping over aluminum skin. The two enormous engines behind her spun inaudibly in the storm.

Rotating red lights under the airplane cast alternating water-color reflections on the wet tarmac. A flash of lightning suddenly illuminated a yellow baggage cart approaching, its driver hunched miserably over his toy tractor. Thunder followed the lightning flash and intruded into the cabin.

You have a great tan, been on vacation? James asked.

His normal voice came almost as a shock from the storm outside.

No, I’m Hispanic, Eve answered, turning to face him.

Trying to recover from his little faux pas, James asked, Are you okay, can I get you a drink? We probably have time before take-off. One of the reasons I like business class is they usually let you bend the rules a little.

Eve settled back and shook her head; long, black hair accentuating the shake. No, thank you, I’m fine. Eve looked past the young man at the other passengers in business class.

The family sitting across the aisle from Eve and James . . . weren’t okay. They weren’t fine. In fact, there was nothing okay or fine about any of the three family members.

The plane gave a slight jolt as it began to be pushed backwards.

Eve wondered, as she did before every flight, how such an enormous tube of metal, crammed with people and luggage, could possibly take to the air.

The large aircraft began moving forward, its powerful engines could now be heard but were muted by the rain.

A sudden onslaught of rain slashed across Eve’s plexiglas window, merging every drop into rivulets. Eve could see the taxiway through the window. Several curved, rain-slick yellow lines slid under the wing in seemingly random patterns. I hope the pilot knows where she’s going.

The heavy plane trundled down the concrete. Small blue lights appeared and disappeared on the edge of the concrete, blurred by rain but not yet by speed. We’ve been taxiing forever. Maybe it’s raining too hard to fly and the pilot’s just going to drive us to Paris.

Suddenly the giant aircraft braked. A book in James’ lap slid to the floor.

Ladies and gentlemen, the pilot announced in her hard-to-get-used-to feminine voice, the United Flight just ahead of us has unexpectedly decided to hold due to a minor maintenance problem. Please keep your seats. 

Eve could hear radio chatter in the background while the pilot was talking, but couldn’t understand it.

In business class there were three seats in the center, and a pair of seats on either side of the three. Eve and the young man sat in the second row, left of the center three seats. Eve had the window seat.

James, the young attorney who nevertheless was a full partner, began a discourse on the political leanings of different Supreme Court members.

Eve looked past James at the family’s young girl, maybe 10 years old, sitting in the nearest seat across the aisle. The girl’s hand had fallen from the armrest when the airplane braked―that’s what had caught her attention. The child was now slumped in her chair, arm dangling.

The father in the middle seat didn’t seem aware of his daughter’s condition, or anything else. He was just staring straight ahead, body rigid and . . . sweating. He wore a buttoned-to-the-top white shirt and Eve could see sweat beginning to stain the top of his collar. As she watched, a bead of sweat formed in his curly black hair, traveled down a sideburn, made its way through a thick stubble of beard, traveled parallel to a neck vein, and was absorbed into his collar.

As she leaned forward and pretended to look in the seat pocket in front of her, Eve stole a glance at the mother. The mother’s bowed head and hunched shoulders were covered by a long gray scarf. The middle-aged woman was wearing a down-to-the-ankles black dress of wool. Most noticeably though, her eyes were squeezed shut.

Eve took a safety information card for the Boeing 777 from the seat pocket. Instead of reading it, she thought, How did that man ever get past security? He fits every profile in the book: Middle Eastern, nervous . . . oh, right, they’re a family. Families probably aren’t part of any profile.

Maybe some Evian? the young man asked her.

What? I’m sorry, what did you say?

Water, would you like some water?

No. I mean no, thank you. I’m okay. Eve thought for a moment, James . . . I’m sorry, that is your name isn’t it? He nodded. James, we think of terrorists in the abstract, but what if you actually saw one? You know, in a nice, normal environment with lots of people around, which, come to think of it, probably is when you’d see a terrorist. What would you do?

Wow. What a leap from, ‘Can I get you a glass of water’ to terrorism. Maybe that’s not even a good subject to talk about on an airplane. Someone could overhear.

I’m really curious. What would you do?

I don’t know. Try to tell someone I guess. Can we change the subject?

Sure, no problem. I was just making conversation.

Well, like I was saying . . .

James continued to talk while Eve stared past him at the family.

. . . this is the first vacation I’ve had in four years, but it’s been worth it. Four years of 80 hour weeks, but now I’m the youngest partner in the history of Jenkins and Gilchrest.

That’s very nice for you, Eve said with no inflection in her voice, Your parents must be very proud. Eve never took her eyes from the family.

Oh they are. They paid for this vacation. Even offered me first class, but I wanted to show them I was mature and chose business class . . . excuse me, am I boring you? You keep looking around me.

No, I’m sorry again, it isn’t you. Eve leaned in towards him and spoke softly, It’s that family across from us. Their little girl seems ill, and the father and mother seem―distracted, nervous, distraught―I don’t really know how to describe them.

James Huntington Downey the third, or James―never Jim―turned his head and looked briefly at the family. So? They probably gave the kid too many tranquilizers to keep her quiet during the flight. More power to ‘em.

And the father next to her; the one who keeps touching his pen and sweating like it’s a hundred and ten in here?

Maybe he just signed a business deal that he’s nervous about.

And the mother who keeps her head bowed and eyes squeezed shut?

James glanced to his right a second time. Probably afraid of flying. Lots of foreigners are, especially women.

Um, maybe so, what sort of business did you say you were in?

James drew in a breath. He wasn’t used to women, even beautiful women, taking so little note of him. I am an attorney. A full partner in a major Dallas law firm.

Eve nodded her head, but again looked around him. The little girl’s eyes were now almost closed, and the father didn’t seem aware of anything except his damn pen. He must have touched that thing ten times in the last few minutes.

James, I think I’m going to ask them if their little girl is okay.

Yeah, whatever. Sometimes the prettier they are the ditzier, James thought to himself.

This is your pilot once again, the United plane ahead of us is still holding. They are next in line for take-off and probably don’t want to lose their place. Hopefully it will just be a few more minutes. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to go. 

Not seeing a flight attendant, who would have told her to sit down, Eve unbuckled and crossed in front of James. She stood in the aisle and looked more closely at the girl, Excuse me, sir. Is your little girl okay? It looks like she might be ill.

No, No. My daughter is fine. There is nothing wrong with her. The man spoke in a thick accent and continued staring straight ahead, only once moving his eyes sideways to glance at Eve. He never, even for a moment, looked at his daughter. The man also quickly put his hand over his pocket, the one with the pen. His wife never acknowledged Eve; only squeezing her eyes even tighter.

Well, James said as Eve returned to her seat, satisfied? Oh, and you might want to buckle your seat belt. One of these days we might actually take off.

Eve didn’t answer. She wasn’t satisfied. If Adam were here he’d know what to do. For a moment she felt a physical pang, missing Adam.

The situation with the plane in front of us is that they are still having a little problem. Nothing involving flight safety or they would have returned to the gate. The good news is we have plenty of gas and I’ll speed up a little over the ocean. We should arrive in Paris right on time. Let the flight attendants know if you need anything.  The pilot’s voice had a slight edge to it. Anyone could tell she was irritated at the plane in front of her.

I bet the pilot wishes she had a horn, James joked.

Eve flicked a smile, but motion outside the window caught her attention. She turned and through the rain-speckled plexiglass watched the lights of another plane as it began its takeoff. Lightning briefly stenciled the airplane against the runway as it began gathering speed. The lights suddenly lifted upwards, as if anxious to get out of the rain.

Eve was still staring at the empty darkness when she heard an, Excuse me. Turning, she became aware of a young woman passenger, about her own age, standing in the aisle.

The young woman tentatively smiled at Eve. She was well-dressed―and Eve recognized her gray striped navy business suit as one of last year’s Eve Stecher creations. The athletic-looking blonde was toned, if not muscular, and almost as tall as Eve’s six feet.

James also turned and looked up at her.

Excuse me, are you Eve Stecher? the woman asked.

Eve returned her smile, Yes, I am.

I knew it. You are so gorgeous and elegant in person. And I love your outfit.

Eve laughed. I always travel in jeans. I save my outfits for business.

That’s so cool. I just love the Eve Stecher collection. This is the only one I have; I bought it with my year-end bonus. I’d wear jeans too, except I’m traveling with a partner of the firm.

Eve crossed over James’ knees again to talk to the young woman, I like the color you picked, it looks good on you.

I think all law firms―I’m an attorney by the way―passed a law for women’s business clothes. Three colors only, take your pick.

Eve laughed understandingly and looked closer at the woman’s outfit. All my skirts are longer, so you don’t have to tug at the hem when you sit.

I just hate it when the senior partner stares at my legs. The old goat.

Eve smiled an understanding smile.

Is this a custom shirt? the woman asked about her own outfit.

It is. What’s different about it is the length. It doesn’t become untucked for a tall person. The sleeves are also longer so you don’t have to pull at them. And the shoulders are a bit broader, with arms somewhat fuller to allow for more muscle. There’re special blouses available if you’re a swimmer and need even more shoulder room. Oh, and all the jackets have extra fabric in the shoulders for the same reason.

I love that!

Thank you.

Would it be possible for you to sign my magazine? The blonde woman asked as she held out a Wall Street Journal Magazine. A page of the magazine featured Eve in a business suit, walking away from a Humphrey Bogart look-alike. Eve’s long black hair flowed behind her as she crossed the tarmac towards a DC-3. The page had Eve Stecher’s signature at the end of the copy.

Eve signed the magazine with a signature matching the one printed in the magazine.

So, you’re a famous model, with a clothing line named after you. No wonder you didn’t pay any attention to me, a lowly attorney.

You don’t watch much TV, do you? Eve asked, rather than responding to his question.

Oh yeah, 80 hours a week for four years left me a lot of time for ‘American Idol.’ Why?

Nothing. It’s not important.

Eve felt a little ashamed by her rudeness and now answered his question, I’m not a model. I only pose for the one line of clothing: the Eve Stecher line. I saw a niche for attractive clothing that young, fit, taller women would want to wear for business. And since I’m tall, and not anorexic, I decided I would model the line.

You sound like you own the clothing company.

Eve hesitated, almost giving away the fact that she did indeed own it. Madame Daladier, her manager, was a woman who used to have her favorite dress store in Paris, and was particularly nice when she and Adam lived in that magical city. More importantly, Madame Daladier had once loaned her a family heirloom diamond necklace, recently appraised at over a million dollars, just to make a special night at the opera with Adam even more special. Eve trusted her.

The company is managed by a good friend of mine and we often talk, Eve belatedly answered. She’s one of the both business and personal reasons I’m going to Paris tonight.

James’ briefcase under the seat in front of him suddenly became a leather music box. Guess I forgot to turn my phone off, he said.

Eve grinned and asked, A cavalry charge?’

James colored, embarrassed. He took the phone out, turned it off, and hastily stuffed it in his shirt pocket.

 "Okay, everyone," the pilot interrupted, ground control just advised me that the United plane ahead of us has a handle on its maintenance problem. It will only be another five or ten minutes. 

Groans echoed throughout the airplane.

Eve looked again to her right. The girl’s eyes were still partially open, but now she was blinking frequently to keep them that way. The father’s collar was sweat-stained almost half way down. He reached up to touch his fountain pen again. The woman had yet to open her eyes.

If only Adam were here, he’d do . . . something.

How long have you been married?

What? Sorry, what did you ask?

Your ring, James said. I just now noticed your ring.

I’m a widow. I still like wearing it though—it reminds me of him.

I’m sorry for your loss, James replied, echoing every TV show in the last five years.

How did you make partner in such a big law firm, other than working long hours? Eve asked. I’m sure others worked long hours too. That will give me some peace, she thought.

. . . so the judge’s decision supported my unprecedented interpretation of Blake versus Shell Oil, and the firm made 26.2 million dollars. The next week I was made partner.

James continued talking but Eve tuned him out.

Eve looked at the girl’s father and saw he was close to panic. His head never moved but his eyes moved wildly, his breath came in short bursts.

The reality is, Eve said to herself, Adam is not here. And if anything is to be done, I’m probably going to have to be the one to do it. No one else seems to notice the man, his strange behavior, or his just as strange family.

Not wanting to make a decision just yet, Eve took a cell phone from her purse to check for messages.

James looked over Eve’s shoulder at the wallpaper photo on her phone, That can’t be your son. He’s way too old.

It was a picture of Marvin, the son of Adam’s daughter. Eve looked at the picture and became wistful. He’s beginning to look just like Adam. Such a great kid, I hope we can keep up our relationship as he gets older.

Eve looked directly at James. She was getting a little tired of this, youngest partner in a big law firm. Even though he had every reason to be proud, she wasn’t in the mood to listen. Looking James straight in the eye, she said, He’s not my son. He’s my grandson.

James Huntington Downey the Third slowly straightened his back against the seat, silent for the first time.

Out of the corner of her eye Eve could see that the little girl’s father still touching his pen, over and over.

Eve made a decision. Time to put on my big girl panties. She shut her phone off, knowing she shouldn’t have had it on in the first place, and rose from her seat.

James didn’t even look at her as she crossed in front of him. She began walking forward, toward a flight attendant coming out of a galley.

That family next to me, Eve said to the young female flight attendant before she could be told to return to her seat. The little girl seems ill, and I think her father is ready to have a panic attack.

Eve watched the flight attendant in her smart, powder-blue suit with a little throat scarf make the short trip down the aisle to where the family sat. Eve could hear her ask the man, Is everything okay? Can I bring you anything? If your daughter isn’t feeling well, I can contact a doctor.

The flight attendant got the same response from the father that Eve had, only stronger, No! No! We are fine! Leave us alone!

Eve could plainly hear the man’s loud voice as he answered the flight attendant. The flight attendant glanced back at Eve―then shrugged her shoulders.

As she returned up the aisle, she passed Eve with a smile, but without saying a word. The flight attendant disappeared back into the small galley.

Eve started to return to her seat, but hesitated. Is this all Adam would have done? Just report it? Then meekly give up? Something is plainly wrong with that family and something needs to be done. Adam had always told her to trust her instincts.

She came up with a plan and turned to the galley’s entrance. May I have a double scotch please, no ice?

I shouldn’t, the flight attendant replied with a smile. But I guess this delay is making us all a little nervous. I’ll get you one, or rather two, in the same glass. No charge. The young woman had recognized Eve and hoped to talk with her once things settled down and they were in the air. Maybe she could get a discount on one of those fabulous outfits.

Here goes nothing, Eve thought as she took the glass of scotch from the flight attendant. Eve began walking down the aisle, involuntarily jerking her head as she got a whiff of the pungent liquid.

Eve stopped, facing the family. James looked over at her curiously as she stood in the aisle next to him.

Eve spoke to the father, Your girl looks like she might be getting worse. May I take a look at her?

The olive-skinned man turned his head and looked at Eve for the first time. He forced himself to moderate his voice, She is fine. You must go. No help. We do not need help. He covered his pen as he spoke.

It will just take a minute, maybe she has a fever. Here, let me take her pulse.

Eve reached for the girl’s thin arm.

No! Stop! You must stop! the man shouted, all moderation forgotten.

Eve lifted the girl’s arm. Her little hand dangled loosely. I think she might have a fever. Let me take off this sweater. Eve began to unbutton the girl’s heavy wool sweater.

The father cried out, Get away! You American whore with tight pants and exposed hair! You evil woman! Leave us!

The father jumped to his feet―there was room between the seats to do so in business class―and tried to push Eve away.

Eve pushed back. Hey, I’m just trying to help.

The man swung at Eve. She twisted sideways; and, considerably taller than the man, easily took the ineffective blow on her shoulder. Then, seemingly by accident, but with great care, Eve spilled her drink on the man’s shirt. Directly over his fountain pen.

He screamed like a woman! Panting, he stared at Eve.

A flight attendant, coming from behind the coach curtain, was just in time to see the man hit Eve—followed by the scuffle and scream. She picked up the phone to alert the flight crew.

A SWAT team, sitting in their van for almost five hours due to a previous intelligence alert, rolled toward the airplane as a precaution—grateful for the break in boredom.

The Mideastern father took the pen from his pocket and shook off the scotch, speaking softly―menacingly―just for Eve. You have ruined everything. Now I will meet Allah stinking of your vile alcohol. If I cannot kill everyone, at least I can send you to hell and us to paradise.

Gripping the polished metal of the fountain pen, he raised his hand as if to stab Eve.

Eve noticed with part of her mind that his thumb pushed in the pen’s cap.

Everyone in business class froze at the screaming, shoving, hitting match breaking out amongst them.

Everyone except James.

James’ cell phone was already out of his pocket. He had begun recording everything from the moment the man first started yelling for Eve to stop. He thought perhaps he could represent the family in a lawsuit against Eve.

Eve put her left hand up to stop the downward thrust of the pen. But the man ignored her and seemed to be trying to shove her aside. Eve grabbed his right wrist with her left hand. The pen was now held high as they struggled, as if in some sort of strange strength contest.

She could smell his sweaty body odor, mixed with scotch.

Eve bumped the sitting girl’s legs, knocking them sideways; the girl fell prone on her seat. He must have sedated his daughter. Just-closed eyes popped opened as her head bounced on the seat cushion. She now stared upwards at the struggle taking place.

There’s a carry-on under my feet, that’s probably where the bomb is. The bag prevented Eve from turning and holding the man’s arm with both hands.

The man’s hairy, muscular right arm was winning against Eve’s left hand. He grinned maniacally, showing yellow teeth. The pen slowly lowered, closer to the bag under the seat.

He began yelling in what was surely Arabic.

The pen was now level with Eve’s chest. James’ cell phone camera recorded the little girl’s wide eyes staring at the descending pen.

I’m not sure what his pen means, but it must be connected with the bomb. Despite Eve’s strength his arm continued inexorably downwards.

Instead of continuing to try turning her body so she could use both hands, Eve remembered what Adam had done to deck a large man in a St. Moritz disco’s unisex bathroom. She folded her right arm, right hand in front of her shoulder, then raised her arm parallel with the floor.

Stepping over the bag with her right foot, a motion giving even more power to her intended blow, she swung at the man’s nearby head with her elbow. The focused blow with the tip of her elbow was sufficient. Elbow met temple—and the man instantly went limp.

Eve was now holding him upright by clutching his wrist. She cautiously took the pen with her right hand as his fingers unfolded―still puzzled as to the pen’s exact meaning.

Eve's head was yanked back, hard! I can’t breathe! She felt the smooth fabric of someone’s arm digging roughly into her neck. Choking her.

A male flight attendant in first class, with a second degree black belt in judo, had heard a melee erupting from the other side of the first class/business class curtain. Hurrying to the source of the disturbance, he was just in time to see a young woman strike an older man. A family man.

The pen flew from Eve’s hand as her neck twisted sideways. She clawed at the attendant’s uniformed arm choking her. The thin but tall flight attendant, with no thought for the fact that Eve was a woman, threw her to the floor. Two passengers, encouraged by the authority of the attendant’s uniform, piled on top of her―a stray knee held Eve’s head immobile.

James climbed up onto his seat, to better capture everything now happening on the floor. His 8-megapixel cell phone camera gave sufficient clarity to actually view Eve’s face being pushed into the dirty carpet. Her skin broke against a pebble as it ground into her cheek.

Eve managed to free an arm from under the bodies on top of her. She began punching upwards at the man’s leg connected to the knee crushing her face. Get off me! Get! Off! Me! Each word was timed with a punch.

A brave man from coach threw back the connecting curtain to business class. Turning his head back towards coach he yelled to no one, to everyone, "They’re assaulting a woman up here!

More and louder screams and shouts ensued.

The microphone in James’ iPhone picked up the screams and shouts, as passengers in both business and tourist class became aware of a major problem―with no real idea as to its cause. First class remained quiet. The screaming made an electrifying audio background for James’ video.

Eve was once again being recorded in a fight.

An elderly, white-haired passenger, a doctor from first class, opened the curtain. Seeing that three people had someone securely down on the floor, he rushed to the unconscious man slumped over a little girl.

The doctor lightly pushed his fingertips into the man’s neck. Feeling nothing, he placed his ear to the sweat and scotch soaked shirt―searching for a heartbeat. He glanced at the man’s swarthy face, just in time to see pupils dilate and fanatical eyes become opaque.

No one can hear a word I’m saying in all this noise. All I’ve gotten for trying to warn people is a mouthful of carpet. I just hope no one has revived that lunatic. I know he’s got a bomb from what he said to me . . . if he gets his pen back . . .

Although the knee had moved, Eve’s face continued to be pressed into the carpet by his body.

A metal ramp banged hard against the airplane, surely denting it.

At least I can breathe even if I can’t talk, if that guy would just move.

An outside airplane door opened, releasing a flood of uniforms and plainclothes into the aisle.

A SWAT officer pushed a woman passenger aside with his rifle. The woman, terrified of guns, shrieked at the top of her lungs . . . and fainted. The cry that a woman had been killed went all the way to the rear of the airplane. Voices and bodies were now in a wild uproar.

An exit window over the wing loosened, but couldn’t be pulled inwards because of the crush of people trying to escape. The presence of heavily armed police added to the panic.

Eve was bodily lifted from the aisle floor by two Port Authority policemen in SWAT gear. Double locked handcuffs cut into her wrists.

Upright now, the two SWAT policemen had the problem of turning Eve so she faced forward, towards the airplane’s shared first and business class door. Uniformed police, plainclothes police, and federal agents―most with drawn guns―were jammed together in the narrow aisle. Getting everyone to reverse direction was a Herculean task.

From outside, the plane itself was rocking back and forth on its wheels, as if it were on top of a major earthquake.

I can’t tell where that guy is―I hope he’s not okay. Eve twisted in the arms of a SWAT officer, trying to break free so she could see the mid-Eastern man.

Hold her, dammit! the SWAT policemen yelled to his partner. She’s trying to get away!

I’m trying to . . . shit, she’s strong!

The first helmeted officer grabbed her handcuffs and yanked upwards. An incredible pain shot through Eve’s shoulders as she did a deep bow to escape the pressure. She almost blacked out, and momentarily stopped struggling.

The second officer bent over and locked his hands in a bear-hug around her, pulling her upright. His forward slung rifle dug painfully into her back. As the officer arched his back, Eve’s feet left the floor. She instinctively kicked a heel back, hitting a steel cup.

In anger, the cop twisted her―and she faced James for an instant.

James! Eve cried loudly over the incredible din. Find that pen, but be careful with it. James’ phone recorded her cry, along with the continuing fight.

The SWAT officer violently twisted her back around, and threw her head-first into his partner's arms. With his now free hands, he drew back for a kidney punch.

Knowing she had done everything possible, Eve went limp and sagged into the partner’s arms. The first officer stopped his punch and tightly gripped one of her arms with both hands. His partner grabbed her other arm. Together they began pushing and dragging her up the aisle.

A BOMB! Eve yelled at one of the helmets. Receiving no response, she turned to the other, THERE’S A BOMB ON THIS PLANE!

The officers gripped her arms tighter and hurried faster, not wanting to die themselves if a bomb did go off. Some passengers crowding the aisle were knocked sideways.

Hands tightly handcuffed behind her, and an airline blanket thrown over her torn blouse, Eve was now trying to walk―but tripped stepping from the plane onto the metal ramp.

So many hands instinctively reached for her that a bumped policeman tumbled backwards down the long ramp. His pistol, from an unsnapped holster, did an arcing somersault in the air. Many, many news cameras recorded the pandemonium.

No one could hear what Eve was trying to say.

Cameras and phones recorded the scene from almost every conceivable angle; the video that went viral, however, was taken a few minutes later by an enterprising cameraman. He had somehow gained access to the terminal’s roof and was shooting downwards as Eve was being walked across the tarmac, towards the terminal door below him.

The closeness of police and special agents meant Eve was constantly jostled as she was herded from the plane and across the tarmac. Halfway to the terminal one of the heavily geared SWAT officers stumbled against her and dislodged Eve’s blanket. No one could stop the many-legged mass as it trampled the blanket under boots and polished shoes.

Though surrounded by a phalanx of police and special agents, the telephoto lens of the roof cameraman captured a thoroughly soaked and handcuffed Eve. No buttons remained on her blouse and half was torn. A broken bra strap dangled like a single strand of spaghetti. Blood trickled from her cheek and made a blurry, crimson line as it traveled down the wet, white blouse.

Eve’s long, luxurious black hair was now straight; one twisted cable of hair, though, curled under a well-formed, exposed breast.

The cameraman on the roof zoomed in for a close-up of her cut face. He was careful in his zooming not to exclude Eve’s rippling bare breast. A chocolate brown, silver dollar size nipple showed prominently.

Unlike other individuals in such circumstances, Eve was walking with her head straight ahead. Rain splashing off a calm, level face.

Chapter Two

(One month prior to Flight 921, New York to Paris―Saudi Arabia)

"Marhaban," Prince Abid said into his satellite phone. He was comfortable in his villa almost 300 kilometers southeast of Riyadh, too far from the capital for normal cell phone coverage.

My Prince, Fawaaz said. I have important information. Are you alone?

"Ah, ashlan wa-sahlan, my good friend. Yes, I am completely alone, Fawaaz. What is the news?"

I am at the airport and am here to see Hasaan, my youngest brother, off. I just saw Prince Omar, the crown prince.

And why is that of interest to me, Fawaaz? Fawaaz was Prince Abid’s closest friend and first cousin. Short and thin with thick, unwashed hair badly cut by one of his wives, Fawaaz wore clothes discarded by clients with growing teen-agers. His lips, the color of a pencil eraser, showed a gold tooth whenever he drew them apart in an ingratiating smile.

Prince Abid knew he was smiling now and was grateful Fawaaz was talking to him on the telephone and not in person. His horrendous breath was legendary. Abid kept toothbrushes and mouthwash for him if he visited for more than a few minutes.

Prince Omar is clean shaven and dressed in Western clothes.

Prince Abid laughed heartily. I have never known you to joke, my friend. Truly you bring me merriment today.

It is true, Fawaaz said. This man has a scar on the back of his neck precisely like the cut Prince Omar sustained in a car accident. If you remember we visited him ten years ago in the National Guard hospital. You were angry that an American paramedic stitched him with large stitches rather than one of our doctors doing it with great care.

"Of course I remember the hospital visit. But Prince Omar always has thick stubble and would never be dressed in anything but a thobe, with a red and white checked keffiyeh."

My Prince, I know Prince Omar, and Hassan has seen him also―although they have never met. We both swear to you that it is Prince Omar.

This is astonishing news, Fawaaz. Is Prince Omar arriving, or departing?

He is leaving. He is sitting at a gate as we speak.

Fawaaz, this is a side of you I have never seen. Your jest is so clever I believed it for a moment. Prince Omar, in western clothes, waiting at a gate instead of flying in his own airplane. I admit, I am totally amused.

My Prince, I assure you . . .

Ow! Prince Abid yelled. You stupid little girl! I told you to never let your teeth touch me.

I thought you were alone, my Prince, Fawaaz said.

I am. It is only the Asian girl you brought me from your last trip.

Are you enjoying her, Prince Abid?

I am, but on your next trip to Africa would you have your workers bring me a light-skinned virgin with breasts. I tire of these little girls. I wish to have breasts to play with; these girls are like the desert in their flatness.

Prince Abid not only tolerated Fawaaz, despite his breath, but even liked his company. He was the only one Abid permitted in his solitary villa. Abid also enjoyed ordering choice young girl slaves from Fawaaz, much as others enjoyed ordering choice dishes in a restaurant.

Unlike Fawaaz, who always had enough dirt under his long, ragged fingernails to grow vegetables, Prince Abid was fastidious in both hygiene and clothing. He always bathed new girls several times before they were allowed to touch him. For the few that had underarm or pubic hair, he enjoyed shaving them. Any screaming or struggling heightened his pleasure, especially when an ill-timed twist from a girl drew blood.

Of course, Prince Abid, it will be my delight. Virgins with breasts are, of course, more difficult to find. I shall tell my gatherers though that they cannot return until they have found a suitable one. However, we should speak of Prince Omar, he will depart soon.

You are not jesting?

No, my Prince. What would you have me do?

Prince Abid thought.

The crown prince, Prince Omar, is only in his 50s―unlike the king who is in his 80s,.

Prince Rashad, the crown prince’s revered son, will almost certainly become the next crown prince upon King