The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [127]
Saad al-Takriti marched back out of the office and began striding toward the American captain. Hamid thought he would surely faint.
Without even glancing at Hamid, al-Takriti barked, “Captain, I require you to show me your manifest, the number of crew you are carrying, and their passports.”
“My copilot has all the passports,” the captain replied. “I’ll see you get them.”
“Thank you,” said al-Takriti. “When you have collected them, you will bring them to my office so that I can check each one. Meanwhile, please ask your crew to remain here. They are not, under any circumstances, to leave the building without my permission.”
The captain rose from his place, walked slowly over to the copilot, and asked for the passports. Then he issued an order which took him by surprise. The captain took the passports into the security office just as a bus drew up outside the transit area to take the French crew back to their plane.
Saad al-Takriti placed the fourteen passports in front of him on his desk. He seemed to take pleasure in checking each one of them slowly. When he had finished the task, he announced in mock surprise, “I do believe, Captain, that I counted fifteen crew wearing Pan Am uniforms.”
“You must have been mistaken,” said the captain. “There are only fourteen of us.”
“Then I will have to make a more detailed check, won’t I, Captain? Please return these documents to their rightful owners. Should there happen to be anyone not in possession of a passport, they will naturally have to report to me.”
“But that is against international regulations,” said the captain, “as I’m sure you know. We are in transit and therefore, under UN Resolution 238, not legally in your country.”
“Save your breath, Captain. We have no use for UN resolutions in Iraq. And, as you correctly point out, as far as we are concerned, you are not legally even in our country.”
The captain realized he was wasting his time, and could bluff no longer. He gathered up the passports as slowly as he could and allowed al-Takriti to lead him back into the hall. As they entered the room the Pan Am crew members who were scattered around the benches suddenly rose from their places and began walking around, continually changing direction, while at the same time talking at the top of their voices.
“Tell them to sit down,” hissed al-Takriti, as the crew zig-zagged backward and forward across the hall.
“What’s that you’re saying?” asked the captain, cupping his ear.
“Tell them to sit down!” shouted al-Takriti.
The captain gave a halfhearted order, and within a few moments everyone was seated. But they still continued talking at the top of their voices.
“And tell them to shut up!”
The captain moved slowly around the room, asking his crew one by one to lower their voices.
Al-Takriti’s eyes raked the benches of the transit hall, as the captain glanced out onto the tarmac and watched the French aircraft taxiing toward the far runway.
Al-Takriti began counting, and was annoyed to discover that there were only fourteen Pan Am crew members in the hall. He stared angrily around the room, and quickly checked once again.
“All fourteen seem to be present,” said the captain after he had finished handing back the passports to his crew.
“Where is the man who was sitting next to you?” al-Takriti demanded, jabbing a finger at the captain.
“You mean my first officer?”
“No. The one who looked like an Arab.”
“There are no Arabs on my crew,” the captain assured him.
Al-Takriti strode over to the senior flight attendant. “He was sitting next to you. His upper lip had makeup on it that was beginning to run.”
“The captain of the French plane was sitting next to me,” the senior flight attendant said. She immediately realized her mistake.
Saad al-Takriti turned and looked out of the window to see the Air France plane at the end of the runway preparing for takeoff. He jabbed a button on his hand phone as the thrust of the jet engines started up, and barked out some orders in his native tongue. The captain didn’t need to