Depraved Indifference Read Online Free Page B

police weapons and bomb ranges on Rodman Neck.
    On Flight 501 lunch had been served. Macek and Rukovina took turns holding the bomb while they ate. Macek, Rukovina, and Raditch each had a beer, which they paid for, although if they had refused to pay, Alice Springer was not sure what she would have done.
    The young one smiled at her when she brought the beers. Instinctively she smiled back. “ Najlepshe hvala ,” he said. The other two said, “ Hvala, hvala. ”
    â€œPardon?” she said.
    â€œIs mean, ‘thank you,’” the young one replied. “Now you must say, ‘ Nema na cemu. ’ This mean, ‘you welcome.’”
    Alice smiled and said the phrase. They all chuckled and the young one clapped his hands and said “ Fantastichno! ”
    There were introductions. The young one said, in phrasebook English, “Allow me to present …” and gave the names of his two companions and himself. The woman was not introduced. She had declined the meal. Instead she drank black coffee and chain-smoked Salems.
    Alice gave her own name, surprised to hear it on her lips. It sounded like the name of a stranger. They drank their beers and chatted in Croatian. Alice smiled harder and concentrated on not looking at the bomb. She kept smiling and didn’t move away, even when the one on the aisle, Macek, ran his hand up between her legs and squeezed her inner thigh gently, possessively, in the manner of an old lover.
    Karavitch had moved to an empty seat in first class, which he had demanded so that he could be near the flight deck. He got first-class service too, including unlimited free drinks. He pushed his tray away and contemplated the line of Haig pinch-bottle miniatures lined up on the tray table of the empty seat to his right. There were seven of them. He arranged them in two rows of three, with one out in front, like a military parade.
    He had a good head for liquor. In the war he had been famous for being able to drink anyone under the table, and the ustashi brigades had boasted some powerful drinkers. He had once drunk an entire bottle of plum brandy standing up on the hood of a truck climbing a mountain road near Bihac, while the men cheered him on. Pavle had been on that ride as well, he recalled. He also remembered that later that day Pavle had tried to imitate the trick, and had fallen off and nearly cracked his skull. Pavle had no head for drinking, which was why Karavitch had ordered him to lay off for the duration of the hijack. Karavitch stretched his cramped body and smiled. He could still drink. Even after seven scotches his head was clear.
    He looked at his watch, then pressed the button for the stewardess. In a few moments Daphne West was by his side.
    â€œWe should be landing very soon. I wish the pilot to make the announcement we agreed on.”
    West murmured assent and went forward to relay the message to Captain Gunn. Karavitch watched her go. Power was better than scotch, even this good scotch. Idly he flicked over the leading bottle. It tumbled against the others and all but one fell over. Karavitch watched as it wobbled in circles and then stood upright again. Always one survives, he thought.
    Daphne ducked and entered the flight deck. “How’re things back there?” Gunn asked. He was flying the aircraft while his copilot exchanged cryptic bursts of letters and numerals with Montreal air-traffic control.
    â€œAll right,” she said. “A lot better than they’re going to be after you tell the folks where we’re landing. I bring orders from the chief bastard. You’re supposed to make your speech.” Her voice was tight.
    Gunn caught her tone and swiveled around to look at her. “How about you? You holding up?”
    Daphne shrugged and threw up her hands, the gesture of futility. “Oh, sure. You know me, the old pro. I’m just pissed off is all. If that’s a real bomb, I’m a