“The code!” the man screamed at the door of the lavatory, striking it again with his fist. “I want the cabin code! If you come out, I detonate! Five seconds—or the first woman dies!”

Maggie looked at the man’s shoes, his knees, his crotch. Seeking a weak point.

But she would have to get past his knife first.

The man kicked the lavatory door so hard Maggie thought he might have damaged it. “Answer me!”

Anders said from behind the door, “I hear you.” His voice was loud enough to be heard, but modulated for calmness. “I do not have the code. Only the captain has the code.”

“Liar! You do have it! She dies now!”

He reached down to Maggie, the knife blade pressing against her trachea, the detonator held high. She felt a burn, then warmth running down her neck.

She had been cut. She didn’t know how badly.

Trude screamed. The man kicked at her, striking her shoulder, knocking her onto her side.

Anders was saying from behind the door, “Let me come out! I can talk to the captain!”

“Give me the code now!” yelled the intruder.

“I am coming out!” said Anders.

He was trying to open the door, but it was jammed.

“Give me the code!”

At once the vestibule entrance erupted. The hijacker, who had turned his head toward the lavatory, did not see the onrushing passenger explode through the privacy curtain.

Charging, screaming.

Maggie, more out of self-preservation than foresight, grabbed at the man’s knife hand. Had she not, the momentum of the passenger hitting him would have run the knife blade right across her throat.

The first passenger in, a fit-looking blond male, grabbed the man’s other hand, the one gripping the detonator. He tore it from the bomber’s hand ferociously—and then two more men entered from behind, hitting them, driving the blond and the bomber against a stowed serving cart in the wall compartment, then down to the floor.

Another man dug for the knife. A woman pulled Maggie back to the wall.

Two men pinned the bomber to the floor. He was writhing and growling madly.

The blond rolled over onto his back. He held the detonator, but his other hand held his own crooked wrist, his mouth twisted in pain.

Wires dangled from the detonator. The men on the floor yanked up the bomber’s shirt, tearing the cotton fabric, searching for an explosive device.

There was nothing but hair and belly.

It happened so quickly, it took time to realize that it was already over. The bomber lay with his face mashed into the floor, a knee upon the back of his neck. Everyone was panting, sweating, exuding adrenaline.

Trude began sobbing into her open hand, staring at Maggie. The female passenger who had joined the men in charging the hijacker instinctively pressed her bare hand against Maggie’s bloody throat. Trude pulled down linen tray cloths to stanch the blood flow.

Maggie sat blinking and gasping, allowing them to minister to her. She broke out of her daze when she saw that the hijacker was in reach, extending her leg and heel-kicking the prone bomber.

“You cocksucker!” she screamed. “Evil! Fucking! Cocksucker!”

She looked down and saw her white service blouse soaked red with blood, and she burst into tears. The woman rescuer probed her neck to find the source of the bleeding. The cut was small. The bomber’s knife had nicked a vein, but the flow of blood wasn’t pulsing. The woman stripped off her own zippered warm-up jacket, mashed it into a compress, and pressed it to Maggie’s neck with the towels.

“You’re okay,” she told Maggie. “It looks like he missed the artery. You’re okay.”

Banging on the lavatory door. One of the rescuers, an older man, banged back, yelling, “We are safe out here!” he barked. “Stand back as far as you can!”

The man put his shoulder into the broken door, throwing himself at it, but couldn’t bust through. Trude was on her feet and went around with him and both of them rushed the small door.

It gave inward this time, the lock cracking out of the frame. The door struck Anders, but he was ready for it, having braced himself with his arm and leg.

He stepped out of the tiny bathroom and looked down at the foiled terrorist, who lay immobilized on the floor wearing tan pants and a ripped white shirt.

“Merde,” Anders said.

The enormity of what had just occurred was only now becoming apparent to everyone inside the crowded vestibule. Anders reached past Trude to the intercom on the wall next to the bar and coffee station.

“Captain? This is Anders here. We’ve had an attempted hijacking.”

“I heard it, Anders.”

“Everything is under control at the moment. Maggie is hurt.”

“How badly?”

Anders looked at Maggie. The woman passenger lifted her jacket from the wound. Anders nodded, smiling at Maggie.

“It looks like she is going to be fine,” he said.

“Are you secure?”

Anders looked back at the two men lying on top of the bomber. He saw the blond holding the supposed detonator, and his own crooked wrist.

“He said he had a bomb, but it . . . looks like it was just a hoax. Just a trigger with wires. And a knife.”

For ten seconds, the line was silent.

“Here are my orders,” said Captain Granberg when he came back on. “Move all passengers from business class to the rear of the plane except those controlling the hijacker. Tie him up with lap belt extensions and the plastic slip ties from the emergency electrical repair bin. You know the one.”

Anders said, “Overhead, just forward of the galley.”

“When you have him tied, carry him back to the last row in that cabin, recline the inner middle seat, lash him tightly in it. You supervise at all times. I want him handled humanely, but securely. Be sure he cannot move. Remove his shoes and his pants also. Post at least two guards over him. Do not let him get his hands anywhere near his own mouth or throat. Do you copy?”

“I copy,” Anders Bendiksen said.

“For security reasons, I will not be opening the flight deck door again. You will remain posted at the door in view of the attacker. I have already squawked the hijack code on the transponder. I will now get clearance for an emergency descent and landing.”

The captain’s voice came over the Airbus’s cabin loudspeakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Granberg. We have successfully averted a cockpit intrusion in the forward cabin.”

The gasp that went up throughout the length of the aircraft was unlike any human noise the crew had ever heard.

“There is no danger currently. Please remain in your seats unless instructed directly by First Officer Bendiksen, myself, or members of the cabin crew. I repeat—please do remain in your seats. The airplane is still in perfect condition, and we will be diverting for landing with law enforcement members standing by. Please do not be alarmed by the flashing lights after we land, nor the medical support equipment. We have had one minor injury, and I am assured it is not serious or life-threatening. As soon as possible, we will resume our journey to Newark. I would like to apologize for this inconvenience on behalf of the airline, and for your missed connections with ongoing flights. Thanks to all of you for your patience and understanding, and flight attendants, please prepare the cabin for landing.”

Chapter 15

Bangor International Airport, some 230 miles northeast of Boston, is the largest, easternmost airport for incoming European flights. A former air force base, the remote airport offers relatively uncluttered skies and, at more than eleven thousand feet in length and two hundred feet in width, one of the longest, widest runways on the East Coast.

Once the stopover point of choice for refueling international charter flights, with the advent of longer-range jetliners Bangor International became, in the air-rage era of the 1990s, a convenient drop-off point for drunk or unruly passengers or medical emergencies.