The Mordida Man Read Online Free PDF Page B

want them along. I’m calling Milroy in Vegas.” Frank Milroy was the Las Vegas Chief of Police.
    â€œTell him to make it tight,” McKay said. “Tell him I want three on one at least.”
    Eleanor Rhodes nodded and started dialing. By 6:50 P.M ., security arrangements had been completed in Las Vegas, the Northrop-McDonnell Douglas dinner had been canceled, and the nineteen Wackenhut security men had been recalled to form an escort for the Libyans from the Marriott Hotel in Anaheim to Los Angeles International Airport, where the delegation would board its especially equipped Boeing 727 for the short flight to Las Vegas. The 727 had been the personal plane of the late Colonel Qaddafi and was manned by a Libyan crew that had been trained by Pan American.
    The Libyans were already in their cars when Bingo McKay and Eleanor Rhodes came out of the hotel and climbed into the last limousine in the procession. Five miles from the airport the caravan picked up a four-man motorcycle escort provided by the Los Angeles Police Department, which led it onto the field. The Libyans got out of their cars and hurried up the ramp into the plane. Last to start up the ramp were Bingo McKay and Eleanor Rhodes.
    As they entered the plane, they were greeted by a smiling Ali Arifi. “I’m delighted that you both decided to join us.”
    â€œKind of sudden, wasn’t it, Minister?” McKay said.
    Arifi shrugged. “Who can tell when luck will beckon?”
    Bingo McKay began to suspect that something was wrong, extremely wrong, twenty minutes after the 727 took off from the Los Angeles airport. But it wasn’t until ten minutes later that he knew positively that their destination that night would not be Las Vegas. For by then the plane was headed due east, and the lights of Las Vegas could be seen glittering five miles below and two miles back.
    The Libyans had all gathered in the forward compartment, leaving McKay and Eleanor Rhodes alone in the lounge. McKay nudged Rhodes and made a sharp pointing movement down. She looked through the window and turned to stare at him. There was no need for questions.
    â€œReckon I better go see what those suckers have got in mind for us,” McKay said as he rose.
    She nodded warily. “Yes, maybe you’d better.”
    McKay made his way to the forward compartment and tried the door. It was locked. He knocked and it was quickly unlocked and opened by Ali Arifi, still wearing a broad smile.
    â€œCome in, Mr. McKay,” Arifi said. “We were just talking about you.”
    McKay went in and heard the door being closed and locked behind him. He didn’t turn around to look because a gun was being poked into his back, just above his belt. But it wasn’t just the gun that kept Bingo McKay from turning. Of equal interest was the tray that had been pulled down from the back of one of the seats.
    It was an ordinary tray, the kind on which meals are served during commercial flights. This one was covered with a clean white cloth. On the cloth was an arrangement of surgical instruments. Standing next to the instruments was the delegation’s physician, Dr. Abdulhamid Souri, who held a syringe in one hand. Dr. Souri raised his eyes from the syringe to look at Bingo McKay.
    â€œWell, hell, fellas,” McKay said.
    Dr. Souri smiled. “It’s not going to hurt, Mr. McKay,” he said softly. “I promise you that it won’t hurt one bit.”

5
    It had been a curious, roundabout message, perhaps garbled in its transmission, but still urgent enough, even desperate enough, to cause the Nigerian Ambassador, His Excellency Olu-femi Dokubo, to rouse himself from a sound sleep in his Washington residence on Woodley Road, summon his principal aide and a driver, and arrive at Dulles International Airport at 4 A.M ., shortly before the Libyan 727 touched down for refueling.
    The message had been radioed to the control tower at Dulles, where it had