"You'll never dare use it," said the Serb. "It will penetrate the hull and blow us all away."

"The slugs have been doctored," said Dexter evenly. "One-quarter charge. Enough to punch a hole in you, stay inside, and kill you, but never go through the hull. Tell your boy I want his piece out, finger and thumb, on the carpet."

There was a short exchange in Serbo-Croat. His face, dark with rage, the bodyguard eased out his Glock from the left armpit holster and dropped it.

"Kick it toward me," said Dexter. Zilic complied.

"And the ankle gun."

Kulac wore a smaller backup gun taped round his left ankle under the sock. This was also kicked out of range. Avenger produced a pair of handcuffs and tossed them to the carpet.

"Your pal's left ankle. Do it yourself. In vision all the time or you lose a kneecap. And, yes, I am that good."

"A million dollars," said the Serb.

"Get on with it," said the American.

"Cash, any bank you like."

"I'm losing patience."

The handcuff went on.

"Tighter."

Kulac winced as the metal bit.

"Around the seat stanchion. And to the right wrist."

"Ten million. You're a fool to say no."

The answer was a second pair of cuffs É.

"Left wrist, through your friend's chain, then right wrist. Back up. Stay in my vision or you're the one saying adios to the kneecap."

The two men crouched, side by side, on the floor, tethered to each other and the assembly holding the seat to the floor, which Dexter hoped would be stronger even than the giant bodyguard.

Avoiding their grip, he stepped round them and walked to the cabin door. The captain assumed the opening door was his owner coming forward to ask for progress. The barrel of the gun nudged his temple.

"It is Captain Stepanovic, isn't it?" said a voice. Washington Lee, who had intercepted the Email from Wichita, had told him.

"I have nothing against you," said the hijacker. "You and your friend here are simply professionals. So am I. Let's keep it that way. Professionals do not do stupid things if they can be avoided. Agreed?"

The captain nodded. He tried to glance behind him into the cabin.

"Your owner and his bodyguard are disarmed and chained to the fuselage. There will be no help coming. Please do just as I say."

"What do you want?"

"Alter course." Dexter glanced at the electronic flight instrument system just above the throttles. "I suggest Three-One-Five degrees, compass true, should be about right. Skirt the eastern tip of Cuba, as we have no flight plan."

"Final destination?"

" Key West, Florida."

"The United States?"

"Land of my fathers," said the man with the gun.

32 The Rendition

Dexter had memorised the route from San Martin to Key West, but there was no need. The avionics on the Hawker are so clear that even a nonflier can follow the liquid crystal display showing intended course and line of track.

Forty minutes out from the coast he saw the blur of Grenada 's light slip under the starboard wing. Then came the twohour overwater haul to make landfall on the south coast of the Dominican Republic.

After two more, between the coast of Cuba and the Bahamas ' biggest island, Andros, he leaned forward and touched the Frenchman's ear with the tip of the automatic.

"Disconnect the transponder now."

The copilot looked across at the Yugoslav, who shrugged and nodded. The copilot switched it off. With the transponder-designed to pulse out an endlessly repeated identification signal-disconnected, the Hawker was reduced simply to a speck on the radar screen of someone looking very closely indeed. To anyone not looking that closely, it had ceased to exist. But it had also announced it was a suspect intruder.

South of Florida, reaching far out over the sea, is the air defence identification zone, designed to protect the southeastern flank of the United States from the continuous assault of the drug smugglers. Anyone entering ADIZ without a flight plan was playing hide-and-seek with some very sophisticated metal.

"Drop to four hundred feet above the sea," said Dexter. "Dive and dive now. All navigation and cabin lights off."

"That is very low," said the pilot, as the nose dropped through thirty thousand feet. The aircraft went dark.

"Pretend it's the Adriatic. You've done it before."

It was true. As a fighter pilot in the Yugoslav Air Force, Colonel Stepanovic had led dummy attacks against the Croatian coast at well below four hundred feet to slip under the radar. Still, he was right.

The moonlit sea at night is mesmerising. It can lure the low-flying pilot down and down until he flips the surface of the waves, rolls in, and dies. Altimeters under five hundred feet have to be dead accurate and constantly checked. Ninety miles southeast of Islamorada, the Hawker levelled at four hundred feet and raced over the Santaren Channel toward the Florida Keys. Coming in at sea level, those last ninety miles almost fooled the radar.

" Key West Airport, runway Two-Seven," said Dexter. He had studied the layout of his chosen landfall. Key West Airport faces eastwest, with one runway along that axis. All the passenger and ops buildings are at the eastern end. To land heading west would put the entire length of the runway between the Hawker and the vehicles racing toward it. Runway TwoSeven means it pointed to compass heading 270, or due west.

At fifty miles from touchdown, they were spotted. Twenty miles north of Key West is Cudjoe Key, home to a huge balloon tethered to a cable and riding twenty thousand feet in the sky. Where most coastal radars look outward and up, the Cudjoe eye-in-the-sky looks down. Its radars can see any plane trying to slip in under the net.

Even balloons need occasional maintenance, and the one at Cudjoe is brought down at random intervals, which are never announced. It had been down that evening by chance and was heading back up. At ten thousand feet it saw the Hawker coming out of the black sea, transponder off, no flight plan. Within seconds, two F16s on duty alert at Elgin Air Force Base in Pensacola were barreling down the runway, going straight to afterburn once they cleared the deck.

Climbing and breaking the sound barrier, the Fighting Falcons formated and headed south for the last of the Keys. Thirty miles out, Captain Stepanovic was down to two hundred knots and lining up. The lights of Cudjoe and Sugarloaf Keys twinkled to starboard. The fighters' radars picked up the intruder, and the pilots altered course to come in from behind. Against the Hawker's two hundred knots, the Falcons were moving at over a thousand.

As it happened, George Tanner was duty controller at Key West that night and was within minutes of closing the airport down when the alarm was raised. The position of the intruder indicated it was actually trying to land, which was the smart thing to do. Darkened intruders with lights and transponder switched off are given, after fighter interception, one warning to do as they are told and land where they are told. There are no second warnings: The war against the drug smugglers is too serious for games. Still and all, a plane can have an onboard emergency and deserves a chance to land. The light stayed on. Twenty miles out, the crew of the Hawker could see the lights of the runway glowing ahead of them. Above and behind, the F-16s began to drop and brake. For them, two hundred knots was almost landing speed.

Ten miles from touchdown, the Falcons found the darkened Hawker by the red glow from the jet efflux on each side of its tail. First the aircrew in the cabin knew, the deadly fighters were riding on each wingtip.

"Unidentified twin jet, look ahead and land. I say look ahead and land," said a voice in the captain's ear.

The undercarriage came down, with one-third flap. The Hawker adopted its landing posture. Chica Key Naval Air Station swept past to the right. The Hawker's main wheels felt for the touchdown markings, found the concrete, and it was down on U. S. territory.