CHAPTER TWELVE

The soldier inclined his rifle and stepped back for Charlie to pass. Out through the frosted glass door of the control tower, on to the tarmac. The heat saturated him from the moment he was clear of the protective air-conditioned blanket, warm enough to feel it wrap about him, carrying an instant clamminess to his chest and legs. The staircase had been darkened with Venetian blinds, and the brightness reflecting up from the open concrete wounded his eyes. He had left his jacket on the back of the seat, and forsaken his tie; Clitheroe had wanted that. 'Let them see from the start that you have nothing concealed on you' – those were the psychiatrist's instructions. Only the radio transmitter and receiver that bumped against his hip, swinging from the strap he had hooked over his shoulder. His shoes squelched as he moved, suffering from the time he'd worn them, and his toes were uncomfortable, irritated, so that he was reminded of the smell and the shave he had wanted. They'd given it to him very straight before they'd packed him off – just follow the line we've given, don't play hero games, don't go promising things that haven't been authorized or sanctioned.

Dont hurry it, they'd said. They will want to have a good look at you, size you up, know you're not a threat. We don't want them jumpy, not now, not with ten o'clock closing. Halfway there, getting closer, Charlie. Breathing faster, be panting by the time you arrive. Slow it. Remember the missus, what she says, no need to hurry, Charlie, we've all night, don't rush, don't speed up.

He was close enough now to see the outline of some of the faces at the windows – not the expressions, just the basics – eyes and ears and mouths. And how many behind them that were masked from him, and how many in the grass and the rain ditches beside the runway? Half a bloody army o u t there, and all that shows is a few armoured cars and the men sitting on them.

Hands a bit closer to the main armament than when you saw them from the tower, Charlie. All watching and wondering what the hell's going to happen. There'll be concentrated fire-power to support you, that's what they'd said, and he believed them, and he also believed it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference if Isaac or David didn't take a shine to him. Bad place not to be making friends, sonny boy.

Time to start putting it together. Walk round the nose and approach from the far side, with the petrol tankers behind you, where the heavies are, the SAS men. Still be able to see him from the tower, on the outside video camera, and the microphone button was permanently up so he could talk if he found anything to say. Colossal the plane looked, damn great predator, thirty tons of it, and the fools called it 'Kingfisher'. Like a great carrion crow. Near to the wing now that he should skirt, should begin to angle his approach so that he would move in front of the hulk and into the empty ground beyond. Charlie didn't look up, resisting the impulse to scan the windows: it might be taken as anxiety. Must walk as if out with the dog for a Sunday morninger down to the pub.

He wiped a smear of sweat from his forehead and with his fingers instinctively tidied his hair.

Thirty yards from the aircraft and level with the forward starboard door he stopped. Cockpit to the right, passenger cabin to the left. High above him, dominating and impersonal, was the Ilyushin, expression not known, mood uncertain. Difficult to see it that way, but that's how it was, with a mind and pulse of its own.

He shuffled his feet together waiting for a response to his presence. No point shouting, no way anyone inside would hear him through the pressure-resistant windows and doors. Charlie Webster waved, right hand high above his head; as if his wife was shopping on the other side of Woking High Street and he wanted to attract her attention.

Rebecca had spotted him first and called David from his favoured position between cockpit and the passenger cabin. He hurried to where she craned forward across the unprotest- ing lap of a passenger, her head rammed against the window. With a roughness that was calculated he pulled her back to clear the space and the vision for himself. One man walking towards them, a faint and distant figure, small against the building from which he came, coming with a directness and purpose, his shadow preceding him, running to the front. The man kept far from the armoured cars and chose a path that was not impeded by any obstacle.

'Will you wake Isaac now? Tell him that the man is coming?' Rebecca spoke from behind his head.

' I did not think he would come so fast. I wanted to let Isaac sleep on.' He did not turn from the window.

'You are afraid to wake him. It is because of fear-'

'There is no fear.' He hissed the words from close to the window. 'When I need to wake him, then I will-'

'But the man is coming now.'

' I have eyes, I can see.'

'But are you going to leave Isaac sleeping? Will you let him sleep while you talk with this man?'

This was a moment when both David and Rebecca could have been overpowered without difficulty, for both were so engrossed in Charlie Webster's approach that they had no thought for the passengers. Rebecca was close to David's back, pressing against the muscles beneath his shirt, trying to share the window with him, transfixed by the advance of the lone figure. Several of those who sat behind them were aware of the opportunity but none had the stomach to steel himself and rise out of his seat. The long hours had dulled their initiative and the threat of the guns that now seemed so casually held was too great to encourage those who were closest to take action. Luigi Franconi was within reach, but his courage had wasted since the time he was in the mountains with the partisans. Aldo Genti had the advantage of an aisle seat, but was further back.

The navigator considered the question for a few seconds and then rejected it. The headmaster was too far to the rear to be able to offer effective intervention, and the thought of it faded from his mind when he saw the tousled, shambling, sleep-laden Isaac silhouetted in the cockpit doorway.

Rebecca said again, with greater persistence, 'You will have to tell him, you have to wake him, now that their man is coming.'

'But it was you that asked for the contact to be made. It was you that posed the question that had to be answered. It was you that wanted to know what they would do if we surrendered…'

Nobody spoke in the control tower; all were gaping at the television monitor, the flickering twelve- inch grey-blue screen.

In the centre of the picture the back torsos of the ones they knew as David and Rebecca – predictable enough that they should be at the window to watch the coming of Charlie Webster. It had been the eyes of the hostages that had drawn attention to the extreme right-hand corner of the picture, as they switched from their two concentrating guards and took on the nervousness and hesitancy of people who have fear and are uncertain, looking only to the entrance from the corridor to the passenger cabin.

A small figure Isaac seemed to those in the control tower, and when they first saw him his face seemed wreathed in sadness, but the change was abrupt and the chin came forward, and the face muscles tightened as the submachine-gun rose to his shoulder. When the weapon was there he paused for a moment as if to adjust to the comfort and stability of the tubular, extended shoulder rest, then raised the barrel to the low ceiling. He seemed to jolt back fractionally and strangely because it was all enacted in complete silence, and the passengers flattened themselves in their seats while David and Rebecca catapulted back into the aisle.

'We should pull Webster off,' Clitheroe shouted.

'Leave him there'-the sharp response from the Assistant Chief Constable.

The noise of the single shot was ear-blasting inside the confines of the cabin. It burst through the inner thoughts of Rebecca and David, tearing them from their vision of the solitary man who approached across the tarmac; the screaming of the passengers dinned its way into their consciousness, and when they spun to face the centre aisle it took them time to adjust.

The gun was Still at Isaac's shoulder, his head steady behind the gunsight and his left fist clenched tight on the upper barrel, his right index finger entwined inside the trigger guard. And there was a depth to his eyes, far down to a blazing molten fury. Rebecca sought an explanation that would justify what was happening, and unable to find it slipped back across the passenger's lap till she stood half-cowed, half-defiant upright in the aisle. David was slower, it taking more effort for him to disentangle himself from among the unmoving and unco-operating legs that held him back. Isaac waited with a humiliating patience until David freed himself.

The passengers' eyes wavered between the seared hole in the cabin roof, close to where the forward life raft is stored, and the man in the passageway. All recognized the crisis, and were afraid to permit themselves even to clear their throats or move their feet. The baby, too, close to suffocation so tightly was it held against its mother's breasts, was silent. An endless, bottomless quiet as they all waited for the resolution. When Isaac spoke his voice was controlled and they had to strain to hear his words – even David and Rebecca to whom they were directed.

'You did not wake me. You said that you would wake me at eight, and it is past that. You promised and yet I had to wake myself.'

David let out a great sigh, the air in his lungs released in a huge and noisy gust. 'We were going to come, in a few minutes we would have come, believe me, Isaac.'

But Isaac went on as if oblivious to David's words. 'And I wake myself, and I see from the cockpit window that a man is walking close to the plane, and I come to the doorway and I hear the words of surrender.' The sneer and the contempt, scything through the frail and unprepared defences. 'Talk of surrender while I slept, after I stayed the night watch that you might rest, because you begged for it, could last no longer. And when you are refreshed and I take my turn for sleep, what is it that you talk of? What is it that you plan? The talk is of surrender 1 '

'It was not like that, Isaac, you have to believe us!"

David wondered whether Isaac was about to shoot him. Almost natural, almost logical if he were to. He was not afraid, hoping only that it would come quickly, that he would be spared the games and the play.

'Tell me then. If it was not like that, how was it? Tell me.'

They are sending a man to talk to us. They say they want to explain things that cannot be said over the radio, but there are too many people in the tower, and they want a more private negotiation with us. We asked them a question, Isaac, a question that we have the right to know the answer to.' Gabbling, believing that with each word he spoke so diminished the chances of his summary execution at the hands of his friend and his comrade.

'What was the question that could only be asked and answered if I was asleep, if I was not a party to it?'

'We have to know what they do with us if we were to release the passengers and follow their demands. We have to know what they would plan for us, where they would send us…'

"And that is not talk of surrender? Humiliating, crawling surrender? Don't hurt us, don't kick us, don't punch, and please, please don't send us back from where we came. That is the substance of your negotiation? And all this while I was sleeping?'

' It is finished, Isaac.' Rebecca pushed her way in front of David as if to protect him, provide a shield behind which he might shelter. 'You know that. You know that we go no further. You told me yourself last night that there would be no fuel for the engines, and this morning they have proved you right They will not let us leave. There will only be killing, killing that leads to nothing. More blood, Isaac. That is what we are talking of, and whether more deaths would advance us.'

Isaac took a firm step forward, all that was necessary for him to be a foot from the girl. With his free left hand he swung hard and sharply. The blow was short and took her without warning, cuffing her semi-stunned to the floor. Had he not worn his grandmother's ring he would probably not have broken the soft skin, but the metal caught against her cheek and by the time she had recovered to stumble upright again a crimson rivulet was flowing towards her neck.

Tt is not finished. Not for many more hours, not till we have tested our will against theirs. You understand? It should be simple and clear: there must be no more talk of submission. Our destination is Israel. That is where we go, and we do not permit deflection. Were we stupid and ignorant and useless then we would have been permitted to go, thrown on to the train for Vienna, propped on the flight for Tel Aviv, no difficulties would have obstructed us. But we are the people that they want inside Mother Russia, because we are the technicians that the giant needs to fuel herself from. Who with higher education is allowed to leave? We are the people that they obstruct, that they imprison, that languish on trumped-up charges at Potma and Perm. We have rejected their system, rejected it with blood, because we did not want to be a part of their way. It is not a time to talk of capitulation. We have come a long way. But if this were to be the end then it would have been better we had never started at all.'

Isaac saw the tight laughless smile of Anna Tashova as she sat three rows in front of him, and ignored it. He witnessed too the confusion of the Italian who was closest to him, and who did not understand what was being said and who looked vaguely for an indication from among their gestures and who was to remain uninformed and puzzled. He saw the headmaster who turned away to look through the window the moment their eyes met. Many faces for Isaac to see. Old and young, neat and unclean, educated and stupid, brave and fearful. The passengers were all he possessed with which to fight. Their lives his ammunition. But effective, that he knew, better than the tanks and the machine-guns and the infantry that waited in ambush beyond the plane's walls. These were the shells that would carry the weight when battle was joined, would push back the soldiers and their guns. The lives of the men and the women and the children. They would bend, the Britishers, after ten o'clock they would bend. They had lost the will to fight, that was what he had read, that was what he believed.

As if to acknowledge that the episode was over Isaac said, "The man is close to the plane now.

Who is he? What have you arranged?'

' It is the one from the tower. The Russian speaker. They want him to talk to us.'

' I have your word, Rebecca, and yours too, David, that there will be no more talk of surrender? An oath that we fight together?'

He did not hear their replies; they mumbled from far down in their throats, but the movement of the lips was sufficient. He moved into the cockpit, the vantage point, from which he could observe the man who bad broken the invisible thread laid across the tarmac and who had entered their territory, forsaking the safety of the armaments of his own people. Isaac looked down at him, noticed that the other never glanced at the windows as if keeping his own counsel, minding his time till the moment for contact was right. Isaac could recognize the mould of experience on his face. A deep man, Isaac thought, not a bureaucrat; someone from security and to be treated with care; someone who came because the persons in authority believed there was advantage to be gained from it, and the fools behind him trusted the promises that had been made, had faith in the words spoken over the radio link. Unarmed – but then there was no reason for him to carry a weapon, nothing gained. His weapons would be in his words, designed to lull and win confidence, and in his eyes that would report back to his masters sheltering in the tower. He had shown weakness in letting this man come close, Isaac knew that, and weakness was dangerous because much had to be sacrificed if the initiative was to be rewon. Isaac had not studied the history and tactics of hijacking, but his sensibilities told him that the man in shirtsleeves and baggy, rounded trousers represented a threat. Yet he knew he wanted to hear what the man had to say, wanted an excuse to break the eighteen hours of isolation, needed some release from the confines of the plane's walls.

A buzz of talk filled the aircraft, a subdued drone, as the passengers with window seats told their neighbours that a man had come close to the Ilyushin. The news stifled thoughts of bulging bladders and empty stomachs, overcame the awareness of the smell of sweat. It was an event, and being the first of the day that offered the possibility of outside interference in their position it was welcome. The children talked more loudly than their elders, and pointed to the man and pushed those with the best view aside. The masters tried to quieten them but accepted they could not be successful.

Huge lenses mounted on cameras and tripods of weight and security had followed Charlie Webster's walk. The uniformed policemen were present to prevent any surge forward by cameramen, and journalists obligingly squatted on their haunches to avoid obstructing the view – the solitary figure barely visible to the naked eye at that range but greatly magnified by film. The static APCs and the resting soldiers had long been exhausted as a source of pictures, and this was recognized as something different. There were many suggestions as to the role of the man who had strode towards the aircraft. He was 'SAS', he was a 'doctor because some of the passengers were sick', he was 'the leading government negotiator', a 'police chief of rank'. There seemed endless scope for speculation.

'The bastard's going round the far side.'

'Same at Tunis with the BOAC VC10, never saw a damn thing.'

'Shut up. YouH wreck the bloody sound track.'

'Fat lot of sound you're getting at a thousand yards.'

'He's gone, the bastard. Lost him round the nose.'

The advance of Charlie Webster had promised much to the cameramen, and they had been cheated and were angry and bickered among themselves as the film they had taken was canned and labelled and handed to the waiting motorcyclists.

'Always the same, never let you see a damn thing.'

When Colonel Arie Benitz dialled the number he had been given the previous night the response in London was almost immediate: two rings and the connection. He was not told to whom he was speaking, nor did he introduce himself. The conversation was brief.

'We have tried to arrange a meeting this morning at the Foreign Office, and we were put off,' he was told. 'The British Foreign Secretary is in continuous session with his advisers, they say.

We are being shut out, and we need to take our own course."

The soldier of another army would have laughed derisively at that moment, questioning immediately what initiative was possible. But other armies did not fly two thousand miles across hostile airspace to land at Entebbe, or take their commando squads into territory as hostile as Beirut for the elimination of the men who fought against them, did not force down foreign airliners on scheduled routes because they were thought to be carrying the men who directed and controlled the war against Israel. If a suggestion were made there would be no ridicule at its feasibility from Colonel Arie Benitz. He would listen, evaluate and decide on the best plan available to ensure the possibility of success, however remote.

' Is there a chance that you might get to the plane and talk to those that hold it?'

' It would be difficult. They are suspicious of me, the British, as I was told they would be.'

'We would like a message passed to the plane, to the young people. But it is difficult if we work through the British. They are possessive of this matter

'

'They are possessive because they are nervous. It is to be expected. What is the message?'

' I used the wrong word. It is less a message, more a suggestion. Perhaps… if they were to offer to surrender now, no more killing, but conditional on their not being sent back?… They have asked in Jerusalem that I should say this to you, but it cannot be with the knowledge of the British. I ask again, is it possible for you to reach the plane?'

Patiently and without rancour, Benitz said into the phone,

'They have an army around the aircraft. I cannot just walk to it. .. you understand. And there is little time now. The children have set an ultimatum, you yourself told me that. And you must see that it is difficult for the British to bend at this moment, with the pilot dead, and when they are under duress from threats. If we do not have the co-operation of the security here then it would be difficult for me to reach the aircraft.' Not one to use the word 'impossible', but there was enough in his voice to suggest it. 'I will try, but you must send the reply to the Crisis Committee that I can offer little hope that I will be able to talk with our people.'

' It is understood, Colonel, it is understood what circumstances you find yourself in. Call us please should the position change, but I fear it will not. From London we are still trying for a meeting with the Foreign Secretary, but as I have told you they are not responsive.'

Arie Benitz hung the phone back on its hook, and cursed the noise from the juke box and the babble of conversation among the airport staff, revelling in their enforced idleness, who gathered for breakfast and cups of tea and chatter of shop prices and housekeeping purses.

He yearned to be back with his own, back with the squad, back at the training school, back near Ashdod. Skirting the tables and chairs he walked slowly towards the door, not caring to glance at the mass of cheerful, laughing, uncaring humanity around him. Dull, miserable little people, who understood nothing, and would be frightened when their livers or their kidneys failed them, and they were close to death. They understood nothing, or else they would be hushed and passive, and thinking of three children, and a plane full of people, and what might be their fate.

Out through the door and moving briskly towards his assigned room; where else to go? What would have triggered them, he thought? An incident, a single episode? Unlikely. It was never straight-forward, not with these people, never as simple as the outsider believed. Did not take a kicking, or a rape or injustice to fashion the guerrilla, just an accumulation of circumstances, a construction of despair, a fabrication of hatred. Not a sudden thing, a momentary decision, but a slow-burning, stoked loathing. And courage. Nothing without courage. Even the Palestinians…

He flopped down at the desk. Had any of those who passed his door stopped to look at the hunched figure they would have seen a sad and hurt man.

Seventy yards behind Charlie were the petrol tankers, their considerable forward and rear heavy-duty tyres providing cover for the SAS marksmen. Two of them handled the old Lee Enfield bolt action rifle mounted with the tubular telescopic sight now trained on the door of the Ilyushin. Another pair lay beside the standard NATO General Purpose Machine Gun, belt-fed. The rifles would provide accurate shot protection, the GPMG trained on the same target was the fall-back precaution, concentration of fire. Behind the central tanker were men with smoke canisters fitted to the barrel tip of FNs. He was unaware of all this and stood feeling a peculiar loneliness as he waved to the windows and door. Bloody stupid way to be carrying on, Charlie.

It seemed to take an age before the door began to move. A slight shuddering action at first, as if someone was operating the mechanism who had not handled it before. There was a stutter, then a sweeping movement, as the door came away on its arms from the fuselage and swung out before coming to rest. It took Charlie time to get his eyes tuned to the grey artificial light of the interior, and then the girl was standing there looking down on him, more with curiosity than anything else, her left hand on the edge of the door. Least of her problems, thought Charlie, falling out of the bloody thing. Pistol in her right hand; he prided himself that he knew most makes, but this wasn't one that he recognized, almost hidden amid the folds of her dress. He smiled at her, big and open and friendly, the smile that Parker Smith said would sell sand to the Saudis, ice to the Eskimos, the smile that his wife always giggled at.

'Hello, it's Charlie Webster. You're Rebecca?' Daft really, like a pick-up at a YWCA hop. Had to be some sort of formality. "I've come to speak with David and Isaac… and with you.' Don't count her out, at least not till you've looked at the scene a fair bit closer.

'You can talk to me, they are listening. They would prefer that we talk in Russian. If you speak loud they can hear what you say, and they will tell me what to reply.'

Good thinking, and Charlie always admired that, whether it was from the friendlies or the opposition. If they were thinking well then they should be respected. Keeping out of sight where the guns weren't on them. Particularly Isaac: drop him and the whole thing could be wrapped up, and with all the hardware lying about no way that he would show if he had any sense. Seemed the boy was working it out.

'What I've come here to do is to explain the situation as it stands at this moment.' Time for the big speech, time to calm them down because it gets serious right now if you get them excited. The position is very clear really, and since you are all intelligent people we think you will see the only option that is open to you. Your plane has no fuel, and we have said that while the aircraft and the passengers are under your control it will get none. While you are on board the plane goes no further. That is the decision of the British government and it is irreversible.' Working at each sentence before he spoke it, considering the most appropriate Russian words from his comprehensive but rust-worn vocabulary. Made him slow but gave an impression of deliberation and authority. 'The aircraft is surrounded by troops who have orders to shoot to kill should there be any attempt to break through our perimeter using the hostages as a shield. There is no escape from the aircraft. You will only leave it when you have disarmed yourselves, when all the passengers have been released. I am instructed to repeat the solemn guarantee of the British government that you will not be harmed by our security forces."

Clipped to the neck of his shirt, clearly visible, was a small black microphone. From it a thin colourless connection had been threaded, running up his shirt to his collar where it merged with his hair before blending into a plastic moulded earpiece.

'Keep it going, Charlie,'- Clitheroe, slightly distorted, but directing and controlling him-'Tough stuff first, then on to the message they've put over to the world, and next the freeing of the hostages.' The voice made him lose his concentration for a moment, throwing him fractionally, and he felt a flush on his face as he watched the girl stare back at him, not responding, merely waiting for him to finish.

'We want you to know that your flight out of Russia has been widely reported by the international news media. If it was a protest that you were seeking against any grievances that you may feel you have then you have been widely heard.

If publicity was your aim then you have achieved it. We think that any aggressive action you may be considering will only alienate the many millions of people all over the world who are currently sympathetic to you.' Crap, Charlie, but what else to say? How do you get a conversation going at thirty yards? No known way. Bound to stand there exchanging speeches. But it's a load of rubbish you're talking and you know it. He wondered how they knew what he was talking about in the tower; must have brought some of the FO girls down, or one from the Department Spoke Russian better than he spoke English. Boot-faced ladies with heavy rings on the fingers, gold in their teeth who'd made it out in the '30s and started to work for the British in the war, and were in their sixties now and had to keep going till pension day if they were to afford the bed-sitters of retirement. Hated the Soviets like shit which gave them high security clearance.

'You have many women and children on board. We understand there is a party of schoolchildren. There is no need for you to keep them; all of them could be released now and it would make a great impression on all those people that are following this action.' The girl still looked down at him. He could see her ankles, a little fat, and the solid and muscular shins before the hem of her dress denied him. Face devoid of expression, and Charlie wondered which of them was screwing her – wouldn't get much for his efforts. 'That's what I came to say. There is no point in talking about ultimatums. It's nonsense and it wont work.'

'That is all?' She had a thin, reedy voice, and he had to strain to hear her.

'If there is anything you want me to answer, then I will try to help you.'

She ducked back inside the aircraft, lost to him, and the doorway was emptied. There was just time for him to see the faces of the passengers at their portholes – poor bastards, going through the familiar hoop, and with their hopes raised now because there was a contact.

Charlie said quietly into the microphone, speaking in English, 'That's the first chat over.

They're talking about it now.'

'They're all on the monitor,' he was told. 'The open door drives them into the passenger cabin, that's where the three of them are, but the girl seems out of it. It's the two fellows who are involved. Seem calm enough, no arms flying about. Now that the door is open we are getting some sort of sound, but we can't read it right now, only the girl when she spoke to you. They've probably dropped their voices to avoid being overheard by the passengers.'

'Right,' said Charlie. The girl was back in the doorway.

'When you said you would come it was because you wanted to talk to us about our request for information. The question that we asked was what would happen to us if we followed your instructions. What is the answer?'

' I have said that you will not be harmed.'

That is not an answer. I repeat, what will happen to us?"

If you have committed offences you will be charged and will face a fair and impartial trial.'

That is not the answer. Where would the trial be?'

'If you have committed offences inside the United Kingdom you will stand trial in the United Kingdom.' Not much longer, thought Charlie, not much longer this bloody nonsense can go on.

"You are not helpful, you seek to deceive us. Will we be sent back to Russia? Is that your plan?'

' I know of no plan to send you back to Russia.' Lying sod, Charlie, but what else to say? And anyway remember the parting shot of the big political gaffer, nothing sewn up at this stage. And what right have these three to know the truth? Forfeited that, hadn't they, when they took the guns on board? '1 have not heard of such a plan.' Never could lie well, not that many people that can.

Only a few, and they're the exception. The girl didn't believe him, agitated and leaning back to be told what to say.

'My friends say that this is a trick, that you will send us back to Kiev. We do not trust you. If you had been able to promise, if there had been a document then we would have believed you, but there has been nothing. Only you, and you are a little person with no authority.'

Now she tells me, thought Charlie. There was a light breeze that fastened to the moisture of his skin and cooled it, giving comfort from the heat. A great clear sky, cloudless, peopled only by the curving seagulls, far off course…

'Charlie, Charlie, keep your bloody wits about you'-the message beating through his earpiece -

'The two men have gone halfway down the cabin.,. pulling one of the passengers out… down the corridor… from among the kids, must be one of the staff travelling with them… there are hands trying to stop it… not a bloody hope, and the guy himself isn't fighting it… off the monitor

…'

The girl was gone, pulled by an arm, roughly and without explanation, replaced by a man, thinly-woven grey suit, masking the shape of another, whose left arm was gripped around the first man's throat and whose right held the snub nose of submachine-gun to the captive's jaw. The face of the man in the suit was ashen, and his eyes were pleading and helpless and without fight.

The knees shook and trembled, sending eddies down the lower length of his trousers. Charlie could see the summit of black curly hair above the man's shoulder. Isaac was out, Isaac was at the door. Had to break the tension, pacify him, calm him, couldn't shout, not with the barrel an inch from the man's face, not with the finger inside the trigger guard.

"Isaac, it's Charlie Webster. We have been speaking on the radio. You have to understand that we are here to help you. We understand your problems and there is much sympathy throughout the world for the fate of your people. Nothing, nothing can be gained from further bloodshed, only the loss of the sympathy that you have already won.'

All the men that Charlie had hunted when he was active had been young: it had been the common factor, characteristic. No terrorist or urban guerrilla or freedom fighter makes it to middle age. Either dead, locked up or in love with life by then. Youth was the crucial element to see things with the clarity needed to topple windmills, struggle against the sponge of society.

'My friends called to you when I was sleeping. They wanted to surrender. They would have done if you had said to them that they would not have been sent back. But you could not say that.

Perhaps you could not tell them the lie that would have made you the victor. But that part of them you have destroyed now-you have made them fighters, you have lost them, Charlie Webster.

Perhaps you do not know the Jews. Perhaps you do not know that we have been turned aside many times, pushed and manipulated and tricked and bent. We know what it is to be trampled over, to be a second class of man. Go to Ukraine one day, Charlie Webster, go to the great synagogue in Kiev. Look at the people there, people who have been deceived and duped. Look at their misery, at the agony of their lives, at their fear. Go and look for yourself then come back and tell me that you expect a Jew to believe you when you say "I have not heard of such a plan."'

No breath left, lungs drained. Isaac paused.

"Isaac, we have to talk about this sensibly..

The talk of surrender is over. We have told you that we want the petrol to fly to Israel. That is what we came here for, what we will leave with. This man is the headmaster who is travelling with the school children. He is the one who will die at ten o'clock if the fuel is not loaded. He will stay in this doorway where you can watch him. You have your radio, so you can tell your people what we have decided. You can stay where you are, you can watch and you can think for yourself who has the will, your people or ourselves.' The headmaster stood limp in his hold, almost as if he needed Isaac to hold him up, and all the time his eyes were fashioned on Charlie's face, seeking a sign, a reassurance that was not Charlie's to give.

' Isaac, you must understand..

' I understand everything. I want fuel. You at the moment do not wish me to have it. You are playing with the lives of many people on the aircraft – tell your authorities that.'

Clitheroe on Charlie's earpiece, 'Don't move away, Charlie. Stay put and keep quiet. Leave it a few minutes then try to resume the dialogue. We have to keep the conversation moving if we're to save this fellow's life. From what you've seen of Isaac, from his voice – our pick-up is not that good here – is this a real threat or will he soften nearer the time?'

Charlie thought of the face that he had seen, sharper and with a reality because it was now freed from the one- dimension flatness of the photographs and the television tube. And he thought of the strength and the ferocity of the grip on the headmaster. He tilted his head till his mouth was directly above the microphone. 'He means it The way he is now he'll shoot others afterwards if nothing happens to satisfy him. Right through the whole bloody lot he'll go.' So it would be a killing job, a hard, messy, killing job, and carcasses to be picked up, and thrown on to stretchers.

He eased himself on to the tarmac and sat cross-legged, the hot surface penetrating the fabric of his trousers. They had taken the man back from the doorway and he stood now, blurred and indistinct against the far wall of the aircraft. Charlie reckoned the girl would be watching him, but he could not be certain. Had a headache, not rampant but nagging, chewing at him, always did when he was tired. He looked at his watch: time ebbing away. He hadn't felt it when they were talking, but was aware of it now. Half an hour to go, the minimum, because his watch usually ran fast. Thirty minutes to see what Isaac was made from; only you already know, Charlie, can sense it Smell it,

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