Kingfisher

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Charlie had not looked back towards the tarmac. He knew what he would see if he turned his head, could picture the exact position in which the body would be lying. No need to look, not when death no longer held a fascination. He'd seen many before: the corpses of men who had

'died well', who had 'died badly', whatever that meant – of men who had been killed judicially, and those who had gone without the solace of legality, of men Who had screamed and of men who had prayed. It made little difference to the poor bastards, not now, not when it was over.

And this one, this nameless one down by the wheels, why had he taken the trip? Pretty straightforward, when you think about it, Charlie. One was going to go. Those were the rules they were playing by: take a mouse from a cat and she'll go find another. Made you wonder whether it was worth it, worth all the adrenalin surge, the scream and the gunfire. Can't play heroics seventy times, Charlie.

He could hear the approach of the ambulance, creeping carefully forward, low gear, on the outer perimeter road. It stopped a full hundred yards from him, as if nobody had told the driver the range of an SMG. Couldn't blame him, couldn't blame anybody who didn't want his head blasted. Not an ambulance driver's quarrel. Jews and Israelis and Russians, so where did a driver from Bishop's Stortford on forty-five pounds a week and struggling fit into that pattern? Charlie raised his right hand and gave the thumbs-up signal – put the poor blighter out of his misery and let him know he didn't have to come closer.

Gently Charlie pulled the Russian to his feet and eased him into a position where his own body still gave protection from the aircraft. Together they shuffled forward, slowly and without precision because the headmaster's legs were still weak and unresponsive.

'We're well clear of range. We'll just get to the truck, then you can forget it."

Without turning, the Russian said through the tremor of his voice. 'The last shot. They have killed another?'

' I think so.' Charlie knew the inadequacy of his answer. Brusque and with a suggestion of authority, he said, "There's nothing we can do. Not our problem any more.'

'They have killed him because you have taken me from them.'

'Perhaps.'

' I had not thought it would be that way."

Close to the ambulance now, a few more steps, and the moment for Charlie to conceal his impatience. But he led with his tongue, lashing and aggressive.

'Well, what do you want to bloody-well do? Do you want to go and stand by the door and shout, "Hey, there, I'm sorry I escaped. I've come back to ask you to forgive me. I didn't want the other bugger killed. It was all a big mistake, and if you shoot me can we have the other guy back, give him his life again, because I want to play the bloody hero"? Cut the crap out and get down on your knees and thank whatever God you have in uptown Kiev that an idiot like Charlie Webster was sitting on his arse on the tarmac with nothing better to do on a sunny morning than stick his neck on the block so that if anyone has to go in the box it wouldn't be you. Course you didn't know it would happen like this, no bugger did. The whole lot may go on that plane, every last one of them. You may be the only one that walks out of it, and if that happens don't be in a corner and blubbering that you wanted to share it with them.'

Charlie loosened his grip around the waist of the Russian as they reached the twin rear doors of the ambulance, and the other man turned and faced him.

' I am sorry, truly sorry. I have to thank you because of what you have done for me. But it is frightening for a man to know that he has lived and then another… In the war..

'Get in and shut up,' Charlie said.

' In the war there were endless columns of men who went to their deaths, with no hope of rescue, nothing to help them beyond the comradeship of dying together.'

Charlie opened the doors, pushed him into the interior, so that he stumbled and tripped forward across a red-blanketed stretcher bed.

'Shut up, forget it.'

The ambulance swung through one hundred and eighty degrees, causing Charlie to grab at a wall-attached oxygen cylinder, then he leaned out to pull together the two flapping doors. Before he fastened them he saw again the bright and unsullied lines of the Ilyushin, the neatness of its airframe broken only by the opened hatch. In the half light of the ambulance interior, shaded by the smoked glass, he held out his hand.

' I'm Charlie Webster.'

'Dovrobyn, Nikita Dovrobyn, and I am grateful.' Their hands locked together, and Charlie could feel the bony, clasping pressure of the grip.

'Like I said, forget it. Cant ever be as bad again.' They spoke no more on the brief journey to the control tower.

When the ambulance stopped he unfastened the doors and helped the Russian back down into the sunlight. There were other hands now to help and uniformed arms that linked under Dovrobyn's armpits, and one that carried a rug to drape over his back. Bloody stupid, that, thought Charlie, with the temperature where it was. All getting in on the act, fussing round the star turn of the day. Cat with the cream satisfaction on the driver's face, the man who had driven out to the aircraft, who'd done nothing and who would revel his way through a line of pints in the canteen bar at lunch- time on the strength of it.

There was a quiet voice in Charlie's ear.

'What sort of condition is he in, Mr Webster?' Bit of bloody deference there, and not before time.

'He's fine,' Charlie said, looking at the pink-faced, cleanshaven police inspector with his uniform and neatly knotted half-Windsor black tie.

'Will he be able to sustain a de-brief? They're anxious..

'God's sake, how do I know? He's not dead, is he? Not been shot?'

Kill it, Charlie, you're shouting and they're staring at you. Doesn't fit the proper image, not of a hero. Supposed to be calm and collected and organized, and above all modest. Not yelling because an earnest little prig asks a sensible question.

'He'll be fine, just find him some tea and a drop of brandy.'

'There's a great deal of admiration for what you did, Mr Webster.'

Charlie nodded. Would they only leave him alone, stop humiliating him? What did they think it was, a conscious decision? Didn't they know, any of these people, that there weren't risk appraisals and evaluations? You just jumped off your backside and ran. If you were lucky you were a hero, if you were unlucky they'd be scraping you up and wondering how you could be so bloody stupid.

They formed a little cavalcade up the stairs, the Russian in his ridiculous blanket at the front with the retinue around him, Charlie at the tail. As they climbed he leaned forward and tapped the inspector on the shoulder and said, 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout.'

That's all right, Mr Webster,' said the policeman. 'I know how you must feel.'

A grey transit van brought George Davies to the control tower. It had driven slowly round the outer road in full view of the aircraft, maintaining a regular speed so that those who watched it from the cockpit and tie passenger cabin would not be concerned at its progress. For a few seconds it disappeared behind the barricade of tankers, and it was during those moments that the back doors were flung open and the SAS commander had boarded. When the van emerged again there was nothing to indicate to those on the plane that it had added a passenger to its load, nothing to tell them of the army presence still hidden near the Ilyushin.

As he sat on the metal floor of the van Davies could reflect that there could be only one reason why he had been summoned for conference. The decision must have been taken: the politicians were steeling themselves for the military option.

Inside the control tower there had formed a reception line of grave-faced men with whom Nikita Dovrobyn shook hands.

The Home Secretary had emerged from his lower-floor office to greet the Russian with a public smile and a word of congratulation that was lost on the survivor because Charlie was still trapped by the throng in the doorway and unable to translate the remark. The tight grip of the Assistant Chief Constable, the unwavering gaze into his eyes, the impression of the medal ribbons, all caused Dovrobyn to flinch away, his instinctive reaction to security force authority.

By contrast, Clitheroe took the proffered hand with a limpness and led the Russian to a chair that was functional and not comfortable and for which he apologized. Others called the Russian 'sir', some lightly slapped his back, and he wondered why they presumed that he had of his own volition achieved something that made him so worthy of attention. Then, in their impatience, they were all talking to him, a tower of voices that were strange and unknown, and he looked past their heads for the one called Charlie Webster and strained to see him beyond the scrubbed faces and the buttoned collars and the uniforms and the city suits. He just wanted to sleep, to escape from these people. The voice of Charlie Webster cut through his confusion, the same voice of authority that had demanded he jump when his legs were leaden and which he had obeyed.

'Leave the man alone. He doesn't understand a word you're saying. Pack it in, and give him some room to breathe.'

There was a parting of the seas around the chair and Dovrobyn found the one face, the familiar face, that he sought.

Charlie spoke in Russian, gently and without haste, as if there were suddenly time, as if the panic for speed was forgotten. 'We're going to get you some coffee, then we have to talk to you.

You must understand that we have to know as much as you can tell us about the interior of the aircraft. We have to know everything that you can remember, every detail. If we are to save other people's lives then you must tell us all you can. We'll hold the questions till we have the coffee, give you time to think and to remember.. Charlie broke off and spoke again in English. 'We should get him some coffee. He's dead tired, scared out of his mind and totally disorientated. It's worth waiting.'

They stood in a circle round the Russian, staring, peering, stripping the man, so that he avoided them and focused on his hands that he held together lest they should see the trembling of his fingers. Once when he looked up he saw a soldier in camouflage denims with a webbing belt at his waist and a pistol holster fastened to it, who had not been present when he had first come, and he knew from the murmur of their voices and the way they softened till he turned his head that he was the subject of their talk.

Arrival of the coffee. A single cup set in a chipped white saucer with an alloy spoon and paper sachet of sugar. Carried to him by a woman who wore black with a little white cloth fixed in her hair and a white apron that showed stains. A panic consumed him as she stretched forward with the cup and saucer – would the shaking of his hands betray him, would he spill and slop the drink? Then Charlie Webster was speaking to her, and taking it from her, holding the saucer himself and shielding him from the gaze of the crowd so that he could grasp the cup with both hands, so they would not see how much dribbled to the floor and fell across his shirt. When he had finished Webster took the cup and with his other hand fiddled in a trouser pocket for a handkerchief and neatly wiped the Russian's chin and coat.

'We need to start now, Nikita. I'll translate the questions for you. If you do not know the answers, then say so. Don't make anything up, just to please us. You must be very exact. That's important, terribly important.'

For ninety minutes Dovrobyn answered their questions. Pausing every few seconds for Charlie to speak, while he found himself all the time growing in confidence. First the narrative of the hi-jacking, then to his own action, through to his assessment of the personality of the Jews.

On into the dispositions inside the aircraft. Where were the various groups of passengers? Where did Isaac stand when he was not in the main cabin, out of the range of the fish-eye that they showed him? Where did David stand at the rear? Where did the girl stand? Who had slept the night before, and for how long? Where did they sleep? What weapons had he seen? Did they have grenades? Were there explosives? How had they protected the doors of the aircraft? How was the trolley barrier fastened? What was the morale of the three? Who was the leader now?

The schoolmaster was no fool. He was not a man used to the world of strike and counter-strike, of government ministers and ranking policemen and troops, but he appreciated his purpose in the room. The killing ground was being prepared, the markers and the pegs and the tapes were being laid. He saw it in the face of the soldier, the one with the gun at his waist, who said nothing, wrote nothing, only listened. There would be more men like that, hard and cold-faced and who did not smile, whose attention was held by the task that confronted them. And he thought of his children who sat still and strapped in their upholstered seats, who had no defences, and would hold the middle territory between the troops and David and Isaac and Rebecca. Acceptable that he should die, and the man who had followed him, but the children…

'You cannot… you cannot… what will happen to the children? You will kill the children. On the plane these people will not hurt the children, they are correct to them. But if you go there, and you have to shoot, what will happen to my children?'

Not that any except Charlie understood what he said, just the signs of acute worry, and they moved away from him. It is not pleasant to look on a man who has broken, who can sustain nothing more, who is convulsed in weeping, who has gone beyond his own unexplored limitations.

"Nobody will hurt the children,' Charlie said.

' If you attack the plane and they resist, if Isaac and David resist, then there must be shooting. .. then the children will be hurt. They are in my charge and I am not there.'

'Nobody Will hurt the children. All of them will be saved. There is a science in these things and if we know where they are then there is no risk.'

'You confirm my fear. You will attack. There is no other reason f o r the questions that you have asked me.'

Charlie did not reply. There was nothing to say. He had seen the children on the television screen, their meekness and their submission, and he knew the hopelessness of giving the sort of guarantee he had just delivered. A used Ford and you don't need to service it for twenty years, bullshit. A science in these matters, crap and you know it, Charlie. He knew that when the troops went in the only thing that mattered was luck, a bloody great piece of luck. One good burst of gunfire, and that's all they have to get off, and what do you have? Fiasco, catastrophe, disaster.

Put the army in and what becomes the priority? Kill the killers, or save the hostages, or can you even differentiate? All depends on whether they fight. Isaac, the little bugger, he'll fight, perhaps David too if he's caged, and the girl, she might shoot if the hero boys are still standing. So how many lucky bullets do you need to hit those three and no one else? And how many from the opposition to screw the whole damn thing?

Charlie straightened and rested his hand on the Russian's shoulder.

' I think he's had enough. You should find him a bed and keep him on ice.'

'Express our thanks to him, please, Mr Webster,' the Home Secretary said. Dejected, oppressed by the knowledge that the decision for action was his, and could be passed to neither senior nor subordinate. The circle broke and formed an aisle through which Charlie led Dovrobyn. 'Keep him warm,' he told the inspector, 'and don't let the quacks give him a shot. We have to have him on tap.'

He walked back to the console and looked out through the glass at the Ilyushin. Same old story, nothing moving, nothing stirring, not a damn thing, just like always. But it was all going to start.

He heard the Home Secretary say to the soldiers, 'Well, Major Davies, can it be done, and with reasonable chance of success?'

'A reasonable chance of success, yes, sir. Shouldn't be too difficult. We know all we're going to.'

'When would you attempt it?'

'First light is ideal. But if there's deterioration we could have a go at dusk tonight. We could get in during daylight, but the risk all round is greater.'

A moment of consideration, as if the Home Secretary were rehearsing the sentence, then he said, 'Make the preparations that you deem necessary, Major.'

Thank you, sir. There's a DC6 over on the far side. Height to the doors is right, width of fuselage about the same, wing cover on approach matches. We'll do a bit of work with it, and you'll be contacted as soon as we're happy.' 'Thank you, Major.'

The session was concluded. Davies bustling on his way. Conversation mounting. A lightening of the atmosphere now that the crucial decision had been taken. Charlie sought out Clitheroe, tugged at his shirt sleeve and took him to the far corner, away from the crowd that now sensed blood and waited for the chase.

' It's a bit early, isn't it?' Charlie urged. 'We've hardly talked to them yet, and now we're ready to plunge in.' ' It wasn't my advice.'

'But the tactic is to wear them down. Nag away at them, starve them out That's the way it's done. What the Americans do, the Dutch, what we've tried in the past.'

'Correct. That is the traditional way of handling these affairs. As I told you the present course of action is not the one that I recommended.' 'What are you going to do about it?' 'Mr Webster, I'm not here to do anything. I'm here to give opinions when they are requested. My brief goes no further.' 'So what's changed, what's put the balls into them?' 'You have, Mr Webster. Your little games out on the tarmac have changed all that. Don't stop me, don't look aggressive. You asked me a question and I'll give you an answer. They were sitting in here watching Mr Dovrobyn, believing he was about to die. They didn't like it, they didn't like the helplessness and impo tence

– that was a word that was flying round this room a fair bit – and they saw what you did. Probably you shamed them, shamed them into showing what they now regard as courage. They had been led to understand that there was no intervention they could make, and you demonstrated that there are occasions when a physical course of action can be both justified and successful. Now they wish to follow your example. Virility, I suppose, comes into it, they wish to match your virility. Don't look pained, Mr Webster, don't regard me as an idiot. We've been through all this while you were bringing your rescued princess back from the dragon's castle, we've ah had our say. Myself, the policeman, army liaison, the civil servants. Mine was a lone voice because I cannot offer exact solutions. I can only surmise what a state of mind will be, given certain deprivation factors. I understand a smattering of Russian, Mr Webster, from my college days. I gather you told Mr Dovrobyn that there was a "science on these matters", referring to the. question of storming the aircraft. A "science" implies a solution if a correct procedure is followed. I cannot supply a "science", only an opinion, and that is why I am not listened to. And you must allow for the death of the second hostage: it has deeply shocked our masters. They were not prepared for it, and therefore their anger is all the greater. And they are fearful now of seeming weak.'

' It's bloody nonsense,' said Charlie quiedy.

'Not so much nonsense as cowardice, Mr Webster. They are unwilling to repeat an experience.

They do not have the courage. The previous two occasions when they have been confronted with this type of situation there had been no killing of hostages. Neither in Knightsbridge nor in Balcombe Street. They could afford to be patient then; there were no corpses for the world to see, to bear witness to their inability to intervene with a strong hand. You have to comprehend and perhaps you do already that the basis for the respect held by the Western democracies for the urban guerrilla is that so few persons can appear to ridicule the power of an established and elected government. By your own assessment only one of the persons on the aircraft is, as we would say, the hard-liner, with the other two his followers. Yet look around and count up the effort, the ingenuity, the technology, the striking power that has been assembled to eliminate this threat. All of this concentration was sitting on its collective backside, wondering what to do.

They think now that unarmed, unprepared, you showed them a course of action.'

' If they go in there shooting then there has to be risk to the children, like the headmaster said, and he's right. What do they want? Another bloody Maalot?'

'Perhaps they consider the risk to the children less substantive than the risk that they will see another man brought to the door of the aircraft, and after him another, and another after that…'

'But that's not your opinion. You know and I know that perhaps they will kill one more, but they're human beings in there. They're not animals, they won't be able to go on chopping like a slaughterhouse foreman. They couldn't sustain it.'

'That's not what you said from the tarmac, Mr Webster.

They took great note of what you told them. They remember your every word,' Clitheroe speaking now in a tired, half- amused drawl. 'As I told you, I have offered my advice and it was not accepted.'

He passed Charlie a cigarette, expensive with a gold- papered covering for the filter. Charlie took it instinctively, leaned his head for the light, and blew the smoke into the murk of the room.

Without giving any particular thought to it, Charlie said, 'So how do we save them?'

' It depends on who you want to save. If it's the children I suppose they stand an equal chance, and it's a good one, whether Major Davies leads a heroic charge or whether we sit it out and people like myself give advice on a long- drawn-out stand-off. The children will be safe. Or is it the others, my friend? If the soldiers assault the plane then we can guarantee – I use your word – that they are unlikely to take time off for the niceties of capturing able-bodied prisoners. Shoot first, questions later is the doctrine of this type of operation. Is that what concerns you? Perhaps it should concern all of us, three young people who through a chain of circumstances stand condemned to die if the army take the plane. Whether they are evil people, or misguided, or those that in another context we would regard as courageous, they will not survive the visit of Major Davies. And I wouldn't criticize that: his men have wives and children, they too want to survive, and they deserve to. If you wish these three to live then you must persuade them to surrender, and unconditionally because then they will go before the courts," perhaps here, probably in the Soviet Union, and you must believe the words of the Ambassador that were carried on the radio, that they will be unlikely to face the death penalty if indeed they are returned. There can be no happy outcome, yet there was no reason to expect anything else from the moment that the aircraft landed. You've been very patient with me, Mr Webster. I'm not used to such attention.'

Charlie smiled, thanked him and moved without more comment back to the console.

Waste of time trying the radio unless someone was sitting in the cockpit with the earphones on and waiting. Seemed to know that his place was far from here, far from the green- carpeted floor, and the hum of the air-conditioner and the polite laughter, and the deference to seniority. Knew he should be on the tarmac again, sitting on his backside in the sunshine, flicking the flies from his nose and wanting a drink, waiting for something to happen. The pictures were still in front of him, where he'd pinned them in the early morning when the issues had been sharper and the grey fog hadn't blurred the outlines of his faith. Three young faces, ordinary to the point of boredom, and now trapped and vicious and being broken on an anvil by a force they could not combat, only strike against, bloodily and irrelevantly.

Too long on the outside, Charlie, too long living and winning without the back-up of name and rank and number, without legality and authority. As much a terrorist as these little bastards. Had a base camp, sure enough, to come to with the intelligence gained by deceit and stealth, but otherwise a man of his own whims, without a general to direct him and draw lines on his map. Easy for some to hate these three, right Charlie? Easy to label and catalogue them. Easier still if you had a chauffeur and a pennant and a chest of medal ribbons and a swagger stick. But harder if you knew the isolation, and the loneliness and the fear that makes the stomach coil, as you did, Charlie. Disowned if you're caught, that's what they said when he went to Dublin; don't expect the FO to bale you out if the Garda Siochana lifts you – and when you're caught don't cough, that way you'll keep the pension and well see your wife doesn't have to go out to work and the kids get new shoes when they need them. All for a job, all for a way to pay the mortgage. Less motivation than those three. 'Motivation', the fashionable word that meant damn-all, meant you were thick and hadn't thought it out, or too young to know what went on. 'Motivation', the great confidence trick, the public relations target, what they told all the men who formed the starched khaki ranks and lined up to have Herself pin a cross of dulled metal on their chests and went back to barracks to shiver in a corner and wonder how they'd been so bloody stupid.

Years since Charlie had been in uniform, despised it, sneered at the sameness and the identity and the mob instinct of men who needed polished shoes and short haircuts. What did these people know of the three on the plane? How could they understand them? Called them terrorists, murderers, fanatics… all the usual claptrap. But they don't care, not even Clitheroe.

Stuff it, Charlie, you're a raving old bore. You're not paid to think, to be the referee. Go back to counting the fag ends. Do something useful.

Charlie stood up to his chair and looked around him.

He attracted no attention, his moment of glory was past. The Assistant Chief Constable was cat-napping. Clitheroe reading, Home Secretary gone below. Nothing changed on the screen – David out of sight, Isaac and Rebecca at the forward entrance to the passenger cabin. Could read the defiance still fashioned on Isaac's face.

He walked out through the door and began to descend the stairs, slowly, carefully, aware of the fatigue he felt. He reckoned he would have about two hours at the plane before the military had satisfied themselves on the DC6. He realized his hand was out against the wall, steadying himself as he went down.

Didn't recognize him at first, the man he saw through the open door of the second landing.

Seemed shed of his earlier confidence and poise that had been on display in the control tower.

Charlie stopped at the entrance, hesitating.

' It's the Israeli, isn't it?… Benitz, Colonel Benitz? The one who thought our friends were about to surrender.'

'That was me. I remember you too. You were very kind…'

'Did they dump you in here?' Charlie glanced round the room. 'Looks like you've a plague or something. Not exactly in the centre of things, is it?'

'It is not the intention of people here that I should be in the centre…'

'What were you sent for?' Charlie said, casting off the small talk.

" I was sent to help you persuade these people to surrender.'

'Why you?'

'It was thought that an army man might appeal to them.'

'And they just left you sitting here, kicking your heels, our crowd I mean? They haven't talked to you since you were up in the tower first thing? Incredible.'

' I sit here and I wait to be asked.'

'Well, you won't be sitting here much longer. They've just dropped a hostage…' He heard the Hebrew obscenity, saw Benitz clench his fist. 'Didn't they tell you? Didn't anyone even tell you that? They dropped one this morning, and there'll be another this afternoon, and then they plan a shooting gallery, with one each hour. We're gearing the heavies up, to go and thump them.'

'You should have gone this morning when the one you call Isaac was asleep."

'Could have had them all then. Looking back on it, that is. With hindsight we could have wrapped it all up. And saved the hostage, and whoever else gets in the way when the military attack.' Charlie had exhausted his politeness, wanted to be on his way. As an afterthought, he added: 'You think you could still talk them down?'

Benitz forward in his seat, tense and trying to hide his elation. Casual. ' I think it would be possible. If I were at the plane and could talk to them.'

'And what would you be telling them?'

'Surrender, unconditional surrender.'

'Before the next deadline, before the military go in.'

'Surrender, unconditional surrender,®

'Could save a deal of mopping up.®

'Could save lives, Charlie.'

Charlie looked behind him, satisfied himself that the staircase was unused, thumb in his mouth, the nail chewed between his teeth. 'I am going to the plane now. Perhaps… if you wanted, you could come with me… The message from your government is that there should be immediate and unconditional surrender?'

'Yes, that is the message,' said Benitz looking hard into Charlie's eyes.

'But if they surrender, then perhaps they go back to Russia.'

If they surrender there will be no more killing. No more of the passengers will be hurt, and they themselves will live. I understand that what happens to them later is not yet decided."

No opportunity for Benitz to use the telephone, to give explanations to London, to ask for fresh guidance. He prided himself that he had covered well on the hammer – blow disappointment of the news that a hostage was already dead, that his last instructions were now invalid, inappropriate. Charlie had taken his arm and was hurrying him down the steps, and seemed to stagger and falter, the mark of a man, Benitz recognized, close to exhaustion.

Too late now, too far gone the opportunity for the young people to barter their freedom with the lives of the passengers. Possible before the captain had died, possible before they had taken their hostage. But the moment now lost. Benitz searched in his mind, among the briefings and the messages he had received in Tel Aviv and from London, as to what solution he might fashion that would most please those that he served.