Kingfisher

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Alone among the passengers who could see from the starboard side windows Anna Tashova had stood her ground, not flinching during the shooting, staying close to the glass of the window. She had seen everything, heard and relished it all. Her hands had come up from her lap as if she was about to clap them together as David had jerked, then tumbled backwards, but she had desisted just as she had stifled the cheer of exultation within her. She felt no pity, no horror, no sadness at the snuffing out of a life, instead gloried that her captain was at last remembered and revenged.

She had noticed long ago the way some of the passengers craved the friendship of their captors, mimicked the collaborators of the old wartime days, and this brought no surprise to her.

Despicable, but to be anticipated; of course there would be those without the guts to fight who would wheedle and smile for favours, and hope to win advantage and they would be remembered when the affair was over, named, denounced.

It was to be expected that some would choose to fraternize. At the seminar on hi-jack theory to which she had gone the last summer in Moscow she had heard the lecturer speak of the common practice of passengers in seeking to identify with the men who held the guns. There had been a titter of laughter round the hall but the man on the dais had stamped on that, told them this was not just to be expected: it could be guaranteed. She had talked of this among the cockpit crew with whom she had shared her next flight, and all had agreed that faced with the seizure of an aircraft by force they would never come to terms with terrorists, only play them along for the greatest benefit of their passengers. They were brave words, spoken in safety. Later she had wondered what type of person might confront her, educated or illiterate, young or old, nervous or controlled. But she had found no answer, had not prepared herself for the two young men who had crashed their way through her cockpit door.

For hours, interminably, she had sat upright, staring to the front, trying to shut out the events enacted round her. She had watched the headmaster taken to his death, had not seen and did not know the manner of his escape, watched again as the Italian was pulled to his execution. Now her head moved, bouncing from window to window, swinging round so that she could see behind her, alive and vital because she had seen the man fall and watched the progress of the ribbon of blood that stretched a yard or so from him, highlighted on the pale concrete.

So they did not always win, these people. But the one who called himself Isaac, that was the one she wanted to see demolished. She could wait for that, if it took another day, another week.

To hear him scream and plead and collapse with pain. She found her thighs squeezed together, shoulders hunched, her arms rigid, all for the hatred of the young one with his curly hair and his confidence, who stood now at the rear of the aircraft where once his friend had been. She was hungry, thirsty too, longing for a cigarette, yearning to join the lavatory queues; but she would not bend, not ask. Not of these people.

They had not spoken since David had gone.

Isaac at the back, separated by the length of the cabin from Rebecca, abandoning her, kept his own dark counsel. Neither of them had watched David die, not willing to weaken their own fibre, through seeing the performance of a comrade dedicated to taking his own life because his will had crumbled. But they had been unable to shut out the noise of the gunfire, the little staccato bursts of the handgun, the one report of the heavier, killing rifle.

Where to run now, Isaac, where to hide now that they know that one at least among you was ordinary, human, flesh and blood? Where to go? David had died, uselessly, believing in the value of a gesture. For you too, Isaac? Follow the leader? Follow the Party? No. We fight them, and we hit them.

Oblivious to the passengers he strode down the aisle, gesturing to Rebecca not to come forward to meet him, to hold her position, not to move from her place at the open doorway. Not once did he look behind, never believing that any would dare to rise up against him.

' I give them one more hour. Then there will be another, another for them to watch. One o'clock for the next, and one every hour after that. We will bring them in a line so that all can see them, all who stand out there, they will see them and they can watch with their clocks for the precision with which the next will fall.'

'Why, Isaac? What is there to achieve? After David? What is left for us?'

'Because David was a coward… s

'How can you say that? It was he who walked out to face them.'

'Because that was the fool's escape, the quickest path. He was a coward and he was beaten, and he would not stand at our shoulder. We have to show them. One every hour- that will show that we are not defeated.'

'Then they will attack us, they will storm the aircraft.' A breathiness in her words, and she clung to his arm, the little girl again, small and feminine and clinging, who has found her man and will follow. They will kill us, Isaac.'

As he laughed she saw what she took to be a madness – the fanatical desire for self-immolation, the wish for martyrdom – and she felt the great force that drew her towards him, as if vertigo were dragging her to a cliff face. She had no strength to struggle against it, no willingness to do so.

' If we cannot go to Israel there is nothing left but to die here,' she said.

Isaac broke off from her and went carefully towards the open door. A sharp and darting glance around the corner and to the outside. Time to see Charlie Webster there to the front of the tankers, arms folded, as if he would wait a lifetime, would stay as long as required. Another man behind him, who wore a jacket and who was younger, healthier, carrying the distinctive features of his own people. A bare second Isaac had been visible, and Charlie Webster had reacted to the movement.

'We have to talk to you, Isaac.' The flattened voice, drained of emotion, devoid of tone, patient and carrying across the no-man's land of the tarmac. 'We have to talk again, Isaac.'

Hidden from them and close to the aircraft walls Isaac whispered over his shoulder, 'Cover behind me. And really this time, without mistake.' He stayed watching till he saw her rise, walk to the centre of the aisle, and take up her position, standing where she could see all the passengers. He would miss David. Frightened, abject, pathetic David would at least have stood and presented a reliable front, but the girl…

'There is nothing to say,' he shouted. I must keep back from the door, he told himself, no target, give the bastards nothing. ' I told you we wanted the fuel for the plane by ten o'clock or we would punish you for it. The man is there for you to see. At one o'clock there will be another if we have not had the fuel, at two there will be another, at three there will be another. Every hour from one o'clock. What time will you have the darkness you want, Mr Webster? Eight hours after we start?

Nine, perhaps? Before it is dark and your troops can come for us, how many will you be able to count down there beside the present one? There is no reason for you to stand there; you gain nothing from it. We will not allow you to repeat what you did earlier.'

The answer was faint and hard for him to hear. 'Isaac, there is much to talk about. It has been a long fight for you, and your cause has been heard. But there is nothing further to be gained for you.'

'There is fuel for the aircraft, that has yet to be gained. If you do not bring it then you must stand there and you must watch, and discover whether you like what you see. Understand this, Mr Webster: we have nothing against you, we want little of you, we want only the petrol. It is a small thing for you, it will not cost you much, not set against the lives you play with."

Isaac crawled away from the door, and then stood up, brushed the grime from his trousers, and seemed to Rebecca to be laughing.

'If they shout again, you talk to them, let them hear you, let them see you. Perhaps David went too early.' He walked past her, not with haste, but casually, cosseting his gun. Before he reached the drinks trolley where he would again take up his stance he was whistling: a song from the Ukraine, of his people, a cheerful tune.

Behind Charlie's back Arie said, 'You told me he was the hard one, this Isaac. You knew your man.'

'All over it's the same, in every group you find one..'

'Can we talk to him, Charlie, can you get him back?'

Never looking behind, watching all the time the windows and the door, Charlie said, 'The little bastard thinks he can win. He doesn't believe in us, doesn't believe we have the will to beat him.

That's where he has to be convinced…'

'You must tell him I am here, Charlie. This is what I was sent for. It was for this moment.'

'You feel something for the kid, right?' A slow smile at Charlie's mouth.

'As you do, Charlie.'

'And what do you want of him now. a

That he should not be ashamed.'

'And nothing else?'

If he does as I ask of him then he will not be disgraced, and no more harm will come to the passengers. Your masters will be happy with you, Charlie, and will talk of a great victory. For us there can be no victory, only defeat, and if I cannot talk to Isaac then there will be defeat for us, but you will share in it.'

'That's a long old speech, Benitz. Let's cut the crap and get on with it*

Charlie walked forward three or four paces, isolating himself from the Israeli. Then he raised his voice again.

' Isaac, you must listen to us. A man has come from Tel

Aviv. He is the representative of the Israeli government. He is a colonel of the Israeli Defence Force. You have to listen, Isaac, you have to hear what the Israeli government says to you. You must put the past behind you, forget all this rubbish about winning and will power and strength.

You have to talk to this man, for God's sake.'

He could imagine them back in the control tower. Crowded round the television set, picking up his words and searching on the outer camera monitor for the Israeli: be bedlam. Who authorized it? Whose sanction? Deep in now, Charlie, blown yourself, risked the lot, jeopardized the pension, the job, all the same things that mob will be thinking of. No point in saying you didn't reckon it was going to work out like this. Took him there yourself, and you've made it public, broadcast it to the world.

Incessant in his ear were the tribal drums of anger and dissent. 'Come in, Webster. Come in immediately. Webster, respond to your call sign. What the hell is going on out there? Did you take the Israeli to the location? It was expressly forbidden that he should reach the plane.

Answers must be given.' They seemed to be passing the microphone from one to the other. All climbing on you, Charlie, leaning on your back, pummelling you. Tell them to get stuffed.

' I have one message for you. They will start to shoot hostages again in something less than forty minutes. I repeat, the killing starts again in forty minutes. That is why I am here. I have nothing else to report. Nothing else.' There were further bleated demands for clarification, amplification, justification. He reached to his side for the control console, felt with his fingers for the volume button and turned it slowly, anti-clockwise.

Another step forward. 'Isaac, you have to listen to this man. He comes at the direct instruction of the Israeli government. He's no trick, he's not a stooge. You have to hear him out. You have to listen to him before there is more killing.'

The answer was a long time coming. It seemed fainter to their ears, and there was confusion and hesitancy in the voice.

'It is Rebecca Who hears you. Isaac has said that we must have the petrol. Soon he will choose which man stands at the door at one o'clock. You have not much time for the petrol. After one o'clock then perhaps we should hear what your friend has to say."

Charlie shouted again, and was not heeded. He brushed his hand across his mouth to clear the saliva that had gathered there. They'll have your neck for this, Charlie, right up high they'll swing you. Someone had to get the scene moving, didn't they? But there're ways of doing it, Charlie.

Their way and your way. Your way's a loser.

George Davies was well pleased with the training session, as pleased as he would ever be. Eight men approaching the aircraft from the dead ground at the rear. Four for the back door and needing more time because it must be forced from the outside and they would be unfamiliar with the locking devices employed on the Ilyushin. Four more to the front where the hatch was free, and pausing for the dovetailing of the plan, the synchronization of the triple movement that would come from his direction by radio. Three stages and all simultaneous – the opening of the rear door, attack at the front, and the detonation of flash grenades coupled with sustained machine-gun fire on the port side of the aircraft. As much noise as possible, he had said he wanted, create the diversion, get their heads to the wrong windows and rely on the instinctive reaction to gunfire, take cover. He reckoned that if he could get his men inside the plane while the pair were still crouched down, or looking to the port side, orientating themselves to a new situation, then he stood a good chance. But there were imponderables. If the diversion did not drive Isaac and Rebecca down, if their attention were not drawn across the aircraft. If they were standing and shooting. If the hostages panicked and ran from their seats. There were any number of things that could screw it. But you could go only so far in preparation. They had to realize that back in the control tower, had to know that if the military went in then the picnic was over. He did not give the civilians the benefit of his doubt, thought for the most part they hadn't the slightest idea of the consequences of what they now planned.

Timing was working well, and the movement up the ladders could not be bettered. They had reasonable diagrams of the door mechanism to work off, and good photographs of the boy and the girl to imprint on each man's memory. The soldier who would carry the megaphone could handle the

Russian language commands to order the passengers to remain seated – atrocious accent, but they'd understand him. Vital that – it was the one continual disturbing worry that obsessed him: that the passengers would start moving.

Five times they worked the manoeuvre – more than that and there was a danger of staleness.

Had to keep them hungry, prevent the risk of any blunting familiarity coming into the operation.

When they gathered round him, back on the tarmac after the last run, they discussed equipment.

They rejected helmets and also the armour-plated 'flak' jackets; too cumbersome, too likely to catch on the ladder, the doorway, between the seats. They peeled their webbing down to a minimum, belt and nothing else. Tennis shoes in place of boots, the short-barrelled Ingram in preference to anything that was heavier, larger, whatever the loss of hitting power. Nothing to be taken that could impede the one desperate dash along the aisle.

'Remember,' Davies said to the small group, 'remember, the slightest sign of opposition and you hammer them. Three- round bursts, and angled because we're taking both ends. They have to be bloody fast getting their hands up if they're to live through this little lot. Any chance of them shooting, blast them. If you're impeded, or can't see them, take the ceiling out… they only have to get one good burst off and we've wrecked the whole thing.'

'When does the next ultimatum wind up?' One of the group was anxious to know how soon they might be called on to demonstrate before the live audience what they had mastered in rehearsal.

'A little over half an hour. The civvie guy, the spook, is having another go at them at the moment. If he fails and the gaffers think they're about to start chopping again then we go. We won't be waiting for dark.'

Three men were with the Israeli Prime Minister: his Foreign Minister, the head of military intelligence, and the personal adviser to his office on counter-terrorism. All four wore open-necked shirts and light slacks.

It was an inconclusive meeting with little to report. The Prime Minister was assured that the British seemed adamant that in the event of a successful outcome to the siege of the Ilyushin 18 then any surviving hi-jackers would be flown directly to the Soviet Union. It was unlikely, he was told, that the British would even bother to prefer charges for those offences committed inside the jurisdiction of local courts. It would be, the Foreign Minister remarked, the Iranian precedent rather than the Munich one to which the British would turn. When the Prime Minister had raised his eyebrows fractionally, the signal that he wished clarification, it was explained that the Iranians had sent back a Soviet Air Force pilot who had defected in a light aircraft seeking political asylum. The Munich option referred to the West German refusal to hand over a twenty-six-year-old fugitive who had seized an internal Prague-Bratislava flight at gunpoint and flown it to Munich.

' I had hoped for more from the Americans,' said the Prime Minister, turning to the army reserve general, an old friend, one who could be trusted and whom he had brought out of retirement to sit close by his office. ' I had hoped that their influence on the British would be greater.'

'The taste of this business has not been palatable to them. They will stand by us when the danger is greatest, when they believe we are without defences. But they do not like to think of us, or our people, as having a will of our own. The children have shown their claws, they have killed with them. It does not fit the image that our friends have of us.'

'With the hostage dead, with the Americans unwilling to act, then we have lost. They will go back, these two, and there is nothing that we can…' He broke off, as if reminded of something distant. Clutching at the straw. 'The man that we sent, Benitz. Has there been communication from him?'

'He spoke to the relevant people by telephone this morning. But his opportunities are limited.

The British offer him nothing."

'They have not used him because they wish to send these people back?'

'But he is a resourceful man.'

'A lion, one of the. best we have.' The Prime Minister agreed. 'But there are impossibilities, I suppose, even for a man such as this.'

'He has made no contact for some time now, not that has been reported by London. Perhaps -'

'That means nothing. In these circumstances, nothing.'

So often like this, the ill-informed back-seat, while the pursuit of policy remained in the hands of the soldiers. Many times the scene had been enacted; the directions given, the orders made clear, and then the waiting for the cipher cable, the telex, the radio message, always the same men in the room, the same frustration.

Abruptly the Prime Minister curtailed the meeting. Nothing to be gained from further dallying, talking round a situation they no longer directly influenced. The delegation of the Histradut had been waiting more than twenty minutes in the anteroom outside his office. He should not delay them longer. The problems of the trades unions would be with him long after the affair of the taking of the Ilyushin to Stansted was forgotten.

That he should have closed and refastened the door Isaac knew. He should have shut them in again, barricaded the gate, prepared his defences. But he could not bring himself to return to the bright hole through which the sunlight dazzled, nervous of the danger there. Yet it was weakness not to go to the big lever, plunge it downwards the semicircle of its locking mechanism, it was a weakening of his will that he recognized but felt unable to correct. Not many hours since he had slept, four perhaps and not much more, but the passing of time had been concentrated and had ravaged both his strength and his thinking ability – the escape of the teacher, the killing of the Italian, the death of his friend. Great and cataclysmic events, all far beyond any previous experience he had had, each diluting the importance of the other, till they had taken a toll that he would not have believed possible.

You should have fastened the door, Isaac, if you mean to fight on. The door must be bolted and locked, Isaac. Their entry point. Through there that they will come with machine- guns and rifles.

They'll be laughing, unable to believe their luck, a door actually left open… But the tiredness swept over him, overwhelming, compulsive. If he could only close his eyes… A dreamless sleep, without the desperate fear of watching and waiting, and hoping…

But the door must be open for one o'clock. Right, Isaac? That was when you told the man Charlie to be watching and waiting if there was no petrol. He allowed himself a slow smile as he remembered the fever in the voice of the Englishman, the anxiety that he sought to suppress. It brought a quiet grin to the side of Isaac's mouth. That was why the door should be left open: so that they could see it, and count the minutes that passed on their watches.

Strange not seeing David ait the far end of the aisle, not following his bowed silhouette the length of the aircraft as he had hovered in the cockpit. Had made an abscess in their group, his going. And what for? What for, any of it? The policeman back in Kiev, the captain in his cockpit seat, the passenger (misshapen on the tarmac – didn't even know their names. So what for? The path that David had led them to, the road that he had shown them. A road that was safe and secure with the darkened shadows of esoape, no blocks, no armed men, no uniformed sentries, David had told them of Babi Yar, and of Potma and Perm, lectured them on the diet of seventy-five grams of black bread a day and cabbage soup with which to wash it down, harangued them on the young men of their faith who languished in the cells, the injustices, the cruelties, the interrogations. A blow for freedom, David had promised. And where was freedom? Not here, not in this stinking cell, with these animals to be watched and guarded and shepherded. You ran well, David, ran early, and you left us, left us to face the wrath you had brought down. But what if there can be no survival for the fighter, what if he is made for martyrdom? Isaac seemed to laugh to himself, and there was the slow, gentle, smiling shake of his head. Not what you came for, Isaac. Not why you bought the tickets – just to purchase a grave plot. Good enough for David, but not for Isaac. Rambling, you fool, deep in your self-pity. Wonder what they'd said that morning in the lecture hall as they gathered for the first class of the day, the ones he studied with. Would they know now where was the one who always sat in the fifth row, three seats in from the door, the one with the spidery writing, good at practical and poor at theory, who asked no questions and took the 'B' marks, and who was quiet and had nothing to say in the canteen queue at morning break? Would they know? And if they did what would they say? Those who liked him, what would they say if they had stood beside him at ten and watched his finger tighten on the trigger bar, seen the disintegration of a man's skull, the way he wiped the spattered bone and brain tissue from his arm? Would they have embraced him, or have cowered beyond his reach?

His hands gripped the narrow barrel of the gun. Hurting yourself, Isaac, wounding yourself.

But you have to decide now, cannot stall and pass the parcel any longer. Have to close the door if you are going to fight them, Isaac. It's your guts that are fleeing you, draining through the open door, spilling out, splashing on the tarmac, ripening the time f o r surrender.

Time to move. Isaac pulled himself up from the floor, holding on to the trolley for leverage. So bloody tired, his legs. And the baby still crying. No one trying to stop the little bugger's fury, letting it scream and yowl as if to batter at him personally. And all of them watching for his reaction to the noise, waiting for him to burst into p r o t e s t… or to capitulate and ask for milk to be sent. They would not wait much longer, but for now the bastards could wait. Even the American was quiet now, the one with the homilies to Rebecca, and the arrogance; should have chosen him, not the little frightened man he had dragged to the doorway: should have been the American. Not that it would have changed anything, only given greater satisfaction.

Down the aisle again, Isaac. Cat in a cage, with a circumscribed path inside the bars. Down the carpet, eyes to the right, eyes to the left, and watch them all squirm, look away, try to hide. He reached Rebecca, and his arm was round her shoulder, not with emotion, more to offer a faint degree of comfort.

They should not have brought her. It chilled him to think what would happen to Rebecca.

Perhaps he was strong enough to face the bullets- perhaps. But the girl, never. Without the muscle, without the mind. They should not have allowed her to come. Late in the day for that thought, though. In their eyes she'll be as culpable as the men, would be judged with equality, the same fate. What a screw-up! And how f a r from where it had started, and what had it started for?

A heap of cretins sitting in their excreta, that Babi Yar should be remembered. Babi where? Babi bloody Yar. Isaac laughed to himself, this time out loud.

Rebecca said, 'What you said to the man, Isaac, did you mean that? It is close to one o'clock, do we kill one more then? Do we have to?'

' If we believe that we are going to Israel, then we must kill another, and another till we have the fuel.' His voice was steady, and without anxiety.

'Are we going to Israel, Isaac?'

'Questions, always questions!'

'But now there must be answers, Isaac. David is dead, the Italian, the captain too. There have to be answers.'

'What do you want to hear me say?'

' I have to know what you think. I have the right to know what you will do. Are we going to Israel?'

'And you? What do you think? Do you believe we will fly from here?'

'Don't play with me, Isaac. Not now. We have been here too long for games. We have to have honesty now.'

'So, what do I have to say for you? Do I crawl to you and beg for your forgiveness?' He spat the words at her, and the hate was there again, the loathing not for her but the great sponge that hemmed in on them that they could kick against, but not hurt, not inflict pain. 'Do you want me to plead to you to forgive me and to forget where I have taken you? Of course we will not see Israel

… There, it is the first time that I have said it… I'll say it again for you only louder, so that all these pigs can hear me

… we will not see Israel. We will never see Israel We are like the herd of our people, the masses of the camps and the prison cells. No better than them, no worse than them. We are as ineffective as they are. We will never see Israel. You wanted me to say it, and I have satisfied you. It was for nothing, Rebecca. Nothing.'

'So there will be no more killing?' A small voice, almost a whisper, flattened by the enormity of what she had drawn from him. She pushed the hair back from his forehead, a quick movement of the hand so that he barely felt the texture of her fingers against his skin.

'No more of the passengers will die.' The smile regained, promising the girl a present, something she would like and be pleased to accept.

'Who else, who else other than the passengers? The soldiers, if they come… who else?'

'They will send us back, Rebecca. Remember when you and David talked to them, when he was defeated, when he wanted to end it, and they could not answer you. Remember that: they could not answer the question you asked them. They want to send us back. You understand that, you know what that means. It is not the way I can accept, Rebecca, and you could not go alone.

We will not go back, not together, not singly. They will not take us.'

'That was why David went?' She could not use the word that came to her tongue, a betrayal of David as great as if she'd gone to the window and stared down at his broken body. 'That was why David went. Because he knew. That was why you called him a coward

'

'Because he could not do it by his own hand. He needed others. We will ask no help.

Ourselves, together, we will do it.'

He felt her stiffen against him, driving her body closer to his, pressing with a ferocity as if to mould their two persons into one. ' I will be frightened, Isaac. I will need you.' He kissed her sofdy, full on the pale and greyed hps, stifling her words.

'We must hear what the man from Tel Aviv has to say to us. First we must hear that.'

He went to the doorway, for a moment was visible to the outside watchers before instinctive caution won through and he backed again to the side and shelter.

'Charlie,' he shouted. 'You can come now. Bring the man from Israel.'

Strong and clear and strident, his voice across the emptiness of the concrete. The burden thrown off, discarded. There were many rifles aimed at the general direction of his body till the hands that held them relaxed and the barrels were dropped. Charlie Webster and Arie Benitz started to walk towards the Ilyushin, a slow and careful step, and all the time the Englishman talking into the microphone close to his chin.

It seemed a great distance they had to go, a chasm to be bridged.

Summoned again from his exile on the lower floor the Home Secretary read the transcript of Charlie Webster's radio message.

'There has been a substantial change of mood on the part of both Isaac and Rebecca. After threatening that executions would recommence at thirteen hundred local, if they were denied fuel for the onward flight to Israel, they have now invited me to bring to the aircraft Col Arie Benitz of the IDF. They want to hear what message he brings them from the Israeli government.

The message will be that they should surrender. My assessment is that this represents a considerable weakening of Isaac's position. For personal guidance, is it likely that on surrender they will be returned to face Soviet courts? Over. Webster.'

The Home Secretary edged his glasses further down his nose. 'Has someone answered Mr Webster's query?'

'Yes,' the Assistant Chief Constable spoke with caution.

'What was the answer?'

'He was given guidance, not specific information.'

'Which way did you guide him?'

"We said that the position was not clear, but…'

'In heaven's name, man, what did you tell him?'

'He seemed to need some sort of answer, something that would help during the difficult negotiation stage he is embarking on.'

'Don't fool with me.'

'We told Mr Webster that there had been a change of approach by the Foreign Office-we told him they were unlikely to be returned to the Soviet Union.'

'Who told him that?'

' I did.' The Assistant Chief Constable stood his ground, aware the worst was over, that now he had only to confront the puzzlement and confusion of the politician. 'On my own authority. I judged his believing that this was the case would only help Mr Webster at this moment.'

" It's not true, simply not true.'

'Behind them they have a man shot in Kiev. The pilot of the aircraft is dead in the cockpit, a passenger is dead on the tarmac. More stand to die as the afternoon goes on. The truth of what Webster tells these people is frankly unimportant. They've forfeited the right to truth.' He saw the retreat, the change of tack, the Home Secretary backing away from confrontation. Stupid, bloody man, and what did he know of the scene anyway? Better off downstairs and out of the way.

' I hadn't thought it would cave in quite like this.' He had to assert himself in some way, had to say something Well, let bloody Clitheroe answer him.

'They end with a whimper, these things, that's my experience' – the psychiatrist had joined the group. 'On other occasions we've noted there's an intensification of demands in the final hours before surrender. These two people are undergoing severe nervous strain, loss of sleep, absence of food. They are in a hostile environment, isolated from communication. When they raised their demands it was because they acknowledged their earlier threats had failed. Mr Webster has now confronted them with the Israeli. They are bewildered at the moment and they will want to know what he has to say. The combination of persuasion by Mr Webster and Benitz should be too much for them. I would predict it will be all over today. Shorten that in fact to this afternoon.'

'Extraordinary behaviour of this fellow Webster.' The politician was still perturbed, recognizing his hand was far from the helm. Must going off, no instructions, no authorization, taking the Israeli…'

' It's quite simple. The last time Mr Webster was present we were engaged in the debrief of the Russian. We were preparing for an attack. Mr Webster was anxious to avoid such an assault.'

'So are we all,' the Home Secretary bridled. 'It's the last thing any of us want.'

' 'If the military assault the plane Mr Webster believes there would be an inherent risk to the children who are among the passengers, harm a large proportion of them. If I may be indiscreet I think he also believes that it is not necessary to kill the two young people. He would like them to survive. If he is to save them he will be all the better equipped to do so in the knowledge that they will serve a few years in a British gaol before release. He's a complex fellow, Mr Webster, his experiences are outside our own, and I think he's bored with ushering young people to their maker. The only relief I feel at the moment is that it will not be myself who disabuses him of the destination of the two Russians should he prove successful.'

Both in their shirt sleeves, Charlie encumbered only by his radio set, Benitz with the lightweight aluminium ladder that would reach to the bottom of the doorway. Around them a terrible, deafening stillness. Benitz steadied the ladder against the fuselage of the aircraft, noticed its age, the dents of unknown mechanics, the flashes of rust from the vents in the bodywork, the peeling of the weatherworn paint work of its livery. He put his foot on the bottom step to calm its vibrations.

Charlie began to climb towards the doorway.