by Tom Sharpe
Eva stared at him wildly. ‘Armed men? What armed men?’
‘Some foreigners.’
‘You mean they’re being held hostage?’
‘We can’t be too sure just yet. Your husband is with them.’
The doctor intervened. ‘I’m just going to give you a sedative, Mrs Wilt,’ he began, but Eva recoiled in the back seat.
‘No you aren’t. I’m not taking anything. You can’t make me.’
‘If you’ll just calm down …’
But Eva was adamant, and too strong to be easily given an injection in the confined space. After the doctor had had the hypodermic syringe knocked from his hand for the second time he gave up.
‘All right, Mrs Wilt, you needn’t take anything,’ said the Superintendent. ‘If you’ll just sit still we’ll drive you back to the police station and keep you fully informed of any developments.’
And in spite of Eva’s protests that she wanted to stay where she was or even go down to the house she was driven away with an escort of two policewomen.
‘Next time you want me to sedate that damned woman I’ll get a tranquillizer gun from the Zoo,’ said the doctor, nursing his wrist. ‘And if you’re sensible you’ll keep her in a cell. If she gets loose she could foul things up properly.’
*
‘As if they weren’t already,’ said the Superintendent and made his way back to the Communications Centre. It was situated in Mrs de Frackas’ drawing-room and there incongruously, set among mementos of life in Imperial India, antimacassars, potted plants and beneath the ferocious portrait of the late Major-General, the SGS and the Anti-Terrorist Squad had collaborated to install a switchboard, a telephone amplifier, tape recorders and the voiceprint analyser.
‘All ready to go, sir,’ said the detective in charge of the apparatus. ‘We’ve hooked into the line next door.’
‘Have you got the listening devices in position?’
‘Can’t do that yet,’ said the Major. ‘No windows on this side and we can’t move in across the lawn. Have a shot after dark, provided those buggers haven’t got night sights.’
‘Oh well, put me through,’ said the Superintendent. ‘The sooner we begin the dialogue the sooner everyone will be able to go home. If I know my job they’ll start with a stream of abuse. So everyone stand by to be called a fascist shit.’
In the event he was mistaken. It was Mrs de Frackas who answered.
‘This is Ipford 23 … I’m afraid I haven’t got my glasses with me but I think it’s … Now, young man …’
There was a brief pause during which Mrs de Frackas was evidently relieved of the phone.
‘My name is Misterson, Superintendent Misterson,’ said the Superintendent finally.
‘Lying pig of a fascist shit,’ shouted a voice, at last fulfilling his prediction. ‘You think we are going to surrender, shit face, but you are wrong. We die first, you understand. Do you hear me, pig?’
The Superintendent sighed and said he did.
‘Right. Get that straight in your pigshit fascist head. No way we surrender. If you want us you come in and kill us and you know what that means.’
‘I don’t think anyone wants …’
‘What you want, pig, you don’t get. You do what we want or people get hurt.’
‘That’s what I’m waiting to hear, what you want,’ said the Superintendent, but the terrorists were evidently in consultation and after a minute the phone in the house was slammed down.
‘Well, at least we know the little old lady hasn’t been hurt and by the sound of things the children are all right.’
The Superintendent crossed to a coffee-dispenser and poured himself a cup.
‘Bit of a bore being called a pig all the time,’ said the Major sympathetically. ‘You’d think they could come up with something slightly more original.’
‘Don’t you believe it. They’re on a Marxist millennium ego-trip, kamikaze style, and what few brains they have they laundered years ago. That sounded like Chinanda, the Mexican.’
‘Intonation and accent was right,’ said the sergeant on the tape recorder.
‘What’s his record?’ asked the Major.
‘The usual. Rich parents, good education, flunked university and decided to save the world by knocking people off. To date, five. Specializes in car bombs, and crude ones at that. Not a very sophisticated laddie, our Miguel. Better get that tape through to the analysts. I want to hear their verdict on his stress pattern. And now we settle down to the long slog.’
‘You expect him to call back with demands?’
‘No. Next time we’ll have the charming Fräulein Schautz. She’s the one with the brains up top.’
*
It was an unintentionally apt description. Trapped in the bathroom, Gudrun Schautz had spent much of the afternoon wondering what had happened and why no one had either killed her or come to arrest her. She had also considered methods of escape but was hampered by the lack of her clothes, which she had left in the bedsitter, and by Wilt’s threat that if she made one more move he would fire. Not that she knew it was Wilt who had made it. What she had heard of his domestic life through the floor above his bedroom had done nothing to suggest he was capable of any sort of heroism. He was simply an effete, degenerate and cowardly little Englishman who was bullied by his stupid wife.
Fräulein Schautz might speak English fluently but her understanding of the English was hopelessly deficient. Given the chance Wilt would have agreed in large measure with this assessment of his character, but he was too preoccupied to waste time on introspection. He was trying to guess what had happened downstairs during the shooting. He had no way of knowing if the quads were still in the house, and only the presence of armed men at the bottom of the garden and across the road in front of the house told him that the terrorists were still on the ground floor. From the balcony window he could look down at the summerhouse where he had spent so many idle evenings regretting his wasted gifts and longing for a woman who turned out in reality to be less a Muse than a private executioner. Now the summerhouse was occupied by men with guns while the field beyond was ringed with coils of barbed wire. The view from the skylight over the kitchen was even less encouraging. An armoured car had stationed itself outside the front gate with its gun turret turned towards the house, and there were more armed men in Professor Ball’s garden.
Wilt climbed down and was wondering rather hysterically what the hell to do next when the telephone rang. He went into the main room and picked the extension up in time to hear Mrs de Frackas end her brief statement. Wilt listened to the tide of abuse wash over the uncomplaining Superintendent and felt briefly for the man. It sounded just like Bilger in one of his tirades, only this time the men downstairs had guns. They probably had the quads too. Wilt couldn’t be certain but Mrs de Frackas’ presence suggested as much. Wilt listened to see if his own name was mentioned and was relieved that it wasn’t. When the one-sided conversation ended Wilt replaced his receiver very cautiously and with a slight feeling of optimism. It was very slight, a mere reaction from the tension and from a sudden sense of power. It wasn’t the power of the gun but rather that of knowledge, what he knew and what nobody else apparently knew; that the attic was occupied by a man whose killing capacity was limited to flies and whose skill with firearms was less murderous than suicidal. About the only thing Wilt knew about machine guns and revolvers was that bullets came out the barrel when you pulled the trigger. But if he knew nothing about the workings of firearms the terrorists clearly had no idea what had happened in the attic. For all they knew the place was filled with armed policemen and the shots he had fired so accidentally could have killed Fräulein Bloody Schautz. If that were the case they would make no attempt to rescue her. Anyway, the illusion that the flat was held by desperate men who could kill without a moment’s hesitation seemed definitely worth maintaining. He was just congratulating himself when the opposite thought occurred to him. What the hell would happen if they did discover he
was up there?
Wilt slumped into a chair and considered this frightful possibility. If the quads were downstairs … Oh God … and all it needed was that blasted Superintendent to get on the phone and ask if Mr Wilt was all right. The mere mention of his name would be enough. The moment the swine downstairs realized he was up there they would kill the children. And even if they didn’t they would threaten to unless he came down, which was much the same thing. Wilt’s only answer to such an ultimatum would be to threaten to kill the Schautz bitch if they touched the children. That would be no sort of threat. He was incapable of killing anyone and even if he were it wouldn’t save the children. Lunatics who supposed that they were adding to the sum total of human happiness by kidnapping, torturing and killing politicians and businessmen and who, when cornered, sheltered behind women and children, wouldn’t listen to reason. All they wanted was maximum publicity for their cause and the murder of the quads would guarantee they got it. And then there was the theory of terrorism. Wilt had heard Bilger expound it in the staff-room and had been sickened by it then. Now he was panic-stricken. There had to be something he could do.
Well, first he could get the rest of the guns out of the bag in the storeroom and try to find out how to use them. He got up and went through the kitchen to the cupboard door and dragged the bag down. Inside were two revolvers, an automatic, four spare magazines for the sub-machine gun, several boxes of ammunition and three hand grenades. Wilt put the collection on the table, decided he didn’t like the look of the hand grenades and put them back in the bag. It was then that he spotted a scrap of paper in the side pocket of the bag. He pulled it out and saw that he was holding what purported to be a COMMUNIQUÉ OF THE PEOPLE’S ARMY GROUP 4. That at least was the title but the space underneath was blank. Evidently no one had bothered to fill in the details. Probably nothing to communicate.
All the same it was interesting, very interesting. If this bunch were Group 4 it suggested that Groups 1, 2 and 3 were somewhere else and that there were possibly Groups 5, 6 and 7. Even more perhaps. On the other hand there might not be. The tactics of self-aggrandizement were not lost on Wilt. It was typical of tiny minorities to claim they were part of a much larger organization. It boosted their morale and helped to confuse the authorities. Then again it was just possible that a great many other groups did exist. How many? Ten, twenty? And with this sort of cell structure, one group would not know the members of another group. That was the whole point about cells. If one was captured and questioned there was no way of betraying anyone else. And with this realization Wilt lost interest in the arsenal on the table. There were more effective weapons than guns.
Wilt took out a pen and began to write. Presently he closed the kitchen door and picked up the phone.
13
Superintendent Misterson was enjoying a moment of quiet and comfortable relaxation on the mahogany seat of Mrs de Frackas’ toilet when the telephone rang in the drawing-room and the sergeant came through to say that the terrorists were back on the line.
‘Well, that’s a good sign,’ said the Superintendent, emerging hurriedly. ‘They don’t usually start the dialogue quite so quickly. With any luck we’ll get them to listen to reason.’
But his illusions on that score were quickly dispersed. The squawk that issued from the amplifier was strange in the extreme. Even the Major’s face, usually a blank mask of calculated inanity, registered bewilderment. Made weirdly falsetto by fear and guttural by the need to sound foreign, and preferably German, Wilt’s voice alternately whimpered and snarled a series of extraordinary demands.
‘Zis is communiqué Number Vun of ze People’s Alternative Army. Ve demand ze immediate release of all comrades held illegally in British prisons vizout trial. You understand?’
‘No,’ said the Superintendent, ‘I certainly don’t.’
‘Fascistic schweinfleisch,’ shouted Wilt. ‘Zecond, ve demand …’
‘Now hold on,’ said the Superintendent, ‘we don’t have any of your … er … comrades in prison. We can’t possibly meet your …’
‘Lying pigdog,’ yelled Wilt, ‘Günther Jong, Erica Grass, Friederich Böll, Heinrich Musil to namen eine few. All in British prisons. You release wizin funf hours. Zecond, ve demand ze immediate halting of all false reportings on television, transistor radios and der newspapers financed by capitalistic-militarische-liberalistic-pseudo-democratische-multi-nazionalistische und finanzialistische conspirationialistische about our fightings here for freedom, ja. Dritte, ve demand ze immediate withdrawal of alles militaristic truppen aus der garden unter linden and die strasse Villington Road. Vierte, ve demand ze safe conduct for ze People’s Alternative Army cadres and ze exposing of ze deviationist and reformist class treachery of ze CIA-Zionist-nihilistische murderers naming zemselves falsely People’s Army Group Four who are threatening ze lives of women and children in ze propaganda attempt to deceive ze proletarian consciousness for ze true liberationist struggle for world freedom. End of communiqué.’
The line went dead.
‘What the fuck was all that about?’ asked the Major.
‘I’m buggered if I know,’ said the Superintendent with a glazed look in his eyes. ‘Something’s definitely screwy. If my ears and that sod’s ghastly accent didn’t deceive me he seemed to think Chinanda and the Schautz crowd are CIA agents working for Israel. Isn’t that what he seemed to be saying?’
‘It’s what he said, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘People’s Army Group Four are the Schautz brigade and this bloke was blasting off at them. Could be we’ve got a splinter group in the People’s Alternative Army.’
‘Could be we’ve got a raving nut,’ said the Superintendent. ‘Are you positive that little lot came from the house?’
‘Can’t have come from anywhere else, sir. There’s only one line in and we’re hooked to it.’
‘Somebody’s got their wires crossed if you ask me,’ said the Major, ‘unless the Schautz crowd have come up with something new.’
‘It’s certainly new for a terrorist group to demand no TV or press coverage. That’s one thing I do know,’ muttered the Superintendent. ‘What I don’t know is where the hell he got that list of prisoners we’re supposed to release. To the best of my knowledge we’re not holding anyone called Günther Jong.’
‘Might be worth checking that out, old boy. Some of these things are kept hush-hush.’
‘If it’s that top secret I can’t see the Home Office blurting the fact out now. Anyway, let’s hear that gobbledygook again.’
But for once the sophisticated electronic equipment failed them.
‘I can’t think what’s wrong with the recorder, sir,’ said the sergeant, ‘I could have sworn I had it on.’
‘Probably blew a fuse when that maniac came on the line,’ said the Major. ‘I know I damned near did.’
‘Well, see the bloody thing works next time,’ snapped the Superintendent, ‘I want to get a voiceprint of this other bunch.’ He poured himself another cup of coffee and sat waiting.
*
If there was confusion among the Anti-Terrorist Squad and the SGS following Wilt’s extraordinary intervention, there was chaos in the house. On the ground floor Chinanda and Baggish had barricaded themselves into the kitchen and the front hall while the children and Mrs de Frackas had been bundled down into the cellar. The telephone in the kitchen was on the floor out of the line of fire and it had been Baggish who had picked it up and listened to the first part. Alarmed by the look on Baggish’s face, Chinanda had grabbed the receiver and had heard himself described as an Israeli nihilistic murderer working for the CIA in a propaganda attempt to deceive proletarian consciousness.
‘It’s a lie,’ he shouted at Baggish who was still trying to square a demand by the People’s Alternative Army for the release of comrades held in British prisons with his previous belief that the attic flat was occupied by men from the Anti-Terrorist Squad.
‘How do you mean a lie?’
‘What they say. Tha
t we are CIA Zionists.’
‘A lie?’ yelled Baggish, desperately searching for a more extreme word to describe such a gross distortion of the truth. ‘It’s … Who said that?’
‘Someone saying he was the People’s Alternative Army.’
‘But the People’s Alternative Army demanded the release of prisoners held illegally by the British imperialists.’
‘They did?’
‘I heard them. First they say that and then they attack the false reporting on TV and then they demand all troops to be withdrawn.’
‘Then why call us CIA-Zionist murderers?’ demanded Chinanda. ‘And where are these people?’
They looked suspiciously at the ceiling.
‘They’re up there, you think?’ asked Baggish.
But, like the Superintendent, Chinanda didn’t know what to think.
‘Gudrun is up there. When we came down there was shooting.’
‘So maybe Gudrun is dead,’ said Baggish. ‘Is a trick to fool us.’
‘Could be,’ said Chinanda, ‘British intelligence is clever. They know how to use psycho-warfare.’
‘So what we do now?’
‘We make our own demands. We show them we are not fooled.’
‘If I might just interrupt for a moment,’ said Mrs de Frackas, emerging from the cellar, ‘it’s time I gave the quadruplets their supper.’
The two terrorists looked at her lividly. It was bad enough having the house ringed with troops and police, but when to add to their troubles they had to cope with incomprehensible demands from someone representing the People’s Alternative Army and at the same time were confronted by Mrs de Frackas’ imperturbable self-assurance, they felt the need to assert their superior authority.
‘Listen, old woman,’ said Chinanda, waving an automatic under her nose for emphasis, ‘we give the orders here and you do what we say. You don’t we kill you.’