Bolt Action

by Charlie Charters

  She looks around the first-class cabin. Now dim with the blinds down except for the one window open next to her. In the rest of the plane, people are chewing their way through lunch service. Occupied and for the moment becalmed. Lovely word that. Becalm. To render motionless for lack of wind. Giving them something to eat had definitely taken the edge off the hysteria. And after lunch, they’ll begin the big move-around of the passengers.

  Once she’d said her goodbyes to Mary Sweeney she’d felt the need to lay out all of her plans, firstly for the benefit of Button and Whiffler. What she’d done for MI5, the pull it should still give her, and how she wanted to use that in these circumstances. They had to understand that this would be an all-in bet. ‘You tell me not to, that you’re not comfortable with this, and I’ll not call . . .’ Tristie had offered. But they saw the logic of what was being proposed. Button had glanced at Whiffler. It took less than a second, then he turned back, speaking for the both of them. ‘No regrets, Tristie. Let’s fucking well be ’aving ’em,’ Button confirmed.

  Tristie had also given an abridged version of her MI5 connections to Captain Harry Salahuddin. Something that won’t turn him too queasy. To her surprise, he had seemed genuinely relieved that she would be talking directly with somebody in authority. ‘At last some chance to stop this madness,’ and the pilot had clapped her on the shoulder.

  Next comes the first MI5 voice prompt. ‘So what was the weather like in Casablanca?’

  The answer comes from the song ‘Casablanca’, track two of the 1982 album by Bertie Higgins. She tries to keep the beat in her mind. It was a ghastly tune. Island rock, they call it. She recites the lyrics as tunelessly as possible to aid the voicegram. Something about popcorn and Coke, and champagne and caviar. Button and Whiffler’s eyebrows rocket up as she talks about making love one summer night. Tap, tap, tap in the background. No alarms so far. She’s over the first hurdle.

  ‘What airline did you say you flew out there on?’

  ‘Joshua.’

  ‘Are they any good?’

  Next answer lies in the opening line of the Dolly Parton song ‘Joshua’, the singer’s first American country-music number one. A song about a girl orphan and the hard life she lived, no doubt picked especially for her by some spook with too much time on his hands and his nose in the Merritt personnel file. Again Tristie enunciates the lyrics slowly – the tale of the black dog who growled at the fearful girl.

  More action on the computer, algorithms crunching away. There is a third lyric relating to a song called ‘Harder Better Faster Stronger’, but she doesn’t get the voice prompt. No question for her to feed into. What is the significance of that?

  A stray piece of music trivia pops into her head. Something learned in a bar in Aldershot, one of those pub quiz nights, that Bertie Higgins is the great-great-great-grandson of the German poet Goethe.

  But it makes her think of Goethe’s Faust, and Doing a Deal with the Devil.

  ‘Ms Merritt. Long time no hear.’ And that’s when Rumbly Throat on the keyboard hacks and coughs one last time, then says, ‘Who can I put you through to?’

  MI5 Headquarters

  Thames House

  Now that the intelligence has blossomed into confirmation of a full-blown hijacking over the Atlantic, PK412 moves out of MI5’s jurisdiction and becomes a straightforward police/diplomatic matter.

  Sheila ‘Noppy’ Davane’s people are therefore folding up their tent on this one, going through the laborious process of funnelling everything they have: the unconventional brilliance of Lamayette and his firebrand holy man, condensed into what is known as the national intelligence machinery, organised through the Joint Intelligence Committee. This aggregation by the JIC will see solid leads churned in with random trivia and thoughts-for-the-day from agencies as diverse as MI6, the Serious Organised Crime Agency and even HM Customs and Revenue. Rather like watching the most unpalatable cuts of meat being processed into wholesome sausages, the whole Joint Intelligence Committee business is something that gives Davane the willies.

  Severely ticked off with herself that she had, in some fashion, failed, Davane had called up Professor Grigor Rothko, to try to understand the significance of Qissa Khawani, and the background to radical theological doctrine in the wilder parts of Pakistan.

  The security services keep on their books a number of dons from Oxford, Cambridge and other universities. In good times and bad you need people with the intellectual faculties to buzz-saw through all the guff and see a thing for what it is. A peculiar human skill no computer or microfilm archivist has yet been programmed to achieve. But the downside is they also are prone to the twin evils of preciousness and long-windedness. Two things Davane can barely stomach on an average day, let alone one as dramatic as today. That is why MI5 picks people like their deputy director-general Bill Grainger for their most senior and visible positions; to suffer these people gladly. Thoroughly respectable yet complete shameless strokers of politicians, lawyers, civil libertarians and academics alike. Mata Hari in a pinstripe suit.

  After ten minutes of probing, she’s more or less got what she wants from Professor Rothko, and now wants to be done with the man.

  Rothko, on the other hand, feels he has more to contribute. Insight and analysis from a finely tuned brain. ‘I mean, who are we to insist these people change their ways, to follow a Western norm . . .’ Stroking the stem of a tiny glass of sherry, he has been hypothesising on Pakistan into a small lens atop his computer, which is linked through to MI5 and a monitor to the side of Davane’s desk. In the background, through the windows in his study, she can see the ancient masonry and sloping turrets of Trinity College, Cambridge. He finishes the sherry in one satisfied gulp and momentarily disappears from the lens’ view to refill from the bottle at his feet. He pops back into vision, looking alarmingly florid. Pulling on his dark blue cravat as if he’d come close to blacking out.

  ‘. . . We blithely commend Islamabad for upholding what we call democratic principles, but who are we kidding? Bullshit, I say to you. There’s hardly a democratic red blood cell in a single vein of a single limb in any typical Pakistani politician . . .’

  Rothko’s ire had been pricked by the latest news from Pakistan, an urgent resolution, adopted within the last ten minutes by their lower house of parliament. The Pakistan National Assembly had been in session when news broke of the hijacking and the reaction had been sensational. The chamber almost never spoke with one voice, but it seemed to today, the only dispute being which politician hated America the more intensely. Of course, moderates tried to make themselves heard, cautiously expressing hope that the plane and her passengers might be spared, reminding the chamber not to rush to judgement, that a cool head made the wisest choice. But such a febrile atmosphere played into the hands of the extremists – these were elected representatives after all, with one eye on the voter and the other on the excruciating drama carried on live TV. There was no appetite for reason, or the logic of wait and see. So, with the assembly sitting much later than usual, and flagged excitedly as Breaking News by the international networks, the vote had instructed the government to treat any downing of flight PK412 as an act of war against the people of Pakistan; to immediately seize US assets within the country, including any and all military hardware; and to effect an immediate default on all outstanding loans to American financial institutions, including, possibly, probably (the angry MPs hadn’t quite thought this through yet), the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund.

  Rothko sniffs dismissively. He has a rich, plummy voice like that of a well-fed barrister. ‘. . . The trouble with democracy is that the ratbags are a lot better at it than we ever give them credit for . . . and in a place like Pakistan that’s a recipe for disaster . . .’

  In Davane’s mind Rothko’s subsequent thoughts on the role of the executive, legislative and judicial branches fade into a drone of chatter. She still has the thick bundle of passenger lists in front of her and she’s gone back to examining th
e names, their passport information and financial records. Trying to find the loose thread, the slight dissonance that all these conspiracies eventually offer up. Soon she’s lost in the maze of printed detail.

  ‘. . . to give them credit, this plot is a rather elegant contrivance . . .’ Rothko is examining the colour of his sherry. The pause is deliberate, demanding the question How so, Professor?

  But Davane doesn’t look up from her papers, and her tone is as flat as possible. ‘How so, Professor?’

  ‘It’s quite simple really. Washington finds itself in an impossible position. They’re damned if they do and damned if they don’t. Checkmate. They can’t shoot down the plane without outraging the rest of the world, and they can’t leave the plane be, without showing themselves to be pitifully weak to a home audience. Clever to set that up.’

  Davane manages a ‘hmmmmm’ in response.

  ‘Checkmate indeed. From the Persian Shaah Maat.’ Rothko says the words with exaggerated fluency. ‘Shaah Maat. The king is made powerless. Paralysed without being hit by anybody. The king is astonished, amazed, perplexed. Humbled.’

  Go away. She can feel her irritation with the professor’s musings sharpen, his intellectual calm become unbearable, almost toxic.

  ‘The US have been itching to shoot something out of the sky since 9/11 and now they get their chance. Only it hasn’t quite worked out the way they thought. They’re so much more vulnerable now than they ever were. So many broken relationships, so little trust, so much indebtedness around the world. Hardly the triumphal beacon.’

  Davane frowns, her attention caught. She looks up at his image. Rothko is again rolling the stem of his glass between his finger and thumb. The cat who caught the cream. ‘What do you mean by that?’ she snaps at him.

  ‘I suppose from a conventional point of view it would be considered a failure to have to take control of the plane so far away from land, from any possible target. You’d want surprise if you were planning to ram the thing into a structure. But you only get surprise on take-off and climb, or descent and landing, when, by definition, the plane is flying low and fast within the area of a major city. Not in the middle of the Atlantic. Yes?’

  In truth, this is a question that had nagged at Davane, irritated her even. What is the plan here? Why initiate the hijacking in the middle of the Atlantic? Had something gone wrong on board that pushed the time frame forward?

  ‘Do you have a particular insight, Professor?’

  The professor’s answer to a simple question annoys Davane. ‘How many people in Washington have the authority to shoot down a plane?’

  Typical academic, answering one question with another question. She lets out her breath in a long waft of frustration because she knows the answer to Rothko’s question, but needs to pull it from the back of her mind, from the briefing document she’d read a while back. Entitled Delegated Authority to Interdict.

  It had once been so simple: only the president had the power.

  She closes her eyes as she conjures up the documentation in her mind. ‘Now the president is assumed to have delegated authority to the Secretary of Defense, who delegates to the combatant commander at NORAD, which is to say the United States Northern Command, the authority to declare a hostile target. Ideally confirmation will come from the highest level possible within that chain. But . . .’ and Davane’s eyes open again as if she’s reading from the actual brief ‘but in an emergency situation, as lowly a figure as the designated representative of the air component commander of NORAD/Northern Command has interdiction power in the very rare occasion where a telephone fails, or they cannot get higher consent.’

  Rothko peers forward until his face consumes the whole camera lens. ‘Don’t you think that’s strange, rather obvious in fact. Surely this would be known or guessed at beforehand by a hijacker? So, what’s he expecting to do? Outrun a fighter jet?’

  What are you talking about? Davane shakes her head. More damned questions. ‘Professor. Just tell me what you’re thinking. Please.’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ and he shrugs his shoulders, as if it was a throwaway thought, pulls back from the camera. ‘There was a certain comfortable orthodoxy about things before 9/11 which the terrorists were able to exploit. In consequence, after the excitements of that memorable day, we ripped everything up and rewrote the rules. But that was eight, nine years ago. Now there’s a different but just as settled orthodoxy . . . the people who plan the really shocking incidents don’t butt at you head to head where you’re strongest, they come at things obliquely. Which is why your current problem seems too inept to be true . . .’

  Davane’s reaction is fierce. ‘Might seem inept to you, Professor, but there are still three-hundred-plus people up there, with frankly little chance of reaching America . . .’

  And the silver-haired woman from County Antrim is about to flay the Cambridge intellectual when Pyjama-girl, one of her designated assistants for the day, bursts through her office door. Panting.

  ‘Ms D-D-Davane . . . Somebody calling for you. Urgent.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Cassandra . . . no . . .’ And she looks down at her pad. ‘Casablanca. Merritt. Captain Merritt . . . Lately of 14 Company and the Army Joint Support Group. Tristie Merritt. We used her in Northern Ireland . . . Casablanca. But I can’t access the file. She’s on hold now.’

  Merritt. Where have I come across that name before? Merritt. ‘What’s the fuss all about?’

  ‘PK412. She’s calling from up there,’ and she thumbs towards the ceiling, ‘the hijacked plane.’

  ‘We’ve got somebody on board?’ And Davane shuffles urgently through the wedge of passenger-list paperwork as Pyjama-girl keeps reading. ‘Tristie Merritt. British citizen. Confirmed as sitting in first class. Seat One Delta.’

  ‘Professor. Been great as usual . . .’

  Rothko speeds up, sensing he’s about to be cut off. ‘Just hope you know what you’re doing . . .’

  ‘Yes. Much thanks . . .’ Davane talks over his final words.

  ‘. . . circular firing squad . . .’

  ‘Yes. Got to go . . .’ And with a shake of her head – circular firing squad? – Davane punches out of the video connection to grab her telephone. But before she clicks on to the flashing line, she signals to Pyjama-girl. Recording? The assistant nods vigorously. Downing Street? queries Davane. Yes. Online, Pyjamagirl mouths. Listening in.

  Davane nibbles at the tip of her tongue, her eyes distant. Thinking, thinking. Finally she speaks, breathing her words slowly, quietly. ‘I want everything on this woman. From the MoD in London, our archives, Belfast, the Joint Support Group. Every last jot.’ Who knows what I might have to hold over this Merritt woman’s head . . .

  And then in a blink she’s sweetness and light. ‘Hello, hello. So good of you to ring through . . .’ and the forced smile shows her teeth, a grim sight, like grey chips. Thirty years of sucking Fox’s Glacier Mints. ‘Now. Before we start things off, do you mind if I call you Tristie?’

  She listens. Pause. Her forced attempt at civility falters. The skin around her eyes tightens as if she is looking down the length of a gun barrel. ‘Yes . . . of course you can call me Noppy . . .’

  Tristie Merritt worked in Northern Ireland, but it was a long time after the worst of the Troubles was over. That meant she never dealt with Noppy directly. But her name was still legendary. Spoken of in hushed tones, like some cup-winning hero from another age, when the tackles were for real and the referee always turned a blind eye.

  In 14 Coy., the received wisdom on the Troubles had been that peace came only because those promulgating the war were finally made to collapse. The paramilitaries on both sides were exhausted and broken by all the betrayals and the double- and triple-dealing initiated by MI5 and the local Special Branch. There were very few people who survived all of this intact, who could stand over the wreckage of that whole wretched business. Sheila ‘Noppy’ Davane was one of them. Like the Terminator in a tweed skirt. Last ma
n standing.

  So it’s quite something for Tristie to be talking to her . . . knowing what she’s about to try to pull off.

  ‘. . . that’s how come we are where we are.’ She hears herself speaking as brightly and positively as possible. In ten minutes of close questioning, she’d given Noppy as much of a sense of what is happening on the flight as possible. It boils down to this: they have no idea what is going on in the cockpit and no obvious way to breach the door. A steward called Zaafir is inside. There’s been no announcement on the PA system, but when you ring through on the internal phone there’s a never-ending loop of a Muslim singer giving it the full throatwarble.

  ‘Tristie, can I speak with the captain please, the one who’s dead-legging?’

  She hands the phone over to Salahuddin, who’s feeling confident in the part he’s going to play. Angry pilot.

  He puffs his chest out. ‘This is Captain Saeed Salahuddin of Pakistan International Airlines, and I demand that you cease harassing my plane with your Hornet fighter jets.’

  For the moment, Tristie can’t hear Noppy’s side of the conversation. But she imagines what she’s telling him, with her practised, droll Irish accent, that MI5 don’t have any fighter jets, not yet anyway, chuckle, chuckle, but that definitely his message will get to the appropriate people, like the decision-makers in Washington. Soft and soothing.

  ‘. . . Of course I am,’ says Salahuddin emphatically. He lids his eyes. ‘Jeddah? . . . Three. Three runways . . .’ He covers the phone, shakes his head. ‘This woman is testing me, my knowledge of airports, to make sure I’m who I say I am.’

  He puts a finger in his ear. ‘Jeddah is unusual because it has three runways and they’re all parallel to one another . . . Sixteen Right, Sixteen Centre and Sixteen Left . . . Why, miss, do you want to fly there? . . . Good. Pleased to meet you too . . . Here is Merritt again.’ He gives Tristie something like a wink, says he’ll be walking through the cabin, making himself visible to the passengers, taking questions. She nods, gives a thumbs-up and takes back the phone.