Kingfisher

by Gerald Seymour

  'Will you wake him?'

  David seemed to shake his head - not a definite movement,

  just the imperceptible wave of the eyebrows, the flick of the hair across his forehead. They clung together a long time, arms round each other, cheek to cheek, Rebecca stretching upwards to match her height with his. Many times David said, with the tears running on his face, ' I'm sorry.

  I am sorry.' And Rebecca crying too, choking in her throat, unable to reply.

  It was a pleasant enough room that had been set aside for Colonel Arie Benitz.

  Calendars on the walls - gifts of aviation companies that showed a combination of light aircraft and bikini-clad girls draped on their wings. Photographs, too, of the first airliners that had used Stansted, sepia-toned and looking frail and historic. Flowers on the window ledge. Easy chairs and a desk with a telephone.

  When the call came he let it ring several seconds before answering, time to summon his caution and prepare himself. He did not identify with either rank or name, was wary till he heard the Hebrew language that was used.

  The Embassy in London. He should know that the Soviet Ambassador had been received at the Foreign Office that morning, that he had made a statement to the press, had spoken of agreement with the British that the three should be returned to Russia. He also should know that there were journalists' reports that an ultimatum had been set on the aircraft, due to expire at ten hundred hours, and that it was the opinion of advice available to the Ambassador that further violence on the part of the three would only strengthen the resolve of the British to fulfil their arrangement with the Soviets.

  He should find a public telephone kiosk and immediately contact those designated to liaise with him in London. The number he should call would be the first given him in the small hours.

  There was a wish of the Foreign Ministry in Jerusalem to clarify his instructions in view of the new circumstances.

  Arie Benitz let himself out of the office. There were many civilians and policemen and soldiers who hurried purposefully about their business and who passed him in the corridors, and none had cause to notice him. A cleaning lady, with time on her hands because many of the rooms she normally

  tidied at this time were occupied, directed him to a telephone in the staff canteen in the building's basement. She even changed for him the fifty-pence piece into the range of coins he would require to make the connection.

  As he walked down the stairs Benitz felt the irritation rising in him, fuelled by the ill-shaped and ill-fitting clothes, ignited by the problems of the mission that he had been given. Ill at ease, unwanted, a stranger among the bustle of those who had a task and work that could not wait.

  Unaccustomed to being a watcher, and on the side-lines.

  Arie Benitz was steeped in the history of the State of Israel. He was committed to the defence of its people, had experienced moments when protection came only from the hammering of his Uzi, and the cries of pain from his enemies. He was treated with respect in his own country, called by his given name when spoken to in conference by his Chief of Staff. And these people had declined his help, ignored him.

  As he walked into the canteen he was thinking of the three young ones, frightened and alone, in the Ilyushin. And they had said on the telephone to him that they would be returned, that he would not be required by the British to help in surrender. Arie Benitz had to fight against the thought that came into his mind. Willing them, willing the children, to hit back, attack, show their defiance. Had to suppress it, because that was contrary to his country's interests, and he was a servant of his country.

  The hard one, the one they called Isaac, the one who led them now, he was the material of Squad 101, he was fashioned for the Anti-terrorist Unit. Do not lose your courage, children, thought Arie Benitz. There can be no help, there can be no rescue, but do not lose your courage.

  Unwatched, unobserved, he dialled the London code.

  C H A P T E R T W E L V E

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  'But the man is coming now.'

  ' I have eyes, I can see.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

  In the centre of the picture the back torsos of the ones they knew as David and Rebecca -

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

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

  'We should pull Webster off,' Clitheroe shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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