Kingfisher

by Gerald Seymour

  Who is he? What have you arranged?'

  ' It is the one from the tower. The Russian speaker. They want him to talk to us.'

  ' I have your word, Rebecca, and yours too, David, that there will be no more talk of surrender? An oath that we fight together?'

  He did not hear their replies; they mumbled from far down in their throats, but the movement of the lips was sufficient. He moved into the cockpit, the vantage point, from which he could observe the man who bad broken the invisible thread laid across the tarmac and who had entered their territory, forsaking the safety of the armaments of his own people. Isaac looked down at him, noticed that the other never glanced at the windows as if keeping his own counsel, minding his time till the moment for contact was right. Isaac could recognize the mould of experience on his face. A deep man, Isaac thought, not a bureaucrat; someone from security and to be treated with care; someone who came because the persons in authority believed there was advantage to be gained from it, and the fools behind him trusted the promises that had been made, had faith in the words spoken over the radio link. Unarmed - but then there was no reason for him to carry a weapon, nothing gained. His weapons would be in his words, designed to lull and win confidence, and in his eyes that would report back to his masters sheltering in the tower. He had shown weakness in letting this man come close, Isaac knew that, and weakness was dangerous because much had to be sacrificed if the initiative was to be rewon. Isaac had not studied the history and tactics of hijacking, but his sensibilities told him that the man in shirtsleeves and baggy, rounded trousers represented a threat. Yet he knew he wanted to hear what the man had to say, wanted an excuse to break the eighteen hours of isolation, needed some release from the confines of the plane's walls.

  A buzz of talk filled the aircraft, a subdued drone, as the passengers with window seats told their neighbours that a man had come close to the Ilyushin. The news stifled thoughts of bulging bladders and empty stomachs, overcame the awareness of the smell of sweat. It was an event, and being the first of the day that offered the possibility of outside interference in their position it was welcome. The children talked more loudly than their elders, and pointed to the man and pushed those with the best view aside. The masters tried to quieten them but accepted they could not be successful.

  Huge lenses mounted on cameras and tripods of weight and security had followed Charlie Webster's walk. The uniformed policemen were present to prevent any surge forward by cameramen, and journalists obligingly squatted on their haunches to avoid obstructing the view -

  the solitary figure barely visible to the naked eye at that range but greatly magnified by film. The static APCs and the resting soldiers had long been exhausted as a source of pictures, and this was recognized as something different. There were many suggestions as to the role of the man who had strode towards the aircraft. He was 'SAS', he was a 'doctor because some of the passengers were sick', he was 'the leading government negotiator', a 'police chief of rank'. There seemed endless scope for speculation.

  'The bastard's going round the far side.'

  'Same at Tunis with the BOAC VC10, never saw a damn thing.'

  'Shut up. YouH wreck the bloody sound track.'

  'Fat lot of sound you're getting at a thousand yards.'

  'He's gone, the bastard. Lost him round the nose.'

  The advance of Charlie Webster had promised much to the cameramen, and they had been cheated and were angry and bickered among themselves as the film they had taken was canned and labelled and handed to the waiting motorcyclists.

  'Always the same, never let you see a damn thing.'

  When Colonel Arie Benitz dialled the number he had been given the previous night the response in London was almost immediate: two rings and the connection. He was not told to whom he was speaking, nor did he introduce himself. The conversation was brief.

  'We have tried to arrange a meeting this morning at the Foreign Office, and we were put off,'

  he was told. 'The British Foreign Secretary is in continuous session with his advisers, they say.

  We are being shut out, and we need to take our own course."

  The soldier of another army would have laughed derisively at that moment, questioning immediately what initiative was possible. But other armies did not fly two thousand miles across hostile airspace to land at Entebbe, or take their commando squads into territory as hostile as Beirut for the elimination of the men who fought against them, did not force down foreign airliners on scheduled routes because they were thought to be carrying the men who directed and controlled the war against Israel. If a suggestion were made there would be no ridicule at its feasibility from Colonel Arie Benitz. He would listen, evaluate and decide on the best plan available to ensure the possibility of success, however remote.

  ' Is there a chance that you might get to the plane and talk to those that hold it?'

  ' It would be difficult. They are suspicious of me, the British, as I was told they would be.'

  'We would like a message passed to the plane, to the young people. But it is difficult if we work through the British. They are possessive of this matter

  '

  'They are possessive because they are nervous. It is to be expected. What is the message?'

  ' I used the wrong word. It is less a message, more a suggestion. Perhaps ... if they were to offer to surrender now, no more killing, but conditional on their not being sent back? . . . They have asked in Jerusalem that I should say this to you, but it cannot be with the knowledge of the British. I ask again, is it possible for you to reach the plane?'

  Patiently and without rancour, Benitz said into the phone,

  'They have an army around the aircraft. I cannot just walk to it . . . you understand. And there is little time now. The children have set an ultimatum, you yourself told me that. And you must see that it is difficult for the British to bend at this moment, with the pilot dead, and when they are under duress from threats. If we do not have the co-operation of the security here then it would be difficult for me to reach the aircraft.' Not one to use the word 'impossible', but there was enough in his voice to suggest it. 'I will try, but you must send the reply to the Crisis Committee that I can offer little hope that I will be able to talk with our people.'

  ' It is understood, Colonel, it is understood what circumstances you find yourself in. Call us please should the position change, but I fear it will not. From London we are still trying for a meeting with the Foreign Secretary, but as I have told you they are not responsive.'

  Arie Benitz hung the phone back on its hook, and cursed the noise from the juke box and the babble of conversation among the airport staff, revelling in their enforced idleness, who gathered for breakfast and cups of tea and chatter of shop prices and housekeeping purses.

  He yearned to be back with his own, back with the squad, back at the training school, back near Ashdod. Skirting the tables and chairs he walked slowly towards the door, not caring to glance at the mass of cheerful, laughing, uncaring humanity around him. Dull, miserable little people, who understood nothing, and would be frightened when their livers or their kidneys failed them, and they were close to death. They understood nothing, or else they would be hushed and passive, and thinking of three children, and a plane full of people, and what might be their fate.

  Out through the door and moving briskly towards his assigned room; where else to go? What would have triggered them, he thought? An incident, a single episode? Unlikely. It was never straight-forward, not with these people, never as simple as the outsider believed. Did not take a kicking, or a rape or injustice to fashion the guerrilla, just an accumulation of circumstances, a construction of despair, a fabrication of hatred. Not a sudden thing, a momentary decision, but a slow-burning, stoked loathing. And courage. Nothing without courage. Even the Palestinians ...

  He flopped down at the desk. Had any of

  those who passed his door stopped to look at the

  hunched figure they would have seen a sad


  and hurt man.

  Seventy yards behind Charlie were the petrol tankers, their considerable forward and rear heavy-duty tyres providing cover for the SAS marksmen. Two of them handled the old Lee Enfield bolt action rifle mounted with the

  tubular telescopic sight now trained on the door

  of the Ilyushin. Another pair lay beside the standard NATO General Purpose Machine Gun, belt-fed. The rifles would provide accurate shot protection, the GPMG trained on the same target was the fall-back precaution, concentration of fire. Behind the central tanker were men with smoke canisters fitted to the barrel tip of FNs. He was unaware of all this and stood feeling a peculiar loneliness as he waved to the windows and door. Bloody stupid way to be carrying on, Charlie.

  It seemed to take an age before the door began to move. A slight shuddering action at first, as if someone was operating the mechanism who had not handled it before. There was a stutter, then a sweeping movement, as the door came away on its arms from the fuselage and swung out before coming to rest. It took Charlie time to get his eyes tuned to the grey artificial light of the interior, and then the girl was standing there looking down on him, more with curiosity than anything else, her left hand on the edge of the door. Least of her problems, thought Charlie, falling out of the bloody thing. Pistol in her right hand; he prided himself that he knew most makes, but this wasn't one that he recognized, almost hidden amid the folds of her dress. He smiled at her, big and open and friendly, the smile that Parker Smith said would sell sand to the Saudis, ice to the Eskimos, the smile that his wife always giggled at.

  'Hello, it's Charlie Webster. You're Rebecca?' Daft really, like a pick-up at a YWCA hop. Had to be some sort of formality. "I've come to speak with David and Isaac . . . and with you.' Don't count her out, at least not till you've looked at the scene a fair bit closer.

  'You can talk to me, they are listening. They would prefer that we talk in Russian. If you speak loud they can hear what you say, and they will tell me what to reply.'

  Good thinking, and Charlie always admired that, whether it was from the friendlies or the opposition. If they were thinking well then they should be respected. Keeping out of sight where the guns weren't on them. Particularly Isaac: drop him and the whole thing could be wrapped up, and with all the hardware lying about no way that he would show if he had any sense. Seemed the boy was working it out.

  'What I've come here to do is to explain the situation as it stands at this moment.' Time for the big speech, time to calm them down because it gets serious right now if you get them excited. The position is very clear really, and since you are all intelligent people we think you will see the only option that is open to you. Your plane has no fuel, and we have said that while the aircraft and the passengers are under your control it will get none. While you are on board the plane goes no further. That is the decision of the British government and it is irreversible.' Working at each sentence before he spoke it, considering the most appropriate Russian words from his comprehensive but rust-worn vocabulary. Made him slow but gave an impression of deliberation and authority. 'The aircraft is surrounded by troops who have orders to shoot to kill should there be any attempt to break through our perimeter using the hostages as a shield. There is no escape from the aircraft. You will only leave it when you have disarmed yourselves, when all the passengers have been released. I am instructed to repeat the solemn guarantee of the British government that you will not be harmed by our security forces."

  Clipped to the neck of his shirt, clearly visible, was a small black microphone. From it a thin colourless connection had been threaded, running up his shirt to his collar where it merged with his hair before blending into a plastic moulded earpiece.

  'Keep it going, Charlie,'- Clitheroe, slightly distorted, but directing and controlling him-'Tough stuff first, then on to the message they've put over to the world, and next the freeing of the hostages.' The voice made him lose his concentration for a moment, throwing him fractionally, and he felt a flush on his face as he watched the girl stare back at him, not responding, merely waiting for him to finish.

  'We want you to know that your flight out of Russia has been widely reported by the international news media. If it was a protest that you were seeking against any grievances that you may feel you have then you have been widely heard.

  If publicity was your aim then you have achieved it. We think that any aggressive action you may be considering will only alienate the many millions of people all over the world who are currently sympathetic to you.' Crap, Charlie, but what else to say? How do you get a conversation going at thirty yards? No known way. Bound to stand there exchanging speeches. But it's a load of rubbish you're talking and you know it. He wondered how they knew what he was talking about in the tower; must have brought some of the FO girls down, or one from the Department Spoke Russian better than he spoke English. Boot-faced ladies with heavy rings on the fingers, gold in their teeth who'd made it out in the '30s and started to work for the British in the war, and were in their sixties now and had to keep going till pension day if they were to afford the bed-sitters of retirement. Hated the Soviets like shit which gave them high security clearance.

  'You have many women and children on board. We understand there is a party of schoolchildren. There is no need for you to keep them; all of them could be released now and it would make a great impression on all those people that are following this action.' The girl still looked down at him. He could see her ankles, a little fat, and the solid and muscular shins before the hem of her dress denied him. Face devoid of expression, and Charlie wondered which of them was screwing her - wouldn't get much for his efforts. 'That's what I came to say. There is no point in talking about ultimatums. It's nonsense and it wont work.'

  'That is all?' She had a thin, reedy voice, and he had to strain to hear her.

  'If there is anything you want me to answer, then I will try to help you.'

  She ducked back inside the aircraft, lost to him, and the doorway was emptied. There was just time for him to see the faces of the passengers at their portholes - poor bastards, going through the familiar hoop, and with their hopes raised now because there was a contact.

  Charlie said quietly into the microphone, speaking in English, 'That's the first chat over.

  They're talking about it now.'

  'They're all on the monitor,' he was told. 'The open door drives them into the passenger cabin, that's where the three of them are, but the girl seems out of it. It's the two fellows who are involved. Seem calm enough, no arms flying about. Now that the door is open we are getting some sort of sound, but we can't read it right now, only the girl when she spoke to you. They've probably dropped their voices to avoid being overheard by the passengers.'

  'Right,' said Charlie. The girl was back in the doorway.

  'When you said you would come it was because you wanted to talk to us about our request for information. The question that we asked was what would happen to us if we followed your instructions. What is the answer?'

  ' I have said that you will not be harmed.'

  That is not an answer. I repeat, what will happen to us?"

  If you have committed offences you will be charged and will face a fair and impartial trial.'

  That is not the answer. Where would the trial be?'

  'If you have committed offences inside the United Kingdom you will stand trial in the United Kingdom.' Not much longer, thought Charlie, not much longer this bloody nonsense can go on.

  "You are not helpful, you seek to deceive us. Will we be sent back to Russia? Is that your plan?'

  ' I know of no plan to send you back to Russia.' Lying sod, Charlie, but what else to say? And anyway remember the parting shot of the big political gaffer, nothing sewn up at this stage. And what right have these three to know the truth? Forfeited that, hadn't they, when they took the guns on board? '1 have not heard of such a plan.' Never could lie well, not that many people that can.

  Only a few, and they're th
e exception. The girl didn't believe him, agitated and leaning back to be told what to say.

  'My friends say that this is a trick, that you will send us back to Kiev. We do not trust you. If you had been able to promise, if there had been a document then we would have believed you, but there has been nothing. Only you, and you are a little person with no authority.'

  Now she tells me, thought Charlie. There was a light breeze that fastened to the moisture of his skin and cooled it, giving comfort from the heat. A great clear sky, cloudless, peopled only by the curving seagulls, far off course . . .

  'Charlie, Charlie, keep your bloody wits about you'-the message beating through his earpiece -

  'The two men have gone halfway down the cabin . , . pulling one of the passengers out . . . down the corridor . . . from among the kids, must be one of the staff travelling with them . . . there are hands trying to stop it . . . not a bloody hope, and the guy himself isn't fighting it ... off the monitor

  . . .'

  The girl was gone, pulled by an arm, roughly and without explanation, replaced by a man, thinly-woven grey suit, masking the shape of another, whose left arm was gripped around the first man's throat and whose right held the snub nose of submachine-gun to the captive's jaw. The face of the man in the suit was ashen, and his eyes were pleading and helpless and without fight.

  The knees shook and trembled, sending eddies down the lower length of his trousers. Charlie could see the summit of black curly hair above the man's shoulder. Isaac was out, Isaac was at the door. Had to break the tension, pacify him, calm him, couldn't shout, not with the barrel an inch from the man's face, not with the finger inside the trigger guard.

  "Isaac, it's Charlie Webster. We have been speaking on the radio. You have to understand that we are here to help you. We understand your problems and there is much sympathy throughout the world for the fate of your people. Nothing, nothing can be gained from further bloodshed, only the loss of the sympathy that you have already won.'