Kingfisher

by Gerald Seymour

  All the men that Charlie had hunted when he was active had been young: it had been the common factor, characteristic. No terrorist or urban guerrilla or freedom fighter makes it to middle age. Either dead, locked up or in love with life by then. Youth was the crucial element to see things with the clarity needed to topple windmills, struggle against the sponge of society.

  'My friends called to you when I was sleeping. They wanted to surrender. They would have done if you had said to them that they would not have been sent back. But you could not say that.

  Perhaps you could not tell them the lie that would have made you the victor. But that part of them you have destroyed now-you have made them fighters, you have lost them, Charlie Webster.

  Perhaps you do not know the Jews. Perhaps you do not know that we have been turned aside many times, pushed and manipulated and tricked and bent. We know what it is to be trampled over, to be a second class of man. Go to Ukraine one day, Charlie Webster, go to the great synagogue in Kiev. Look at the people there, people who have been deceived and duped. Look at their misery, at the agony of their lives, at their fear. Go and look for yourself then come back and tell me that you expect a Jew to believe you when you say "I have not heard of such a plan."'

  No breath left, lungs drained. Isaac paused.

  "Isaac, we have to talk about this sensibly ..

  The talk of surrender is over. We have told you that we want the petrol to fly to Israel. That is what we came here for, what we will leave with. This man is the headmaster who is travelling with the school children. He is the one who will die at ten o'clock if the fuel is not loaded. He will stay in this doorway where you can watch him. You have your radio, so you can tell your people what we have decided. You can stay where you are, you can watch and you can think for yourself who has the will, your people or ourselves.' The headmaster stood limp in his hold, almost as if he needed Isaac to hold him up, and all the time his eyes were fashioned on Charlie's face, seeking a sign, a reassurance that was not Charlie's to give.

  ' Isaac, you must understand ..

  ' I understand everything. I want fuel. You at the moment do not wish me to have it. You are playing with the lives of many people on the aircraft - tell your authorities that.'

  Clitheroe on Charlie's earpiece, 'Don't move away, Charlie. Stay put and keep quiet. Leave it a few minutes then try to resume the dialogue. We have to keep the conversation moving if we're to save this fellow's life. From what you've seen of Isaac, from his voice - our pick-up is not that good here - is this a real threat or will he soften nearer the time?'

  Charlie thought of the face that he had seen, sharper and with a reality because it was now freed from the one- dimension flatness of the photographs and the television tube. And he thought of the strength and the ferocity of the grip on the headmaster. He tilted his head till his mouth was directly above the microphone. 'He means it The way he is now he'll shoot others afterwards if nothing happens to satisfy him. Right through the whole bloody lot he'll go.' So it would be a killing job, a hard, messy, killing job, and carcasses to be picked up, and thrown on to stretchers.

  He eased himself on to the tarmac and sat cross-legged, the hot surface penetrating the fabric of his trousers. They had taken the man back from the doorway and he stood now, blurred and indistinct against the far wall of the aircraft. Charlie reckoned the girl would be watching him, but he could not be certain. Had a headache, not rampant but nagging, chewing at him, always did when he was tired. He looked at his watch: time ebbing away. He hadn't felt it when they were talking, but was aware of it now. Half an hour to go, the minimum, because his watch usually ran fast. Thirty minutes to see what Isaac was made from; only you already know, Charlie, can sense it Smell it,

  C H A P T E R T H I R T E E N

  In the control tower the 'No Smoking' signs had long been ignored, and the fierce pall of smoke was unnoticed as the cigarette butts burned on the edges of tables and in saucers among the debris of coffee cartons and sandwich wrappings. Voices were subdued as if the men there were inside a great and famous cathedral where noise would be deemed irreverent The Home Secretary had alternated through the morning between his room below and the operational centre, but since Charlie Webster had walked out on the tarmac he had remained upstairs. Now he talked by telephone to the Prime Minister. Clarification was what he sought, suggested by his aides because they were employed to protect the reputation of their master.

  Could there be any flexibility in the official stance the government had taken, now that a life was at immediate risk? Not possible, especially at this moment, not after the Soviet statement, not after the leaking by the press that an ultimatum was due to expire: there was to be no suggestion of compromise or weakness under threat. While he listened he pulled at his collar, as if his breathing were constricted, and those who looked to him for some indication of the burden of the conversation saw only anxiety and a slackness about his mouth that spelled dilemma and irresolution. He made his farewells to the Prime Minister, and put back the receiver with a circumspection before turning to those around him.

  'The Prime Minister has said what I think we all expected him to say. There will be no alteration in our position. The fate of this unfortunate does not affect the decision that we have taken. He wants me to pass to you all that he has the greatest faith in our judgment He leaves it to us to decide whether the aircraft should be stormed before the expiry of the ultimatum. We do not have very long, gentlemen, and we need to know the options.' His voice tailed away, reflecting a mood that came as no surprise to those who knew him well. His reign at the Home Office had been characterized by a humanity and sympathy that was not always traditional. The newspaper columnists spoke of him as a man of compassion. His concern now was for the passenger they knew only as 'the headmaster', whom he had seen brought to the doorway of the aircraft set inside the squared television frame. A man in a grey suit about whom nothing else was known except that his chin shivered and his hands clenched and straightened again continuously.

  'What are the options, gentlemen?'

  Clitheroe rose from the stool on which he sat and paced slowly the length of the tower, a few feet only, but a space that gave him room to consider. There was a diffidence about him that they had not seen before.

  'It's Webster's opinion - his opinion only on the killing of this man - it is just his assessment that they will go through with it, go to the limit of their threat. Webster is in a very exposed position, probably nervous, perhaps not the best judge. I don't wish to patronize the man, not in any way at all, but we have to remember where he is. He is unarmed, he is within clear range of their guns, he has been close to the intended victim. It is his judgment that they will shoot, but he may not...'

  'Who is in a better position?' the Home Secretary said.

  ' I dont know-none of us, I think. All I am trying to do is to remind you of the circumstances that Webster finds himself in: we should not follow his judgment blindly.' But he too had seen the fish-eye pictures, the man pulled from his seat, the hands that rose to his help thrust aside. ' I just don't know. Perhaps they will kill, perhaps not. It is impossible to be certain. And if they kill once it does not follow that Webster is right and that they will begin a wholesale slaughter. The effect of one killing might be to break these three that has to be considered. We are dealing with the intangible. We cannot draw up a blueprint and say that because one thing has happened then a logical process will ensue. There is another aspect: these people are Jews, but not Israelis, and that may colour the will that they talk so much of.' Clitheroe sat down again, aware of his own limitations.

  ' If Mr Webster is right, and they intend to kill the man, is it possible to take physical action to pre-empt it? What is the feasibility of attacking the aircraft?' The Home Secretary directed the question without enthusiasm to the Assistant Chief Constable.

  'The military would not be happy about it. There are obvious difficulties - open ground, the need to get ladders to the plane. The
SAS estimate they would need a minimum of fifteen seconds from the time they leave the tanker till they are entering the cabin. Even with far side diversions it's dangerous, a risk to the troops and to the passengers. At night they could manage it, but by daylight . . . What it comes down to, sir, is this - do we endanger many lives at this stage in the hope of saving one?'

  ' It would be difficult to sit here and watch a man die and know we have so much strength and not utilize it.'

  The politician had expressed the fear that swamped them all. It was a challenge to their virility, to their professions, that they should stand on the sidelines, acknowledge their inadequacy.

  'The Dutch did it,' the policeman intoned, 'at the train siege at Beilen, when the Molluccan group took hostages. A passenger was executed and they took a decision not to storm because conditions were unfavourable. They backed off and relied on negotiations; and no more passengers were-'

  'We are not the Dutch,' the Home Secretary rasped. 'Because they have taken a course of action it does not mean we follow. We cannot hide from responsibilities behind precedent.'

  He paused, seemed to stumble in his words, losing track of his theme, and there was age and unhappiness on his face. He could not have held this high office twenty years earlier when capital punishment was still exercised; he would not have had the strength or the commitment to sign the final authorizations, would not have surmounted the mountain of conscience and refused to recommend that the monarch use her prerogative of reprieve.

  'There has to be something that can be done. We cannot just sit here and idle the time away.'

  'At times, sir, we are not given freedom of action. Options are not always open to us.' The policeman spoke With respect, understanding the sense of failure that pervaded the room. 'We just have to hope that Webster is wrong.'

  The job of guarding the headmaster had been left to Rebecca.

  He remained erect and tall, breathing coming fast and in slight gasps, but with his head still and his eyes stretching out beyond the middle distance towards the fields and trees, and the further perimeter fence, and the farm with the white- painted walls and the embossed and dark-stained beams, following the swooping movement of a bird that hunted for food among the migrating swarms of summer insects. When he looked straight ahead he could not see the girl and was only aware of her presence by the occasional shuffled movements as she eased her body into less contorted positions, leaning all the time against the coat cupboard beside him. His thoughts were of classrooms, clean and ordered and where his rule held sway. Of the management of his pupils. His work for the Party. The Party required of him a discipline that he welcomed, gave an outlet for the enthusiasms that he had harboured since his release from the army at the end of the war. The comradeship of the Party, the sense of achievement and accomplishment in his work. Frustrations, yes, but nothing when set against the successes that could be attained. Could take a pride in the way the children had behaved since the taking of the plane, a tribute to his responsibility, and he had not been betrayed by the little ones. Calm and collected and without panic, the children had been impeccable, even with the hunger in their bellies, their fear of the guns. Should be recognized, and reported back to those in authority, whatever became of him; should not be forgotten that they were children under his tutelage and they had not disgraced themselves. He knew what time the men would come for him, when he would pass out of the care of the girl and into their hands, but did not look to his watch. He could hear the two men, talking among themselves, but only faintly, and he could not make out their words. They were behind him and to the left, positioned where they could see past him and down the passenger cabin. Leaving him to what peace he might find.

  He saw the man on the tarmac shift his body and settle on his toes with his legs bent out in front of him, squatting as if mounted on a flattened toilet. The man was of his own age, the one who had been sent to talk, and who had been rejected, and who showed now an emptiness of initiative. He had tried - discernible from his voice - to plead with all the reasonableness that he could muster, had tried to save him, and for that the headmaster was grateful; but he was not dealing with people that were reasonable. The stranger no longer looked about him, ranging the length of the plane, and the headmaster gradually became aware that the concentrated gaze of the man on the ground was directed at him. First the man's eyes strained for understanding and comprehension, but then the lips moved as if with a message. Seemed to say one word, one word alone, again and again from the rhythm of the way the mouth moved. The headmaster felt again the weakening of his legs, the trembling of his hands.

  One word, one word only, shouted and deafening so that it split into his consciousness, an order, a demand. He fought to follow, struggled to relate the bellowed voice to his movements,

  'Jump.'

  The noise had been soaring inside Charlie for minutes before he could summon himself to howl the command. Fearful in the moment that his voice would desert him, that it would come as a feeble croak without the incision he needed. From deep in his lungs, far down, reaching for a depth and volume that would make the bastard up there react from instinct.

  Charlie saw the headmaster lurch towards the open void of the Ilyushin's doorway, saw him move into the pitching fall with all the expertise of the trainee parachutist who leaves the balloon basket for the first time. Heard the single shot that was an age late. Charlie was on his feet and sprinting. A haze of confusion as the man landed. Awkwardly, agility destroyed by the years, Charlie saw his face rise from the concrete, eyes harrowed and frantic, desperate for new instructions.

  'Run, you bugger, run!'

  Crazy, slow motion, broken trot, and Charlie was closing with him, and then the first crescendo of gunfire. Ricochets impacting from the tarmac, and exploding pockets of dust to trace the bullets. Charlie turned and saw Isaac standing there, indecisive, then the gun at his shoulder again, steadying his aim. Stupid bastard, he must have fired from the hip the first time.

  Charlie plunged forward, felt his chest buffet into the other man and sweep him to the right towards the shelter and haven of the wing structure. Had to push him when they were together on the ground, like a bloody sack and whimpering all the time, like he can't believe it, like he thinks they'll still come for him. Together they rolled across the ground, bucking and confused.

  ' It's all right,' Charlie whispered. 'It's over.' He checked himself, surprised that again he'd spoken in Russian. Spread- eagled over the man's body he could only see his head, pale and with the skin stretched drum-tight, and the reflection where the tears ran.

  'You walk at my speed,' Charlie said, louder, and pulled the man up, arms round the flabbiness of his waist. He didn't know whether they'd made the dead ground of the wing or not. Hell of a weight the bugger was, had to carry him really, made him use muscles he'd forgotten. In step, an exhausted dance routine . . . just a few more seconds and they'd be clear, out of range. Charlie didn't look back, his eyes unwavering on the pole in the perimeter fence that he had chosen.

  'Not long now,' he said. 'Just a few more yards. Then it's over.'

  And endlessly beating through his mind the memory of the hunched and coiled figure in the doorway, the gun clamped to his shoulder, the saucer eyes expanded behind the sight. Be a bloody killing job now. Have to cut you down, Isaac, have to, won't we? Because you're not offering any other way.

  Isaac had not fingered in the doorway.

  One fierce and uncontrolled burst of gunfire with the barrel pulling high and left and he had realized that the opportunity to cut down the fugitive was lost. Perhaps he could have taken the Briton with an aimed shot, but it would have been a lucky one, and the wing was looming into his orbit. He realized his reactions had been slow, dulled by lack of sleep, but still slow, and sufficient to endanger them all. And the girl had again failed. Pity, really, because she was a part of them, from the same blood, but she had failed when they needed her. Not all her fault, partly his own, had underestimated the man
who came, and had been tricked and would suffer for it. It was a calm evaluation that he made, stemming from the same calmness that immediately took him away from the open space, where the rifles that were trained on him could have exacted a revenge.

  Could no longer rely on the girl. Obvious, and should have been seen earlier, but proven now.

  So which of them could be relied on? Rebecca lay slumped on the carpet, the pistol still in her two hands as if the shock of firing it had toppled her. David, quiet and without comment, apart from them, taking refuge at the far end of the aircraft where he could make believe that his work was in watching the passengers. They have lost their faith, the two of them; they do not believe any more in escape.

  He shouted to David, 'There is still time till ten o'clock and we will do then as we have promised.'

  There was no reply, and he expected none. He did not even bother to gaze down the aisle to witness David's reaction. Like sheep they would follow him, and like sheep they would scatter if he faltered.

  George Davies lay on his stomach beside the sniper behind the forward wheel of the central tanker.

  'Could you have had him?'

  'The one with 'the curly hair, with the SMG? No problem.'

  'There was no instruction, you were right not to fire.'

  'Three, four seconds I had him.'

  "They haven't clarified on it yet. Up till now it's been not to shoot unless we can get the two men, both of them together. And I have to call in and ask.'

  'Take a bloody light year that; they won't hang about for us.'

  'Always the same when you bring a coach trip down from

  London to handle it.'

  'Any talk of us going in and busting it open?'

  "Not at the moment. Can be done if they want it, but it's not ideal.'

  'Make any difference, what the ciwie did, pulling that chap out?' The marksman spoke from the side of his mouth, conversationally and without deference to rank. Head never moving, steady on a line down the rifle barrel, searching the greyness of the door's opening.