Kingfisher

by Gerald Seymour

  Charlie loosened his grip around the waist of the Russian as they reached the twin rear doors of the ambulance, and

  the other man turned and faced him.

  ' I am sorry, truly sorry. I have to thank you because of what you have done for me. But it is frightening for a man to know that he has lived and then another ... In the war..

  'Get in and shut up,' Charlie said.

  ' In the war there were endless columns of men who went to their deaths, with no hope of rescue, nothing to help them beyond the comradeship of dying together.'

  Charlie opened the doors, pushed him into the interior, so that he stumbled and tripped forward across a red-blanketed stretcher bed.

  'Shut up, forget it.'

  The ambulance swung through one hundred and eighty degrees, causing Charlie to grab at a wall-attached oxygen cylinder, then he leaned out to pull together the two flapping doors. Before he fastened them he saw again the bright and unsullied lines of the Ilyushin, the neatness of its airframe broken only by the opened hatch. In the half light of the ambulance interior, shaded by the smoked glass, he held out his hand.

  ' I'm Charlie Webster.'

  'Dovrobyn, Nikita Dovrobyn, and I am grateful.' Their hands locked together, and Charlie could feel the bony, clasping pressure of the grip.

  'Like I said, forget it. Cant ever be as bad again.' They spoke no more on the brief journey to the control tower.

  When the ambulance stopped he unfastened the doors and helped the Russian back down into the sunlight. There were other hands now to help and uniformed arms that linked under Dovrobyn's armpits, and one that carried a rug to drape over his back. Bloody stupid, that, thought Charlie, with the temperature where it was. All getting in on the act, fussing round the star turn of the day. Cat with the cream satisfaction on the driver's face, the man who had driven out to the aircraft, who'd done nothing and who would revel his way through a line of pints in the canteen bar at lunch- time on the strength of it.

  There was a quiet voice in Charlie's ear.

  'What sort of condition is he in, Mr Webster?' Bit of bloody deference there, and not before time.

  'He's fine,' Charlie said, looking at the pink-faced, cleanshaven police inspector with his uniform and neatly knotted half-Windsor black tie.

  'Will he be able to sustain a de-brief? They're anxious . .

  'God's sake, how do I know? He's not dead, is he? Not been shot?'

  Kill it, Charlie, you're shouting and they're staring at you. Doesn't fit the proper image, not of a hero. Supposed to be calm and collected and organized, and above all modest. Not yelling because an earnest little prig asks a sensible question.

  'He'll be fine, just find him some tea and a drop of brandy.'

  'There's a great deal of admiration for what you did, Mr Webster.'

  Charlie nodded. Would they only leave him alone, stop humiliating him? What did they think it was, a conscious decision? Didn't they know, any of these people, that there weren't risk appraisals and evaluations? You just jumped off your backside and ran. If you were lucky you were a hero, if you were unlucky they'd be scraping you up and wondering how you could be so bloody stupid.

  They formed a little cavalcade up the stairs, the Russian in his ridiculous blanket at the front with the retinue around him, Charlie at the tail. As they climbed he leaned forward and tapped the inspector on the shoulder and said, 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to shout.'

  That's all right, Mr Webster,' said the policeman. 'I know how you must feel.'

  A grey transit van brought George Davies to the control tower. It had driven slowly round the outer road in full view of the aircraft, maintaining a regular speed so that those who watched it from the cockpit and tie passenger cabin would not be concerned at its progress. For a few seconds it disappeared behind the barricade of tankers, and it was during those moments that the back doors were flung open and the SAS commander had boarded. When the van emerged again there was nothing to indicate to those on the plane that it had added a passenger to its load, nothing to tell them of the army presence still hidden near the Ilyushin.

  As he sat on the metal floor of the van Davies could reflect that there could be only one reason why he had been summoned for conference. The decision must have been taken: the politicians were steeling themselves for the military option.

  Inside the control tower there had formed a reception line of grave-faced men with whom Nikita Dovrobyn shook hands.

  The Home Secretary had emerged from his lower-floor office to greet the Russian with a public smile and a word of congratulation that was lost on the survivor because Charlie was still trapped by the throng in the doorway and unable to translate the remark. The tight grip of the Assistant Chief Constable, the unwavering gaze into his eyes, the impression of the medal ribbons, all caused Dovrobyn to flinch away, his instinctive reaction to security force authority.

  By contrast, Clitheroe took the proffered hand with a limpness and led the Russian to a chair that was functional and not comfortable and for which he apologized. Others called the Russian 'sir', some lightly slapped his back, and he wondered why they presumed that he had of his own volition achieved something that made him so worthy of attention. Then, in their impatience, they were all talking to him, a tower of voices that were strange and unknown, and he looked past their heads for the one called Charlie Webster and strained to see him beyond the scrubbed faces and the buttoned collars and the uniforms and the city suits. He just wanted to sleep, to escape from these people. The voice of Charlie Webster cut through his confusion, the same voice of authority that had demanded he jump when his legs were leaden and which he had obeyed.

  'Leave the man alone. He doesn't understand a word you're saying. Pack it in, and give him some room to breathe.'

  There was a parting of the seas around the chair and Dovrobyn found the one face, the familiar face, that he sought.

  Charlie spoke in Russian, gently and without haste, as if there were suddenly time, as if the panic for speed was forgotten. 'We're going to get you some coffee, then we have to talk to you.

  You must understand that we have to know as much as you can tell us about the interior of the aircraft. We have to know everything that you can remember, every detail. If we are to save other people's lives then you must tell us all you can. We'll hold the questions till we have the coffee, give you time to think and to remember . . Charlie broke off and spoke again in English. 'We should get him some coffee. He's dead tired, scared out of his mind and totally disorientated. It's worth waiting.'

  They stood in a circle round the Russian, staring, peering, stripping the man, so that he avoided them and focused on his hands that he held together lest they should see the trembling of his fingers. Once when he looked up he saw a soldier in camouflage denims with a webbing belt at his waist and a pistol holster fastened to it, who had not been present when he had first come, and he knew from the murmur of their voices and the way they softened till he turned his head that he was the subject of their talk.

  Arrival of the coffee. A single cup set in a chipped white saucer with an alloy spoon and paper sachet of sugar. Carried to him by a woman who wore black with a little white cloth fixed in her hair and a white apron that showed stains. A panic consumed him as she stretched forward with the cup and saucer - would the shaking of his hands betray him, would he spill and slop the drink? Then Charlie Webster was speaking to her, and taking it from her, holding the saucer himself and shielding him from the gaze of the crowd so that he could grasp the cup with both hands, so they would not see how much dribbled to the floor and fell across his shirt. When he had finished Webster took the cup and with his other hand fiddled in a trouser pocket for a handkerchief and neatly wiped the Russian's chin and coat.

  'We need to start now, Nikita. I'll translate the questions for you. If you do not know the answers, then say so. Don't make anything up, just to please us. You must be very exact. That's important, terribly important.'

  For ninety minutes D
ovrobyn answered their questions. Pausing every few seconds for Charlie to speak, while he found himself all the time growing in confidence. First the narrative of the hi-jacking, then to his own action, through to his assessment of the personality of the Jews.

  On into the dispositions inside the aircraft. Where were the various groups of passengers? Where did Isaac stand when he was not in the main cabin, out of the range of the fish-eye that they showed him? Where did David stand at the rear? Where did the girl stand? Who had slept the night before, and for how long? Where did they sleep? What weapons had he seen? Did they have grenades? Were there explosives? How had they protected the doors of the aircraft? How was the trolley barrier fastened? What was the morale of the three? Who was the leader now?

  The schoolmaster was no fool. He was not a man used to the world of strike and counter-strike, of government ministers and ranking policemen and troops, but he appreciated his purpose in the room. The killing ground was being prepared, the markers and the pegs and the tapes were being laid. He saw it in the face of the soldier, the one with the gun at his waist, who said nothing, wrote nothing, only listened. There would be more men like that, hard and cold-faced and who did not smile, whose attention was held by the task that confronted them. And he thought of his children who sat still and strapped in their upholstered seats, who had no defences, and would hold the middle territory between the troops and David and Isaac and Rebecca. Acceptable that he should die, and the man who had followed him, but the children .. .

  'You cannot . . . you cannot . . . what will happen to the children? You will kill the children. On the plane these people will not hurt the children, they are correct to them. But if you go there, and you have to shoot, what will happen to my children?'

  Not that any except Charlie understood what he said, just the signs of acute worry, and they moved away from him. It is not pleasant to look on a man who has broken, who can sustain nothing more, who is convulsed in weeping, who has gone beyond his own unexplored limitations.

  "Nobody will hurt the children,' Charlie said.

  ' If you attack the plane and they resist, if Isaac and David resist, then there must be shooting .

  . . then the children will be hurt. They are in my charge and I am not there.'

  'Nobody Will hurt the children. All of them will be saved. There is a science in these things and if we know where they are then there is no risk.'

  'You confirm my fear. You will attack. There is no other reason f o r the questions that you have asked me.'

  Charlie did not reply. There was nothing to say. He had seen the children on the television screen, their meekness and their submission, and he knew the hopelessness of giving the sort of guarantee he had just delivered. A used Ford and you don't need to service it for twenty years, bullshit. A science in these matters, crap and you know it, Charlie. He knew that when the troops went in the only thing that mattered was luck, a bloody great piece of luck. One good burst of gunfire, and that's all they have to get off, and what do you have? Fiasco, catastrophe, disaster.

  Put the army in and what becomes the priority? Kill the killers, or save the hostages, or can you even differentiate? All depends on whether they fight. Isaac, the little bugger, he'll fight, perhaps David too if he's caged, and the girl, she might shoot if the hero boys are still standing. So how many lucky bullets do you need to hit those three and no one else? And how many from the opposition to screw the whole damn thing?

  Charlie straightened and rested his hand on the Russian's shoulder.

  ' I think he's had enough. You should find him a bed and keep him on ice.'

  'Express our thanks to him, please, Mr Webster,' the Home Secretary said. Dejected, oppressed by the knowledge that the decision for action was his, and could be passed to neither senior nor subordinate. The circle broke and formed an aisle through which Charlie led Dovrobyn. 'Keep him warm,' he told the inspector, 'and don't let the quacks give him a shot. We have to have him on tap.'

  He walked back to the console and looked out through the glass at the Ilyushin. Same old story, nothing moving, nothing stirring, not a damn thing, just like always. But it was all going to start.

  He heard the Home Secretary say to the soldiers, 'Well, Major Davies, can it be done, and with reasonable chance of success?'

  'A reasonable chance of success, yes, sir. Shouldn't be too difficult. We know all we're going to.'

  'When would you attempt it?'

  'First light is ideal. But if there's deterioration we could have a go at dusk tonight. We could get in during daylight, but the risk all round is greater.'

  A moment of consideration, as if the Home Secretary were rehearsing the sentence, then he said, 'Make the preparations that you deem necessary, Major.'

  Thank you, sir. There's a DC6 over on the far side. Height to the doors is right, width of fuselage about the same, wing cover on approach matches. We'll do a bit of work with it, and you'll be contacted as soon as we're happy.' 'Thank you, Major.'

  The session was concluded. Davies bustling on his way. Conversation mounting. A lightening of the atmosphere now that the crucial decision had been taken. Charlie sought out Clitheroe, tugged at his shirt sleeve and took him to the far corner, away from the crowd that now sensed blood and waited for the chase.

  ' It's a bit early, isn't it?' Charlie urged. 'We've hardly talked to them yet, and now we're ready to plunge in.' ' It wasn't my advice.'

  'But the tactic is to wear them down. Nag away at them, starve them out That's the way it's done. What the Americans do, the Dutch, what we've tried in the past.'

  'Correct. That is the traditional way of handling these affairs. As I told you the present course of action is not the one that I recommended.' 'What are you going to do about it?' 'Mr Webster, I'm not here to do anything. I'm here to give opinions when they are requested. My brief goes no further.' 'So what's changed, what's put the balls into them?' 'You have, Mr Webster. Your little games out on the tarmac have changed all that. Don't stop me, don't look aggressive. You asked me a question and I'll give you an answer. They were sitting in here watching Mr Dovrobyn, believing he was about to die. They didn't like it, they didn't like the helplessness and impo tence

  - that was a word that was flying round this room a fair bit - and they saw what you did. Probably you shamed them, shamed them into showing what they now regard as courage. They had been led to understand that there was no intervention they could make, and you demonstrated that there are occasions when a physical course of action can be both justified and successful. Now they wish to follow your example. Virility, I suppose, comes into it, they wish to match your virility. Don't look pained, Mr Webster, don't regard me as an idiot. We've been through all this while you were bringing your rescued princess back from the dragon's castle, we've ah had our say. Myself, the policeman, army liaison, the civil servants. Mine was a lone voice because I cannot offer exact solutions. I can only surmise what a state of mind will be, given certain deprivation factors. I understand a smattering of Russian, Mr Webster, from my college days. I gather you told Mr Dovrobyn that there was a "science on these matters", referring to the .question of storming the aircraft. A "science" implies a solution if a correct procedure is followed. I cannot supply a "science", only an opinion, and that is why I am not listened to. And you must allow for the death of the second hostage: it has deeply shocked our masters. They were not prepared for it, and therefore their anger is all the greater. And they are fearful now of seeming weak.'

  ' It's bloody nonsense,' said Charlie quiedy.

  'Not so much nonsense as cowardice, Mr Webster. They are unwilling to repeat an experience.

  They do not have the courage. The previous two occasions when they have been confronted with this type of situation there had been no killing of hostages. Neither in Knightsbridge nor in Balcombe Street. They could afford to be patient then; there were no corpses for the world to see, to bear witness to their inability to intervene with a strong hand. You have to comprehend a
nd perhaps you do already that the basis for the respect held by the Western democracies for the urban guerrilla is that so few persons can appear to ridicule the power of an established and elected government. By your own assessment only one of the persons on the aircraft is, as we would say, the hard-liner, with the other two his followers. Yet look around and count up the effort, the ingenuity, the technology, the striking power that has been assembled to eliminate this threat. All of this concentration was sitting on its collective backside, wondering what to do.

  They think now that unarmed, unprepared, you showed them a course of action.'

  ' If they go in there shooting then there has to be risk to the children, like the headmaster said, and he's right. What do they want? Another bloody Maalot?'

  'Perhaps they consider the risk to the children less substantive than the risk that they will see another man brought to the door of the aircraft, and after him another, and another after that...'

  'But that's not your opinion. You know and I know that perhaps they will kill one more, but they're human beings in there. They're not animals, they won't be able to go on chopping like a slaughterhouse foreman. They couldn't sustain it.'

  'That's not what you said from the tarmac, Mr Webster.