Kingfisher

by Gerald Seymour

  'The taste of this business has not been palatable to them. They will stand by us when the danger is greatest, when they believe we are without defences. But they do not like to think of us, or our people, as having a will of our own. The children have shown their claws, they have killed with them. It does not fit the image that our friends have of us.'

  'With the hostage dead, with the Americans unwilling to act, then we have lost. They will go back, these two, and there is nothing that we can . . .' He broke off, as if reminded of something distant. Clutching at the straw. 'The man that we sent, Benitz. Has there been communication from him?'

  'He spoke to the relevant people by telephone this morning. But his opportunities are limited.

  The British offer him nothing."

  'They have not used him because they wish to send these people back?'

  'But he is a resourceful man.'

  'A lion, one of the. best we have.' The Prime Minister agreed. 'But there are impossibilities, I suppose, even for a man such as this.'

  'He has made no contact for some time now, not that has been reported by London. Perhaps -'

  'That means nothing. In these circumstances, nothing.'

  So often like this, the ill-informed back-seat, while the pursuit of policy remained in the hands of the soldiers. Many times the scene had been enacted; the directions given, the orders made clear, and then the waiting for the cipher cable, the telex, the radio message, always the same men in the room, the same frustration.

  Abruptly the Prime Minister curtailed the meeting. Nothing to be gained from further dallying, talking round a situation they no longer directly influenced. The delegation of the Histradut had been waiting more than twenty minutes in the anteroom outside his office. He should not delay them longer. The problems of the trades unions would be with him long after the affair of the taking of the Ilyushin to Stansted was forgotten.

  That he should have closed and refastened the door Isaac knew. He should have shut them in again, barricaded the gate, prepared his defences. But he could not bring himself to return to the bright hole through which the sunlight dazzled, nervous of the danger there. Yet it was weakness not to go to the big lever, plunge it downwards the semicircle of its locking mechanism, it was a weakening of his will that he recognized but felt unable to correct. Not many hours since he had slept, four perhaps and not much more, but the passing of time had been concentrated and had ravaged both his strength and his thinking ability - the escape of the teacher, the killing of the Italian, the death of his friend. Great and cataclysmic events, all far beyond any previous experience he had had, each diluting the importance of the other, till they had taken a toll that he would not have believed possible.

  You should have fastened the door, Isaac, if you mean to fight on. The door must be bolted and locked, Isaac. Their entry point. Through there that they will come with machine- guns and rifles.

  They'll be laughing, unable to believe their luck, a door actually left open . . . But the tiredness swept over him, overwhelming, compulsive. If he could only close his eyes ... A dreamless sleep, without the desperate fear of watching and waiting, and hoping ...

  But the door must be open for one o'clock. Right, Isaac? That was when you told the man Charlie to be watching and waiting if there was no petrol. He allowed himself a slow smile as he remembered the fever in the voice of the Englishman, the anxiety that he sought to suppress. It brought a quiet grin to the side of Isaac's mouth. That was why the door should be left open: so that they could see it, and count the minutes that passed on their watches.

  Strange not seeing David ait the far end of the aisle, not following his bowed silhouette the length of the aircraft as he had hovered in the cockpit. Had made an abscess in their group, his going. And what for? What for, any of it? The policeman back in Kiev, the captain in his cockpit seat, the passenger (misshapen on the tarmac - didn't even know their names. So what for? The path that David had led them to, the road that he had shown them. A road that was safe and secure with the darkened shadows of esoape, no blocks, no armed men, no uniformed sentries, David had told them of Babi Yar, and of Potma and Perm, lectured them on the diet of seventy-five grams of black bread a day and cabbage soup with which to wash it down, harangued them on the young men of their faith who languished in the cells, the injustices, the cruelties, the interrogations. A blow for freedom, David had promised. And where was freedom? Not here, not in this stinking cell, with these animals to be watched and guarded and shepherded. You ran well, David, ran early, and you left us, left us to face the wrath you had brought down. But what if there can be no survival for the fighter, what if he is made for martyrdom? Isaac seemed to laugh to himself, and there was the slow, gentle, smiling shake of his head. Not what you came for, Isaac. Not why you bought the tickets - just to purchase a grave plot. Good enough for David, but not for Isaac. Rambling, you fool, deep in your self-pity. Wonder what they'd said that morning in the lecture hall as they gathered for the first class of the day, the ones he studied with. Would they know now where was the one who always sat in the fifth row, three seats in from the door, the one with the spidery writing, good at practical and poor at theory, who asked no questions and took the 'B' marks, and who was quiet and had nothing to say in the canteen queue at morning break? Would they know? And if they did what would they say? Those who liked him, what would they say if they had stood beside him at ten and watched his finger tighten on the trigger bar, seen the disintegration of a man's skull, the way he wiped the spattered bone and brain tissue from his arm? Would

  they have embraced him, or have cowered beyond his reach?

  His hands gripped the narrow barrel of the gun. Hurting yourself, Isaac, wounding yourself.

  But you have to decide now, cannot stall and pass the parcel any longer. Have to close the door if you are going to fight them, Isaac. It's your guts that are fleeing you, draining through the open door, spilling out, splashing on the tarmac, ripening the time f o r surrender.

  Time to move. Isaac pulled himself up from the floor, holding on to the trolley for leverage. So bloody tired, his legs. And the baby still crying. No one trying to stop the little bugger's fury, letting it scream and yowl as if to batter at him personally. And all of them watching for his reaction to the noise, waiting for him to burst into p r o t e s t . . . or to capitulate and ask for milk to be sent. They would not wait much longer, but for now the bastards could wait. Even the American was quiet now, the one with the homilies to Rebecca, and the arrogance; should have chosen him, not the little frightened man he had dragged to the doorway: should have been the American. Not that it would have changed anything, only given greater satisfaction.

  Down the aisle again, Isaac. Cat in a cage, with a circumscribed path inside the bars. Down the carpet, eyes to the right, eyes to the left, and watch them all squirm, look away, try to hide. He reached Rebecca, and his arm was round her shoulder, not with emotion, more to offer a faint degree of comfort.

  They should not have brought her. It chilled him to think what would happen to Rebecca.

  Perhaps he was strong enough to face the bullets- perhaps. But the girl, never. Without the muscle, without the mind. They should not have allowed her to come. Late in the day for that thought, though. In their eyes she'll be as culpable as the men, would be judged with equality, the same fate. What a screw-up ! And how f a r from where it had started, and what had it started for?

  A heap of cretins sitting in their excreta, that Babi Yar should be remembered. Babi where? Babi bloody Yar. Isaac laughed to himself, this time out loud.

  Rebecca said, 'What you said to the man, Isaac, did you mean that? It is close to one o'clock, do we kill one more then? Do we have to?'

  ' If we believe that we are going to Israel, then we must kill another, and another till we have the fuel.' His voice was steady, and without anxiety.

  'Are we going to Israel, Isaac?'

  'Questions, always questions!'

  'But now there must be answer
s, Isaac. David is dead, the Italian, the captain too. There have to be answers.'

  'What do you want to hear me say?'

  ' I have to know what you think. I have the right to know what you will do. Are we going to Israel?'

  'And you? What do you think? Do you believe we will fly from here?'

  'Don't play with me, Isaac. Not now. We have been here too long for games. We have to have honesty now.'

  'So, what do I have to say for you? Do I crawl to you and beg for your forgiveness?' He spat the words at her, and the hate was there again, the loathing not for her but the great sponge that hemmed in on them that they could kick against, but not hurt, not inflict pain. 'Do you want me to plead to you to forgive me and to forget where I have taken you? Of course we will not see Israel

  . . . There, it is the first time that I have said it . . . I'll say it again for you only louder, so that all these pigs can hear me ... we will not see Israel. We will never see Israel We are like the herd of our people, the masses of the camps and the prison cells. No better than them, no worse than them. We are as ineffective as they are. We will never see Israel. You wanted me to say it, and I have satisfied you. It was for nothing, Rebecca. Nothing.'

  'So there will be no more killing?' A small voice, almost a whisper, flattened by the enormity of what she had drawn from him. She pushed the hair back from his forehead, a quick movement of the hand so that he barely felt the texture of her fingers against his skin.

  'No more of the passengers will die.' The smile regained, promising the girl a present, something she would like and be pleased to accept.

  'Who else, who else other than the passengers? The soldiers, if they come... who else?'

  'They will send us back, Rebecca. Remember when you and David talked to them, when he was defeated, when he wanted to end it, and they could not answer you. Remember that: they could not answer the question you asked them. They want to send us back. You understand that, you know what that means. It is not the way I can accept, Rebecca, and you could not go alone.

  We will not go back, not together, not singly. They will not take us.'

  'That was why David went?' She could not use the word that came to her tongue, a betrayal of David as great as if she'd gone to the window and stared down at his broken body. 'That was why David went. Because he knew. That was why you called him a coward

  '

  'Because he could not do it by his own hand. He needed others. We will ask no help.

  Ourselves, together, we will do it.'

  He felt her stiffen against him, driving her body closer to his, pressing with a ferocity as if to mould their two persons into one. ' I will be frightened, Isaac. I will need you.' He kissed her sofdy, full on the pale and greyed hps, stifling her words.

  'We must hear what the man from Tel Aviv has to say to us. First we must hear that.'

  He went to the doorway, for a moment was visible to the outside watchers before instinctive caution won through and he backed again to the side and shelter.

  'Charlie,' he shouted. 'You can come now. Bring the man from Israel.'

  Strong and clear and strident, his voice across the emptiness of the concrete. The burden thrown off, discarded. There were many rifles aimed at the general direction of his body till the hands that held them relaxed and the barrels were dropped. Charlie Webster and Arie Benitz started to walk towards the Ilyushin, a slow and careful step, and all the time the Englishman talking into the microphone close to his chin.

  It seemed a great distance they had to go, a chasm to be bridged.

  Summoned again from his exile on the lower floor the Home Secretary read the transcript of Charlie Webster's radio message.

  'There has been a substantial change of mood on the part of both Isaac and Rebecca. After threatening that executions would recommence at thirteen hundred local, if they were denied fuel for the onward flight to Israel, they have now invited me to bring to the aircraft Col Arie Benitz of the IDF. They want to hear what message he brings them from the Israeli government.

  The message will be that they should surrender. My assessment is that this represents a considerable weakening of Isaac's position. For personal guidance, is it likely that on surrender they will be returned to face Soviet courts? Over. Webster.'

  The Home Secretary edged his glasses further down his nose. 'Has someone answered Mr Webster's query?'

  'Yes,' the Assistant Chief Constable spoke with caution.

  'What was the answer?'

  'He was given guidance, not specific information.'

  'Which way did you guide him?'

  "We said that the position was not clear, but . . .'

  'In heaven's name, man, what did you tell him?'

  'He seemed to need some sort of answer, something that would help during the difficult negotiation stage he is embarking on.'

  'Don't fool with me.'

  'We told Mr Webster that there had been a change of approach by the Foreign Office-we told him they were unlikely to be returned to the Soviet Union.'

  'Who told him that?'

  ' I did.' The Assistant Chief Constable stood his ground, aware the worst was over, that now he had only to confront the puzzlement and confusion of the politician. 'On my own authority. I judged his believing that this was the case would only help Mr Webster at this moment.'

  " It's not true, simply not true.'

  'Behind them they have a man shot in Kiev. The pilot of the aircraft is dead in the cockpit, a passenger is dead on the tarmac. More stand to die as the afternoon goes on. The truth of what Webster tells these people is frankly unimportant. They've forfeited the right to truth.' He saw the retreat, the change of tack, the Home Secretary backing away from confrontation. Stupid, bloody man, and what did he know of the scene anyway? Better off downstairs and out of the way.

  ' I hadn't thought it would cave in quite like this.' He had to assert himself in some way, had to say something Well, let bloody Clitheroe answer him.

  'They end with a whimper, these things, that's my experience' - the psychiatrist had joined the group. 'On other occasions we've noted there's an intensification of demands in the final hours before surrender. These two people are undergoing severe nervous strain, loss of sleep, absence of food. They are in a hostile environment, isolated from communication. When they raised their demands it was because they acknowledged their earlier threats had failed. Mr Webster has now confronted them with the Israeli. They are bewildered at the moment and they will want to know what he has to say. The combination of persuasion by Mr Webster and Benitz should be too much for them. I would predict it will be all over today. Shorten that in fact to this afternoon.'

  'Extraordinary behaviour of this fellow Webster.' The politician was still perturbed, recognizing his hand was far from the helm. Must going off, no instructions, no authorization, taking the Israeli...'

  ' It's quite simple. The last time Mr Webster was present we were engaged in the debrief of the Russian. We were preparing for an attack. Mr Webster was anxious to avoid such an assault.'

  'So are we all,' the Home Secretary bridled. 'It's the last thing any of us want.'

  ' 'If the military assault the plane Mr Webster believes there would be an inherent risk to the children who are among the passengers, harm a large proportion of them. If I may be indiscreet I think he also believes that it is not necessary to kill the two young people. He would like them to survive. If he is to save them he will be all the better equipped to do so in the knowledge that they will serve a few years in a British gaol before release. He's a complex fellow, Mr Webster, his experiences are outside our own, and I think he's bored with ushering young people to their maker. The only relief I feel at the moment is that it will not be myself who disabuses him of the destination of the two Russians should he prove successful.'

  Both in their shirt sleeves, Charlie encumbered only by his radio set, Benitz with the lightweight aluminium ladder that would reach to the bottom of the doorway. Around them a terrible, dea
fening stillness. Benitz steadied the ladder against the fuselage of the aircraft, noticed its age, the dents of unknown mechanics, the flashes of rust from the vents in the bodywork, the peeling of the weatherworn paint work of its livery. He put his foot on the bottom step to calm its vibrations.

  Charlie began to climb towards the doorway.

  C H A P T E R S E V E N T E E N

  Isaac was back again in his lair, hugging the drinks trolley, ignoring the sights that he had lived with, the coats and possessions stuffed into the racks, the printed flower patterns on the walls, the terse material covering of the seats, the bobbing heads. Rebecca sat huddled in the cockpit doorway, shunning the sight of the body of the captain, unmoving and whitened by the pallor of death. Both from their different positions could see the top of the ladder, saw it buckle and shake before there was Charlie's shoulder for them to fasten on, and his growing height as he climbed into view. He seemed to pause for a moment, to hesitate and look about him, nostrils dilating to the smell of the interior. His eyes roamed about him, and there was a smile of recognition on his face, hasty but still evident, when he saw the girl, followed by a slight inclination of his head and then at his mouth the faint twist of protest, unspoken, at the pistol levelled at his chest. He turned his head, back towards the world beyond the hatch and called in English so that only Rebecca understood him. 'It's fine, Arie. Come on up, the party's ready.'

  Isaac, squinting down the length of the aisle, trying to penetrate the face, assess the man: the enemy or the ally? Isaac needing an answer. Didn't fit the image of the enemy. Too old, too care-worn, too gross about the waist. An ordinary man such as he would have seen in Kiev, who might work at the railway station or occupy an office in the Bureau of State Pensions. He moved with neither the suspicion nor the aggression of a man who would do them harm. But this was the one who had broken them, who was the spokesman for the great force on the outside, who had not conceded to their demand for fuel. And his weapon had been placid, unyielding reasonableness, the tap that dripped on and on, beating out messages of logic and persuasion in endless repetition. Rebecca had been beaten from the time they first heard his voice, David following her, and now he, Isaac, joining his colleagues in defeat. How many times had he said there would be no fuel before the message slowly and inexorably won through? Not an enemy, but not an ally, not this man with the dirt-stained shirt and the crumpled, rounded trousers. Nothing he had said had carried friendship, sympathy or understanding. He could not be an ally. A functionary, that was what the man Charlie was. The one who had been sent to do the work.