The procession filed slowly across the crossing and I saw police moving into position to stop them from entering the terminal. The procession stopped, then with no warning at all they let the air out of the coffin and broke ranks, dispersing into the crowd. Then one of them stopped in front of a group of passengers who were loading suitcases onto a luggage cart. He pulled out an aerosol can, pointed it at them and shouted, ‘Radiation, radiation. You are contaminated.’
At first nothing came out of the aerosol and the passengers laughed uneasily, trying to avoid a confrontation by sharing the joke. Then the man pressed again and a yellow streak of foam sprayed over one of the passenger’s suits. The passenger started to yell abuse and moved forward with fists clenched, but he seemed reluctant to hit the death’s-head mask, either from superstition or because it looked so hideous and rubbery—and before he could bring himself to strike a blow, the Animal skipped away into the crowd, pulling off the mask as he went. The other Animals did the same.
Several policemen dived into the crowd to chase the fleeing figures, but once the masks had vanished, there was no way of telling for certain where any of them were.
The main entrance to the terminal was still cordoned off, but Osman took us in through a side entrance. I followed him through a warren of corridors and up some stairs which brought us out in the upper level of the passenger terminal.
At first, everything seemed quiet. Loudspeaker announcements were being made, apologizing for delays in flights and promising that the situation would be restored to normal shortly. Then suddenly the loudspeakers were drowned out by the sound of a siren; it was a noise to send a chill through any one who had suffered an air raid. There was no panic. The crowd in the concourse froze, some of them looking upward expectantly. The siren stopped and a voice boomed out, amplified by megaphone, ‘Nuclear attack, nuclear attack. Take cover, take cover.’
At first no one moved, then there was a soft, muffled explosion and a red mushroom cloud billowed upward from the refreshment area in the middle of the terminal. Fortunately anyone who had been near a television set in the previous week recognized it as what the Animals called their nuclear firework displays.
They had done simulations of nuclear explosions twice in the past four days, once in France and one in West Germany. The cloud was formed of a harmless red dye, but the ominous mushroom shape gave it an awesome look and people started to crouch down on the ground and hide under tables to try to protect their clothes from being stained.
The cloud smelled acrid and as it reached the roof of the terminal, it broke up and pockets of red smoke began to drift out over the heads of the crowd.
The confusion was total. Fearing panic, police opened all of the doors at the end of the terminal and passengers streamed out into the open air.
We waited on the upper level, close to an open window, scanning the crowd for some glimpse of any of Sellinger’s people. Then the signal light on Osman’s walkie-talkie flashed and Cox came through. For a second I thought we had our breakthrough, but his voice sounded depressed and anxious. He asked whether I had arrived and Osman reported our position. ‘I’m close,’ Cox said. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’
When I saw Cox running up the stairs to the gallery, I knew he had found nothing. He was breathless and slightly harassed and the disappointment was clear in his face.
‘Chief, we’re stalled,’ he said. ‘There’s no sign of them anywhere. The Sellinger jet’s on the ground; no one’s come near it. We thought maybe they were trying to decoy us and use a commercial flight instead, you know, drug Nancy a little, have her sleep the flight. Marge has rounded up four WN people. With Osman’s men and Paddy, we’ve had eight people combing the terminal. And the demonstrators are looking too. Nothing. Zero. Nothing. We’ve covered every VIP lounge, all the airline offices. My own bet is that they’re in a car somewhere in one of the garages. We’re searching now, level by level.’
I gave him a tight grin of encouragement. ‘You’ve done damned well,’ I said.
‘I hope to hell no one gets hurt in all this,’ Cox said. ‘It was all I could think of, but these Animals are real crazies. I’m consoling myself with the thought that they’d have held their demonstration somewhere and it might as well be here.’
‘Whatever happens, I’ll take full responsibility,’ I said. ‘But I don’t think it’ll turn nasty. The Animals are wild but they haven’t hurt anyone in any of their demonstrations so far. Just ruffled a lot of people’s dignity and spoiled a few suits.’
‘Yeah, I guess so.’ Cox shrugged. ‘Anyway, the question is, what now?’
‘The main thing is to keep them from flying out,’ I said. ‘If they are in one of the garages, we haven’t much chance of finding them until they come out. Our best bet is to keep an eye on their plane and watch all the terminals. We’ll just have to cover all the departure areas as best we can.’
I made it sound as encouraging as I could. Cox had done more than I had the right to expect of any exec and I wasn’t optimistic. With the Sellingers’ resources there were ways of cutting any corner.
‘What about charter flights?’ I said.
‘I’ve had Chris Lewin checking all the private operators,’ Cox said. ‘By the way, he was on his way to Geneva with Paul Mills for the trade talks. We’ll have to arrange replacements for them.’
I smiled. ‘I’ll make an exec of you yet,’ I said. ‘But later. The talks will hold. Right now, let’s worry about Nancy.’
‘Okay, then, two to a terminal,’ Cox said. ‘A walkie-talkie for each pair. If anyone spots them—’ He broke off. ‘I guess, report and improvise.’
We were just deciding who should watch which area, when I hear my name called over the loudspeaker system.
‘Paging Mr. John Railton. An urgent call for Mr. John Railton.’
I thought at first it was Jim Pike trying to locate me, but when I found a booth and picked up the receiver, I heard Robert Sellinger’s voice.
‘John, we must talk. Urgently. There isn’t much time.’
‘Where are you?’ I said. ‘Where’s Nancy?’
‘Nancy’s quite safe,’ Robert said. ‘There isn’t time to argue. I’m at Terminal Four. On the upper level. Be as quick as you can.’
I didn’t bother to argue. I knew the Sellinger style too well by now. There was no point in worrying about traps. They had been preparing to offer a deal; now they were ready. And with them, a deal was always urgent to build up the pressure. The problem was, I had nothing to trade.
When I reported the conversation to Cox, he read the situation the same way. ‘One thing’s odd, though,’ he said. ‘It’s not like Paul to act through Robert. I’d have expected him to deal with you face to face.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘So would I. I think we’d better watch our backs.’
Terminal Four was no longer in use as a terminal. It was scheduled for demolition to make room for an extension to the Atlantic building, but that project had been held up for lack of financing, and Terminal Four was being used only for administrative offices and as an overflow storage area. Everything about the building proclaimed its second-class status; it looked untidy and abandoned, but it was well clear of both police checks and demonstrators and Osman got me there quickly by a shortcut through the cargo handling area.
As soon as I entered the building, I saw Robert standing at the head of the main escalator, with two men who were obviously bodyguards.
I went up the escalator with Cox, leaving Osman in the empty concourse below. ‘I think we’d better talk alone,’ Robert said when we got to the top. ‘Cox can wait here. There’s an office we can use.’
I let him lead me through a door marked Trans-America— Bulk Cargo into a drab little room cluttered with papers and files.
‘All right,’ I said when he had closed the door, ‘where the hell is Nancy?’
‘Nancy’s quite safe,’ Robert said quietly. ‘She’s been safe all along. Your demonstration idea was very clever,
but it was quite unnecessary. Nancy was never going to fly anywhere.’
‘What?’
‘You’re right to be suspicious,’ Robert said. ‘But there’s no need. I’ve taken the problem of Paul in hand. It’s a Family matter, but it’s a mistake to imagine that all Family matters are settled amicably. Paul went too far. Much too far. But he’s caused all the trouble he’s going to cause. He wanted Nancy for revenge, but revenge is no longer appropriate. At least not on his part.’
‘You mean it’s your turn.’
‘Yes,’ Robert said quietly. ‘I think we can say it’s my turn. I agreed to seize Nancy because if I hadn’t, Paul was going to do it. He’d gone beyond the bounds of rationality—it simply would have done no good just to tell him no. If he’d succeeded, it would have been disastrous, so I decided to head him off by pretending to go along. I told Nancy all about it at the inn, so she’d be prepared. She’s at the Airport Sheraton. Paul is looking for her. He knows something is wrong. He doesn’t know yet just how wrong.’ Robert paused. ‘You’ll be publishing the story, of course.’
‘You realized?’
‘Of course. It will start to leak eventually anyway. If it ever came out that World News covered up, the agency would be finished. I presumed that’s how you would reason.’
‘Yes.’
‘Paul will say you destroyed yourself to destroy him.’
‘He’ll be wrong.’
‘But you will resign.’
‘I’ve already done so,’ I said.
‘Yes. Integrity carries a high price,’ Robert said indifferently. ‘That’s your concern. Mine is Starburst. The European test will be canceled, of course. But the missile will survive. There’ll be a high price for that too.’
‘Which Paul will pay?’ I said.
Robert nodded. ‘Unfortunately, you have to be your own martyr. I have Paul. It’s time for him to start making some sacrifices for the family.’
All in all, I thought, it was a solid Sellinger performance. One of Robert’s best. Calm, matter-of-fact; a realist accepting the inevitable. But I wasn’t fooled. I was talking to a man totally consumed by hate. Brother had turned irrevocably against brother. Robert’s vengeance on Paul would be greater than anything I could ever have achieved. I had no further role to play.
‘I’ll go and get Nancy,’ I said.
‘Ask at the reception desk for Mrs. Cadbury. My people are expecting you.’
I was about to leave when there was a knock on the door. One of the guards came in and there was a whispered conversation. When Robert turned back to me, there was a slight smile on his face. ‘I’m afraid Paul’s martyrdom is beginning already,’ he said. ‘Do you want to come and see?’
I had never seen Robert run before. He was not as overweight as Paul, but his dignity vanished completely once he was forced to hurry. He obviously knew it, but he didn’t care. If there was something happening to Paul that Robert wanted that much to see, I decided, then I wanted to see it too. I ran after him down the corridor which led to the far side of the terminal, with Cox close behind me. At the end, there was a glass wall, with views out over the runways. Below, only a few yards from the building, a gray Rolls-Royce which I recognized as Paul’s had been forced off the road and was jammed up against the perimeter fence. Around it, a group of Animals in death’s-head masks were circling and tapping on the windows. I could see Paul alone in the back, and a driver and one other man in the front.
I glanced at Robert. His face was impassive as he waited for his breathing to settle down.
‘Paul’s going to need some help,’ he said. The two guards with us moved as if to go down the staircase, but Robert held up his hand. ‘Not yet. The police will be here in a minute. Better leave it to them,’
The Animals continued circling, then one of them pulled out an aerosol can and sent a yellow spurt of foam across the top of the car, then a second and a third, crisscrossing over the shiny gray surface.
When that produced no response from inside the car, one of the Animals produced a large pocket knife, opened it deliberately so it could be seen through the windshield, then started to cut a huge circle in the paintwork of the car.
He made a rough cut first, then widened it and deepened it, standing back from time to time to admire the artistry. Then he made more gashes and I realized he was shaping a nuclear disarmament sign. As he was completing the final cut, the men in the front of the car could stand the provocation no longer.
They talked animatedly with Paul, obviously arguing about what to do, then simultaneously they flung open the two front doors of the car. It was all the Animals needed. Their moves had obviously been rehearsed and before the guards were even halfway out of the car, a figure who had been crouching out of sight behind the vehicle darted forward and tossed a small metal canister into the car. There was a muffled crack and the car filled with red smoke. The guards tried to fling the doors fully open, but the Animals piled all their weight against them and the three men in the car were enveloped in the thick, choking cloud.
I could no longer see Paul clearly, but I could imagine the panic in the car, as the Animals leaned against the doors and pressed their skull masks against the windows. Eventually, they managed to get one of the car doors open. As the driver struggled out, he was met by a crossfire of yellow foam from aerosols aimed at point-blank range. Paul came out next. He saw the aerosols but was too desperate for air to put up any defense. Within seconds he was covered with foam and the Animals shouted and jeered as he stumbled about in the roadway, choking and gagging and trying to wipe the yellow froth from his mouth and eyes.
I glanced at Robert and saw his face had broken into a tight, humorless grin.
Deliberately and without any sign of urgency, he turned toward me.
‘You’d better go and get Nancy,’ he said. ‘The police are not very quick off the mark. I think I’d better see if my brother needs some help.’
26
The victory was complete, but the next morning it seemed hollow and savourless as I prepared to take my last look at the WN newsroom. Nancy was safe and I had spent the night in my office putting my affairs in order. Now it was time to take a firm hold of myself and give a Sellinger-style performance as I took a final walk as chief executive through the building I thought of as home.
Later that day, the announcement would be posted: that I had stepped down ‘in the interests of the agency’ but would remain available in an advisory capacity to assist an interim committee, consisting of Don Westerman and Neville Farmer, pending the appointment of a new president. It was a good formula. There were a lot of issues to tie up, but it wouldn’t be prudent to have me ‘in the shop window’ when the full story broke. Deighton’s story was superb and not sensationalized, but the tabloids would go berserk; a chief executive who smoked dope and enjoyed erotic games and beat up kids after car accidents would be a liability just when World News least needed it.
I glanced at the notice board where the board memorandum would be posted and saw a notice of a joint union chapel meeting to discuss the introduction of the Datavol X-13 processors. Haycroft was winning and I wondered for a moment if I should call his wife to reassure her, or send her flowers. No, I thought wryly, if I do that, I’ll probably jinx the poor devil and he’ll keel over at the feet of the father of the Technical Union chapel.
The dawn shift was just about to go home. I walked with Cox down the center of the newsroom and chatted with some of the younger subeditors who were being given extended periods of overnight work during the quieter hours of the dawn shift, so that they could be tried out on more senior duties. I knew they all hated it. Only a few journalists really liked the dawn shift, and often it was because they had problems at home or else had queer body-temperature cycles which made them natural creatures of the night. The younger men were impatient to become correspondents and see their own bylines, and as I stopped to give them a few words of encouragement, I remembered my own impatience to get on up the ladder.<
br />
At the end of the central news-processing layout—known in the newsroom as ‘computer alley’—I noticed the neck of a wine bottle sticking out of a wastebasket, half hidden among the piles of wastepaper. I made a mental note to draft an ‘It has come to my attention…’ note for the log. It might just have been someone’s birthday, but there was always risk on the dawn shift that a friendly drink behind the computers could become an accepted way of whiling the night away. I grinned as I remembered how alcohol had first come to be totally banned in the World News newsroom—even at Christmas and New Year’s. Three crazy young subs had celebrated too hard one New Year and, while plastered out of their minds, had opened up the circuits to Australasia and sent their choicest drunken thoughts about life, sex, and newspaper publishers spilling into all the newspapers and radio and TV stations across the continent.
The ringleader had been asked in a written memorandum why he had—as a final act of lunacy—laid his two unconscious colleagues out on the floor of the editor’s office. His answer had been, ‘It was the only office with a carpet.’ The reply had been framed and put on the personnel manager’s wall.
Good times, I thought… but memory lane wasn’t a very comfortable trip just at the moment.
Cox sensed my mood, but when he tried to cheer me up, I quickly covered it over.
‘What were you thinking about, Chief?’ he asked.
‘I was thinking that you look too fucking respectable,’ I said. ‘Dark, sober suit, solemn executive look. The Econ job is going to be the death of you.’
One of the things I had done during the night was to ensure Cox’s own next assignment, so that he would not catch any of the downdraft from my resignation. I had offered him the choice of four major foreign assignments which were about to come open, but he had chosen instead to go to the Economic Services as deputy editor. It was an excellent move for him to make and he knew I approved of his choice, but I didn’t want him losing the sacred fire and being caught in the promotion rat race.
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