'Stop firing.'
Between them Jones and Elkin carried Sokarev up the flight of steps to the plane. The strength he'd summoned earlier to resist them had gone. Elkin at his shoulders, Jones at his thighs. Both men panting, and the narrowness of the steps preventing further aid.
Jimmy rose from his knees where he had taken cover in front of the scientist between the steps and the door of the car, and began to walk toward Famy. Slow paces, all the time in the world now, the end of the stampede. Around him soldiers were lifting themselves from their firing positions, uncertain what to do, and uneasy in the sudden silence. So many of them, and so many rifles and revolvers, and only this one enemy in contention.
He saw the eyes of the prone man still locked on his rifle, tantalizing, out of range, far from the capability of heroics. Jimmy swung his foot, lazily and without care, and kicked it noisily into the middle distance.
'Good try, boy,' Jimmy said, quietly spoken, a private remark. Famy watched him, awkward from the ground, neck stretched back, face unmarked. 'Good try. Just not good enough.'
Jimmy raised his voice so the Arab could hear him.
'McCoy told us you'd be here. Told us this morning.
We didn't think you'd get this far. But it wasn't far enough, boy. One shot you got off, just one. Way off target. Looked good, looked dramatic, but set yourself too much. Should have been an aimed shot. Never works, all the running around, not with a pop gun like that, anyway.'
He saw Famy smile, overcoming the pain, mouth moving but no sound.
'That was what they gave you, the M1? Not very generous, not very suitable. Would have liked something with a bit more guts, right, boy?'
Famy nodded, slight movement, agreement. As far round as his eyes could see the men were now advancing on him, soldiers and police, their guns no longer aimed.
Pointed at the ground and the sky.
Jimmy put his hand in his pocket, under the cover of the cloth, and when it emerged the PPK was there. He saw Famy begin to squirm away, trying to move, but pinioned by the damage to his legs and his hip. Whimpering, like a dog that expects a beating but is too trained to run from the threat.
'Don't make it difficult, boy. You knew what it was all about when you came on the joy-ride. And you did well, considering.'
Jimmy fired into the centre of the pale brown forehead, below the clear white rim of the turban. Even with a moving target he was usually accurate.
The noise of the shot was drowned by the four fan jet engines of the taxiing 747.
From beside the car, still stationary, still with the engine ticking quietly over and with the front and rear doors open, Jones had watched it all. There had been words that he'd tried to say, some sort of call, helpless and faint, for Jimmy to come back, but the roar of the engines prevented his being heard by any other than those immediately beside him.
He had seen the pistol in Jimmy's hand, small and blurred in the distance but silhouetted as a recognizable shape against the great emptiness of the tarmac. He hadn't looked after that. The plane was turning toward the runway, its power rising into deafening, ear-blasting crescendo as it eased its way clear of the group of men with their dark suits and hardened eyes.
'Bloody good job and all,' muttered the Branch man, whose eyes had never wavered from Jimmy and who now stared over Jones's shoulder.
Jones swung back. Jimmy walking toward him now, the one he knew just by the name of Famy abandoned and unmoving behind the erect and brisk figure that was soon close enough for him to see the almost boyish grin of satisfaction that wreathed the mouth. Cat with the cream, thought Jones, as if he's scored a bloody try at Twickenham.
'Bloody good job, the way it should be every time,' the Branch man said again, and Jones bit on his lip, unable to speak his mind, out of step with the mood.
Well, they'd had their money's worth out of Jimmy-boy this time. Earned his retainer, hadn't he? There'd be a mass of paperwork to be getting on with, the predictable escape mechanism, and Jones went in search of a car heading for Central London. Knifing through his mind the continuous thought... it was what they'd wanted, it was what they'd asked for, those bloody politicians with their directives from on high, and they'd been gratified.
In the first-class cabin, occupying two seats at the rear, were Sokarev and Elkin. The pilot had swung the plane hard round and lined himself on to the 36oo-metre-long Runway 5, given precedence over all other flights. Clearance from the control tower was immediate, and the aircraft hammered its way into the slight wind down 28L.
Just before the moment of lift-off Sokarev whispered, straining to Elkin's ear, that he felt sick.
'Don't worry,' Elkin said, it's all over. It's finished now.
We are going home. There is nothing more to fear.'
They were all going home. Mackowicz in the tin box on the freight deck beneath them, Elkin who had been his friend, Sokarev who had been his charge. The security man noted the pallor of the scientist, and the perspiration on his balding head and the way that he struggled to reach upward to direct the cold air nozzles toward his face.
When they were airborne it would be easier. He told himself that, and settled back, deep, into the comfort of his seat.
TWENTY-ONE
At first the pains were slight and concentrated in the centre of his chest, but the nausea and desire to vomit were uppermost. As Elkin slept beside him Sokarev was able to worm a path over the legs of his bodyguard and into the aisle towards the lavatories. He'd had little food and his retching was painful and hard. By the time they were flying over the Mediterranean the pain was spreading in area and intensity, and still Elkin's eyes were closed, insensible to the outer world. When at last a stewardess noticed Sokarev's distress he was doubled up in his seat, his hands across his body. Over the loudspeaker system of the aircraft the chief steward called for a doctor.
Elkin stood out in the aisle now, for once helpless, unable to offer aid to the man he had been ordered to protect. The doctor reached low over the heaving form of Sokarev, whom they had stretched across the two seats, centre arm rest pulled out.
When he stood up the doctor, young and in a T-shirt displaying the name of Hamburg where he had been holidaying before joining the flight, asked if anyone were accompanying the passenger. 'He is subject to severe coronary attack?'
Elkin nodded, unable to speak, stunned at the revelation.
Now of all moments . ..
'Has he been under strain?' The doctor's voice carried the hush of concern.
'He is David Sokarev.'
'I don't know the name, I have not been in Israel some weeks.'
'He is the one the Arabs tried to kill. At the airport and before that last night.'
'The reason for the troops? The passenger on the far side of the airfield?'
'Yes.'
'He has been under severe strain?'
'Total strain. They were trying to assassinate him.'
Enough of the talk. There must be action that can be taken.
'He needs morphine,' said the doctor.
'And. . . '
'And I do not have morphine. I do not carry it with me.'
Elkin looked away from the doctor, down to the pain on the professor's cheeks. 'Call the Captain,' he said. 'Get him off the deck and here.'
The pilot, mid-forties, shirt sleeves, grey hair, a decision-maker, offered no options. 'We go for Ben Gurion. Lebanon and Cyprus are nearer, but are out. Beirut, obviously, Larnaca is too short for the plane. Athens might save a few minutes, but it's marginal and the facilities at home are superior. We have a little less than an hour till we are down. The necessary people will be waiting.'
The doctor said aloud as he bent once again over Sokarev, 'He is an old man to have gone through all this.
Overweight, not equipped to take such turmoil. The bastards always hit when they are not expected.'
Elkin could not reason why he spoke. There was no need, no requirement, but he replied. 'We have known for some days tha
t an attack was planned. The Professor has known too.'
'And you took him, and you exposed him? Knowingly you brought him to Europe? At his age, in his condition?'
'A decision had been taken.'
'There is no wound on him. Remember that. You and your people will have to make your own decision if he dies. You will have to know who killed him.'
There was darkness round the jet as it whispered on its way, ten miles every minute toward the coastline of Israel and the landfall.
On the intercom the Personal Assistant announced that the Prime Minister was calling from Downing Street. With resignation the Director General cleared the papers that obscured his note-pad, took in his hand a sharpened pencil, and raised the receiver of the telephone. He heard the Prime Minister being informed that the link was now through, that the other party was waiting. There was quiet in the room, fitting for the moment before the verbal assault that he had anticipated and predicted to himself. It was an understatement that the Prime Minister was furious. Voice raised. The head of the Security Services held the telephone a clear inch from his ear.
'It was turned into a clear fiasco by your man.'
in what way, sir?' Don't give the blighters an inch, don't get into the apology situation, don't make it easy for the inquiry.
in what way? Because of what your fellow did on the tarmac. Right out there in the middle, with half the bloody world looking on.'
'You'll have to explain, sir.' Stall the inevitable. Let the heat cool, then counter-attack.
'Don't play the fool with me. Your man has executed -
only word for it - this Palestinian, or whatever he was, right out there, in public . . . '
'Your instruction was quite clear, sir. You did not expect the Arab to survive our contact with him.' They'd be taping at Downing Street, nice to get that on the magnetic ribbon.
'Not like that. I didn't expect him killed like that, not. . .'
'He had grenades on him. Live and primed. He was still capable of using them. His hands were moving. He could have used the grenades.'
'You're justifying your man?'
'His target was still armed and dangerous. My operative made a quick and correct decision. More lives could have been lost if he had hesitated. He acted quite correctly.'
it makes our position fearfully difficult.' Always the same with these politicians. Can't take it on the chin, can't ride a right hand, weakening already. The Director General had the telephone close again, against the lobe of his ear.
'The shooting of this fellow could have very grave repercussions.'
'I think that our man would have felt that faced with the circumstances that confronted him the actual danger to life was of paramount importance when compared with the possible diplomatic repercussions.'
Abruptly and without further comment the Prime Minister rang off. The Director General waited for his line to clear then dialled the extension to Jones's office.
Long into the evening Jones sat in his office, alone at his desk. The coffee in the beaker remained undrunk and sealed with a skin surface. Helen had gone now, eyes reddened and aware of the conversation he had had with Jimmy.
Sod it. Cock Robin kicked the fucking bucket. Bloody waste, a man like that going, getting the chop. Still full of sap, years more of it. Awkward bastard, couldn't deny that, but then Jones had always fancied he alone could handle him. Bloody-minded when he wanted to be, but not just now. Had gone with his own dignity, hadn't made a fuss, just let the blade run through the timber, and keeled over gracefully and without protest. Hadn't argued, just accepted it, made his excuses and disappeared out of the door toward the basement to check his gun in. Jones had seen him from the upper window walk out into the street and stride away toward the underground station. Could have had a car home, but not his style to ask for one, not when he'd just had the push. Typical of the way the bloody department exists. DG couldn't do it himself, had to get a minion to scrub the dirty pants, rinse the unmentionable stains. Told him what to do, told him what the PM
wanted, and he'd carried it out. To the letter, careful and in copperplate, he'd done it . . . and that was why Jimmy was walking home. On the scrap yard and the best man they had.
Didn't any of the stupid bastards understand the new warfare? Gone past, the Queensberry Days. No rules that governed this combat. Have to fight the McCoys and Famys with their own kind . .. Would they have left Sokarev half dead for an ambulance team to cart away?
Would they, shit? He thought he'd never see Jimmy again.
Wouldn't be the way of the department for him to have further contact with a man he'd fired. Went back a long way, lot of years, lot of late nights and talk and togetherness. Now all screwed up because of a little swine from God knows where in a place called Palestine that doesn't exist.
When he telephoned home his elder son answered. Wife out at the Women's Institute Committee. They'd had their food before she went. Didn't think anything had been left for him. No reason why it should. It was a clear week since he'd last phoned and said he might not be home that night. It had been the best bloody week in his time at the department and it had ended all loused up. And he scratched and worried at the irritation of his scars.
The detective had to screw his legs under the wooden chair to leave room for the nurses who worked round McCoy's bed. They fussed and pecked at their patient and then went in crocodile line out through the door. There was light from the car park outside and shadows thrown against the wall. For what seemed an age, frighteningly long to the policeman, the Irishman lay still, unmoving, unblinking on the crisp white of the bedclothes.
When eventually he spoke it was too dark in the room for the detective to see his face.
'What happened to him?' The words were slow in coming, spoken so faintly that the other man had to lean forward, cursing in his mind the murmur of the distant traffic.
'Did he make it?'
The detective was uncertain what he was allowed to say, and kept silent.
'Did he get the bastard?'
Conscientiously the words were written down.
'Did he get him? For Christ's sake, tell me.'
'He tried and he didn't make it. Shot a soldier, fired on the Israeli. Missed. He's dead now, they shot him on the tarmac.' From the bed there was a deep, heaved sigh, then only the regular, drug-controlled breathing. McCoy said nothing more.
Through the haze of images there was a certain hard-won precision. Of how the news would spread from Cullyhanna to Crossmaglen, what the talk would be in Forkhill and Mulaghbane, what the men would say in the hills round Slieve Gullion and Lislea as they nestled in the bracken and grass and watched and waited with their binoculars and their Armalites. And he felt against the clamminess of his arms the white tiles of the cell walls that would be his. There would be bars and heavy doors, and iron-shod feet, and uniforms, and he would slowly rot away, praying and hoping each night for the mercy of sleep.
Behind the barman and hidden by the inverted spirits bottles the radio played music from the BBC Northern Dance Orchestra. Jolly and conventional and designed to cheer the customers of the pub. There was much noise in the 'Public', and the swill of beer before closing would soon be under way. There was talk of the day's affairs, not of the economy, not of inflation, not of sport, not of the boobs on the inside pages of the tabloids. Attention was gripped to the events of the airport. To be expected .. .
the picture of the Agency man with his telephoto lens had made the final editions of the London evenings. Not much detail, but the figure on the ground, and the man above him with the gun were recognizable enough. The art department had helped with the gun. The photograph justified the headlines — 'Execution' and 'High Noon at Heathrow'.
Jimmy sat in the far corner, near the door, solitary, uncommunicative and now on his fifth double whisky. He was slumped low with his head close to the glass and his eyes deep in the amber, watching the stillness of the liquid, following its reflections, amused by the shapeless patter
ns of the bubbles that rose from the diminishing ice cubes.
No bitterness. Just a sense of regret. Passing of time.
Ending of an institution.
The barman ran the big ship's bell hanging above the polished counter.
'Last orders, gentlemen. Last orders. One more gulp for the road.'
Compulsive for Jimmy. Never could resist the last one.
Had to have it, rain or shine, success or cock-up. He was on his feet, pushing with the throng, thrusting forward his glass with the rest of them. The signature tune of the news headlines rose and faded above the shouting and demanding. First words indistinct, drowned by the big man wanting the big round. Fatuous face, filled out with beer and distended sub-skin veins. Heard the word 'Sokarev'.
Heard the words 'Heart Attack'.
'Shut up,' Jimmy yelled. 'Shut your bloody faces.'
A score of faces were turned on him, saw the power of his eyes, of his chin, of his shoulders.
. . an hour after Professor Sokarev had been admitted to the intensive care wing of a Tel Aviv hospital it was announced by the Foreign Ministry in Jerusalem that the efforts of doctors to save his life had failed. The Professor, who was aged 53, was one of the country's principal scientists working at the nuclear centre at Dimona in the Negev desert.
in London, Scotland Yard have still not given any details on the unnamed security man who shot dead an already wounded Arab terrorist on the tarmac at Heathrow after the unsuccessful attempt on Professor Sokarev's life this afternoon. But our political editor reports that Government ministers are demanding disciplinary action against...'
His deep, raucous, baying laughter shook the bar. Head well back, face taking on the crimson of exertion, body shaking. And all around the faces of hostility and reaction.
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