She sounded absolutely calm and utterly convinced of her belief. Shard, thinking of Beth down in Ealing, wished he had her faith, the blind faith that one met again after death. He had belief, he had faith, but it didn’t go so far as to think that God was prepared to sort things out quite so benevolently for everybody when they moved from one stage of existence to another. To say the least, it would be an appallingly difficult jigsaw puzzle: those with two or more wives whilst on earth would be just one stumbling block. A man might live happily with a number of women, but would the women be as happy? And what about mothers-in-law? Would it be a personal heaven for himself if Beth was to be accompanied for ever by Mrs Micklem? Shard’s father-in-law had died with a smile on his lips, but that would be wiped off the moment Mrs Micklem went aloft …
Just then Jean Fison said something that he found touching. She said in a low voice, “Of course, I’ll do anything to help anyone else. I know they don’t want to die. You can count on me, Mr Shard. That’s a promise. But you don’t have to worry about what happens to me. I’m well prepared, as I told you.”
He just nodded in reply. There seemed to be nothing that he could sensibly say. But he would bear in mind what she’d said. With the Chinese girl, that made two who didn’t fear death. He would need all the help he could get.
*
The next announcement to the ground came not from the train but once more from the Friends of Hira themselves, their whereabouts still not pinpointed. The announcement was passed to Durham, to an anxiously waiting Hedge.
“The two judges, Hedge.”
“They’re the key?”
“Yes. The only one, it seems.”
“To be delivered to the train, Foreign Secretary?”
“No, not the train. To the aircraft which we have standing by. At Leeds and Bradford.”
“They know it’s at Leeds and Bradford, do they?”
“Apparently so, yes.”
“So what’s going to happen, Foreign Secretary? Do we concede now?”
There was a pause. Then Rowland Mayes said, “A very tricky situation has arisen, Hedge. You’ll see that, I’m sure —”
“Indeed I do.”
“I’ve spoken, of course, to the PM. She’s extremely worried. This wretched rail strike for one thing — that could spread to other services. Power — anything. Wakeford is in a difficult mood. Of course, I impute the highest motives to him — he’s most concerned about the hostages, some of whom are, naturally, railmen and other trade unionists. The —”
“The driver and co-driver are renegades, Foreign Secretary, you’ll —”
“Yes, I know. Wakeford has very properly disowned them. But there are the sleeping car attendants and there was the murdered guard. Hence, you see, the NUR going on strike. Anyway, I say again, Hedge, Albert Wakeford is concerned for any trade unionists aboard — the railmen won’t be the only ones.” There was another pause. “We all know that Wakeford has no time for judges. Ever since that miners’ strike … no doubt you’ll see the problem.”
“Yes …”
“So many pressures on the PM. Such a wonderful woman, but nevertheless human.”
Hedge, dabbing at his forehead with a handkerchief in the stuffiness of the Sleep Centre’s premises, came directly to the point. “What you mean, Foreign Secretary, is that the two remaining judges are to be handed over?”
Rowland Mayes’ reply was cautious. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that, Hedge. Not so … baldly. They’re to be invited to join the aircraft at Leeds and Bradford airport.”
“The PM’s idea?”
“Yes. They’ll be informed of her concern, her wishes. No order, of course. Just like Judge Prestwick … a voluntary act.”
“And thereafter?”
“Thereafter, Hedge?”
“I mean, will they be left aboard the aircraft when it takes off with the hijackers? Do I take it we really are conceding, that this thing is almost over, Foreign Secretary?”
There was a curious crackle along the line, followed by a buzz and a burr. The Foreign Secretary had taken refuge in a fault on the line: he wouldn’t wish to be too precise and Hedge found that natural too.
*
Orders, precise orders so far as they went, reached Hedge within the next hour, not from Rowland Mayes but from the Permanent Under-Secretary.
“Contact the train, Hedge. Confirm to them that Judge Bessell and Judge Orp are on their way.”
“Yes, Under-Secretary. Do I take it you’ve not been able to make contact with the Friends of Hira?”
“No, you don’t. We have. But we want no mistakes, no slips, no chances on poor communication between them and the train. Whatever happens, we must save the train. You understand, Hedge?”
“Yes, Under-Secretary.”
“Do your best, then. Be convincing. It’s largely up to you now.”
The call was cut. Hedge sweated, and reached out for a bottle of whisky that had been brought in. Two fingers, no more, and some water, not too much. He really needed a drink but knew he must not overdo it. He ran through the facts, the known facts: the explosives aboard the train, and Shard waiting to do his stuff, waiting for a signal. It would be his, Hedge’s, decision when the moment came for that signal, though indeed it might be prudent to refer it first to higher authority in London. But even so it would still be his word, his report, his summary that would bring decision from Mrs Heffer so once again it all came back to himself. He sweated more. The hostages would still be under threat from remote control until the aircraft had not only taken off but had in due course safely landed in some god-forsaken Middle Eastern country. Of course, efforts would be made to neutralise the planted bombs, but that would be immensely dangerous and the hijackers would have taken every precaution to ensure that neutralisation did not in fact take place. One false move, and the train might blow.
Hedge, accompanied by Chief Constable Hemingway, went out into the open. The train was as silent as ever, the net still hung beneath the viaduct, the gas-lines ready but still out of sight from the train. The shades of late afternoon were coming down. From just below the cathedral, from the sloping path that ran high above the River Wear, the Very Reverend Hugo Pavitt watched through binoculars. He was accompanied by the Dean of Durham. Behind them the Venerable Bede was as securely sealed off from blast as was possible; and as many as possible of the stained-glass windows had been encased in wooden framing packed with sawdust, polystyrene chips, bits of wool and so forth. The building itself, the cathedral surveyor considered, was safe enough, firmly bedded on its massive rock; and if it wasn’t, there was nothing he could do about it in any case.
“Something’s happening,” Hugo Pavitt said.
“What?” The dean peered through the binoculars. “I can’t really see.”
“No, no. A sound. I think it’s the loud-hailer again. The man Hedge probably. Foreign Office.”
“Ah, yes. I can’t make out what he’s saying, though.”
“If it’s important, no doubt we shall be informed. Where is your Bishop, Dean?”
The dean jerked a hand over his shoulder. “In the cathedral.”
“Offering prayer?”
“Almost certainly, yes.”
“Well, that’s something.”
The dean coughed. “Shall we …?”
“Yes, indeed.” The two churchmen knelt by the side of the path and bowed their heads on their clasped hands.
*
“I have word from my government,” Hedge called through the loud-hailer, and then waited. There was a sudden barking followed by an angry screech from a cat as a dog pursued it into a side street. It came like a thunderbolt into the otherwise quiet of the roundabout and Hedge jumped, a bag of nerves by this time. Then the acknowledgement of his call came from half-way along the train.
“What have you to tell us?”
Hedge spoke again. “Judge Bessell and Judge Orp are on their way to the aircraft.”
“In Leeds?”
“Yes, Le
eds airport. Leeds and Bradford.”
“That is good. Your government has seen sense and is conceding.”
Hedge didn’t say yes or no. The hijackers could read what they liked into it, but he still didn’t see Mrs Heffer giving in to threat and blackmail. He called back, “What do you intend to do now?”
There was a little delay, no doubt for consultation, then the voice from the train said, “You will now demand the sending of the helicopters for our safe journey to the airport.”
“And the hostages, the passengers?”
“They will be safe so long as we are safe.”
“The bombs aboard the train. Are they set to go off at some prearranged time?”
A laugh floated down on the still air. Hedge could almost imagine it was accompanied by the train’s inner stench released from the open window. “We do not give away our secrets.”
“I don’t call that very co-operative.”
This was disregarded. The voice went on, “Also you will withdraw your soldiers and policemen from the station and the tower.”
“I can’t possibly do that!”
“Then you invite death for the hostages.”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” To openly denude the area of friendly police and troops would do nothing to help the passengers’ morale. Also, if in the end Shard’s help should be needed, then he for his part would need the troops as a diversionary tactic. Hedge felt himself in a quandary and made an appeal to the chief constable. Hemingway thought Whitehall should be consulted, the point being important and somewhat basic to the situation.
“Yes,” Hedge agreed. He called back through the loud-hailer, “I propose to consult my government and will be in touch again shortly.”
“Not too long.”
“No, no.”
*
Judges Bessell and Orp had, like Judge Prestwick earlier, been helicoptered north but in their case without wigs and robes so there was a much less stately look. Two very ordinary men in neat dark suits were picked up from their respective homes by Defence Ministry transport. They kissed their wives before embarking. Lady Bessell was moist-eyed but bravely smiling through. She had always admired heroes.
“Chin up, Bertie.”
“Yes, my dear.”
“They won’t harm a judge.”
“No, my dear.”
“It’s all just puff and blow, I’m sure it is, trying to impress the Third World.”
“I dare say you’re right, my dear. Goodbye.” Then the kiss.
“Goodbye, Bertie.”
Judge Bessell was driven away from South Kensington, small and lonely in the back of the limousine even though a plain clothes man from the Diplomatic Protection Squad sat heavily by his side and tried to make conversation until Judge Bessell’s taciturn moroseness dried him up. Simultaneously Judge Orp was being driven from his home in Chelsea, face as sharp as a poker and with an anxious look. He was well aware of his sentencing record, especially in regard to terrorists, whom he detested. In the back of the limousine he chain-smoked, nervously. Those wretches would want their revenge, of course they would. Once in their hands … but the country would never let it get that far. Never! He was just a ploy. Such had indeed been strongly hinted, via the Home Office, from a very high source. But Judge Orp nevertheless shook with fear of the unknown. When the car reached its destination and Judge Orp disembarked for the helicopter, he stumbled and hurt his leg — twisted it, very painfully. He complained of this, with a touch of hope in his voice.
The airfield was an RAF one and the RAF had a medical officer who was called to look at the leg.
“Perfectly all right,” he said heartily. “A pulled ligament, that’s all. Just rest. But I’ll have it strapped as a precaution. Won’t take long.”
The MO was as good as his word: within fifteen minutes both the judges were airborne for Leeds and Bradford airport. Evening was coming down now, shadowing the towns, darkening the lush green fields of England. Ribbon-like roads leading north, sheep and cows, neat homes, much traffic, and probably no thought whatsoever for two of Her Majesty’s High Court judges flying overhead towards martyrdom. When the helicopters came in to land at the airport Judge Orp saw the waiting aircraft ready to receive him and a quirk of the late evening light made it, just for a moment, look like a gigantic winged coffin.
15
The Foreign Secretary, consulted by Hedge from Durham, and having himself consulted the Home Secretary and the Prime Minister, had been adamant.
“We must do as they ask,” he said. “At this stage, don’t you know.”
“But what about —”
“It’s the whole strategy, Hedge, surely you can see that?”
“But the gas-line, Foreign Secretary! It’s still too light to go ahead with extending it —”
“The withdrawal will make no difference to that, Hedge.”
“We don’t withdraw the gas people, then?”
Rowland Mayes said, “No, we don’t. The hijackers don’t know about that, do they?”
“We hope not, Foreign Secretary. What the eye doesn’t see, the heart —”
“Yes, quite. In the meantime, Hedge, order the police and troops to pull back.”
“Very well, Foreign Secretary, if that’s your order, I shall of course comply.” Hedge paused uncertainly. “Foreign Secretary, you spoke just now of the whole strategy —”
“Yes.”
“But I’m in the dark as to what the whole strategy is, really. What exactly is going to happen at Leeds and Bradford airport? Are the —”
“One should never be too explicit, Hedge,” Rowland Mayes said, and rang off. Hedge was left perplexed; hurt, too. The Foreign Secretary was being evasive, so much was plain if nothing else was, and Hedge had always liked to regard himself as a trusted man who knew how to keep sealed lips and never throw anything into the wastepaper basket. It did enter his mind now that the Foreign Secretary himself hadn’t the faintest idea of how the strategy would work out but that was a disloyal thought and certainly not one ever to be voiced aloud.
Hedge returned to the roundabout, a site he was beginning to detest, and called the train.
“My government agrees to a withdrawal,” he said, and added on his own initiative, “but there are to be no more deaths. I hope that’s understood.”
“Yes. No more deaths if the forces withdraw. They must withdraw now.”
Hedge turned about and passed the word to the chief constable and to the major-general, who was back for the finale. Orders were given; the police line withdrew until all men were clear of the roundabout. A presence, a fairly distant one, was maintained at the far side of the next roundabout along to the east, at the Millburngate exit, and at the junction of Western Hill and North Road to the west of the railway line. The army came down from the roof of the station buildings and from the tower on the opposite side of the rails.
Back along the track, the gas-line party waited in cover.
“It’s very quiet,” Hedge said uneasily when the withdrawal manoeuvre had been completed. “Quite eerie, considering.”
“It won’t be,” the chief constable said, “when the helicopters come in.”
“No. They should be here any moment.”
“You did ask for them, I suppose, Mr Hedge?”
“Yes!” Hedge snapped.
They waited: Durham, as Hedge had remarked, was very quiet. All traffic was distant, kept well clear of the area as it had been throughout the siege. Prayers were still being offered in the cathedral, the Bishop himself in almost permanent praying stance, the Dean still busy on the more mundane matters of stained glass and Bede. The other city churches were also prayer supportive. Coffee was prepared in the Sleep Centre’s offices and brought out to Hedge, the chief constable and the major-general. Up above, the railway station, strike bound, was now deserted. On the viaduct the train became more and more a permanent feature of the landscape.
For how much longer?
Hedge looked about himsel
f, fidgeting. There would come a moment when he would have to dive for cover and currently it would be a very long dive indeed. Almost certainly, he wouldn’t have time to make it to safety. Not unless he got on the move now. But, of course, the hijackers wouldn’t blow the train willy-nilly, just like that, and dispose of their safe conduct out. That was, if all went according to plan. Fear returned to plague Hedge: he just couldn’t see the PM actually allowing those judges to be handed over.
And where were the helicopters?
*
Jean Fison, Ian Costermaine, the MacAllisters and now Ernest Lorimer, Member for Lancing West, and Sheena Tuffin, the northern Member with the tiny majority, stared down together towards the roundabout. Shard had done some discreet re-shuffling of such passengers as would help when the time came. Lady Cross was also with them; so was the Chinese girl, Sun Wun Foo. Sir Richard Cross had not been returned from the cab, where he was still incarcerated with Judge Prestwick, and Lady Cross was much concerned for his welfare.
“Not strong,” she said for the hundredth time. “His heart, you know. This dreadful atmosphere … and that poor judge in his robes.”
They were all suffering; their spirits were at a low ebb. There hadn’t been enough food, for one thing. Very little to drink, too. The stench was terrible, the sheer inaction was wearing on the nerves, and more hysteria had spread among some of the women. Like Jean Fison earlier, Lady Cross had helped with that, using her committee manner and telling them to pull themselves together. After all, as she said, they were all British and they must not crack up in front of natives. There was something about Lady Cross and her pre-war attitudes that did the trick. But if the situation went on for much longer it would take more than Lady Cross to preserve sanity. They were all expecting sudden death: they had heard the verbal exchanges with the ground beneath and they all knew the score. They all knew, too, that there was a tradition that hijackers in Britain never got away with it. They were equally aware of Mrs Heffer’s determined mind.
Many of the hostages were hanging on the occasional word from Sam Frudge, the sleeping car attendant. Frudge was the go-between, having the ear of both factions, the hijackers and the hijacked. To each, he reported on the mood of the other. Not necessarily with truth and honesty: he was concerned for his own life, not unnaturally, and he was keeping in with the men in control. They were, he told the passengers, very determined and would carry out their threats.
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