Wild Justice

by Wilbur Smith

  Ingrid supervised the serving of breakfast personally. Each passenger was allowed one slice of bread and one biscuit with a cup of heavily sweetened coffee. Hunger had lowered the general resistance of the passengers, they were apathetic and listless once they had gobbled their meagre meal.

  Ingrid went amongst them again, passing out cigarettes from the duty-free store. Talking gently to the children, stopping to sympathize with a mother – smiling and calm. Already the passengers were calling her ‘the nice one’.

  When Ingrid reached the first-class galley she called her companions to her one at a time, and they each ate a full breakfast of eggs and buttered toast and kippers. She wanted them as strong and alert as the arduous ordeal would allow. She could not begin to use the stimulants until midday. The use of drugs could only be continued for seventy-two hours with the desired effects. After that the subject would become unpredictable in his actions and decisions. Ratification of the sanctions vote by the Security Council of the United Nations would take place at noon New York time on the following Monday – that was seven p.m. local time on Monday night.

  Ingrid had to keep all her officers alert and active until then, she dared not use the stimulants too early and risk physical disintegration before the decisive hour, and yet she realized that lack of sleep and tension were corroding even her physical reserves; she was jumpy and nervous, and when she examined her face in the mirror of the stinking first-class toilets, she saw how inflamed her eyes were, and for the first time noticed the tiny lines of ageing at the corners of her mouth and eyes. This angered her unreasonably. She hated the thought of growing old, and she could smell her own unwashed body even in the overpowering stench from the lavatory.

  The German, Kurt, was slumped in the pilot’s seat, his pistol in his lap, snoring softly, his red shirt unbuttoned to the waist and his muscular hairy chest rising and falling with each breath. He was unshaven and the lank, black hair fell over his eyes. She could smell his sweat, and somehow that excited her, and she studied him carefully. There was an air of cruelty and brutality about him, the machismo of the revolutionary, which always attracted her strongly – had perhaps been the original reason for her radical leanings so many years ago. Suddenly she wanted him very badly. However, when she woke him with a hand down the front of his thin linen slacks, he was bleary-eyed and foul-breathed, not even her skilful kneading could arouse him, and in a minute she turned away with an exclamation of disgust.

  As a displacement activity, she picked up the microphone, switched on the loudspeakers of the passenger cabins. She knew she was acting irrationally, but she began to speak.

  ‘Now listen to me, everybody, I have something very important to tell you.’ Suddenly she was angry with them. They were of the class that had devised and instituted the manifestly unjust and sick society against which she was in total rebellion. They were the fat, complacent bourgeoisie. They were like her father and she hated them as she hated her father. As she began to speak she realized that they would not even understand the language she was using, the language of the new political order, and her anger and frustration against them and their society mounted. She did not realize she was raving, until suddenly she heard as from afar the shriek of outrage in her own voice, like the death wail of a mortally wounded animal – and she stopped abruptly.

  She felt giddy and light-headed, so she had to clutch at the desk top for support and her heart banged wildly against her ribs. She was panting as though she had run a long way, and it took nearly a full minute for her to bring herself under control.

  When she spoke again, her tone was still ragged and breathless.

  ‘It is now nine o’clock,’ she said. ‘If we do not hear from the tyrant within three hours I shall be forced to begin executing hostages. Three hours—’ She repeated ominously, ‘– only three hours.’

  Now she prowled the aircraft like a big cat paces along the bars of its cage as feeding time approaches.

  Two hours,’ she told them, and the passengers shrank away from her as she passed.

  ‘One hour.’ There was a bright sadistic splinter of anticipation in her voice. ‘We will choose the first hostages now.’

  ‘But you promised,’ pleaded the fat little doctor as Ingrid pulled his wife out of her seat and the Frenchman hustled her forward towards the flight deck.

  Ingrid ignored him, and turned to Karen. ‘Get children; a boy and a girl—’ she instructed, ‘– oh yes, and the pregnant one. Let them see her big belly. They won’t be able to resist that.’

  Karen herded the hostages into the forward galley and forced them at pistol point to sit in a row upon the fold-down air-crew seats.

  The door to the flight deck was open and Ingrid’s voice carried clearly to the galley, as she explained to the Frenchman Henri, speaking in English.

  ‘It is of the utmost importance that we do not allow a deadline to pass without retaliating strongly. If we miss one deadline, then our credibility is destroyed. It will only be necessary once, we must show the steel at least once. They must learn that every one of our deadlines are irrevocable, not negotiable—’

  The girl began to cry. She was thirteen years old, able to understand the danger. The plump doctor’s wife put her arm around her shoulders and hugged her gently.

  ‘Speedbird 070—’ the radio squawked suddenly, ‘– we have a message for Ingrid.’

  ‘Go ahead, Tower, this is Ingrid’ She had jumped up to take the microphone, pushing the door to the flight deck closed.

  ‘The negotiator for the British and American governments has proposals for your consideration. Are you ready to copy?’

  ‘Negative.’ Ingrid’s voice was flat and emphatic. ‘I say again negative. Tell the negotiator I will talk only face to face – and tell him we are only forty minutes to the noon deadline. He had better get out here fast,’ she warned. She hooked the microphone and turned to Henri.

  ‘All right. We will take the pills now – it has truly begun at last.’

  It was another cloudless day, brilliant sunlight that was flung back in piercing darts of light from the bare metal parts of the aircraft. The heat came up through the soles of his shoes and burned down upon Peter’s bare neck.

  The forward hatch opened, as it had before, when Peter Stride was half-way across the tarmac.

  This time there were no hostages on display, the hatchway was a dark empty square. Suppressing the urge to hurry, Peter carried himself with dignity, head up, jaw clenched firmly.

  He was fifty yards from the aircraft when the girl stepped into the opening. She stood with indolent grace, her weight all on one leg, the other cocked slightly, long, bare, brown legs. She carried the big shot pistol on one hip, and the cartridge belt emphasized the narrow waist.

  She watched Peter come on, with a half-smile on her lips. Suddenly a medallion of light appeared on her chest, a dazzling speck like a brilliant insect and she glanced down at it contemptuously.

  ‘This is provocation,’ she called. Clearly she knew that the bright speck was the beam thrown by the laser sight of one of the marksmen covering her from the airport building. A few ounces more of pressure on the trigger would send a .222 bullet crashing precisely into that spot, tearing her heart and lungs to bloody shreds.

  Peter felt a flare of anger at the sniper who had activated his laser sight without the order, but his anger was tempered by reluctant admiration for the girl’s courage. She could sneer at that mark of certain death upon her breast.

  Peter made a cut out sign with his right hand, and almost immediately the speck of light disappeared as the gunner switched off his laser sight.

  ‘That’s better,’ the girl said, and she smiled, running her gaze appraisingly down Peter’s body.

  ‘You’ve a good shape, baby,’ she said, and Peter’s anger flared again under her scrutiny.

  ‘Nice flat belly—’ she said, ‘– good legs, and you didn’t get those muscles sitting at a desk and pushing a pen.’ She pursed her lips thoug
htfully. ‘You know I think you’re a cop or a soldier. That’s what I think, baby. I think you’re a goddamned pig.’ Her voice had a new harsh quality, and the skin seemed drier and drawn – older than it had been before.

  He was close enough now to see the peculiar diamantine glitter in her eyes, and he recognized the tension that seemed to rack her body, the abrupt restless gestures. She was onto drugs now. He was certain of it. He was dealing with a political fanatic, with a long history of violence and death, whose remaining humane traits would be now entirely suppressed by the high of stimulant drugs. He knew she was more dangerous now than a wounded wild animal, a cornered leopard, a man-eating shark with the taste of blood exciting it to the killing frenzy.

  He did not reply, but held her gaze steadily, keeping his hands in view, coming to a halt below the open hatchway.

  He waited quietly for her to begin, and the itch of the drug in her blood would not allow her to stand still; she fidgeted with the weapon in her hands, touched the camera still hanging from around her neck. Cyril Watkins had tried to tell him something about that camera – and suddenly Peter realized what it was. The trigger for the fuses? he pondered, as he waited. Almost certainly, he decided, that was why it was with her every moment. She saw the direction of his eyes, and dropped her hand guiltily, confirming his conclusion.

  ‘Are the prisoners ready to leave?’ she demanded. ‘Is the gold packed? Is the statement ready for transmission?’

  ‘The South African Government has acceded to urgent representations by the governments of Great Britain and the United States of America.’

  ‘Good.’ She nodded.

  ‘As an act of common humanity the South Africans have agreed to release all the persons on your list of detainees and banned persons—’

  ‘Yes.’

  They will be flown to any country of their choice.’

  ‘And the gold?’

  ‘The South African Government refuses categorically to finance or to arm an unconstitutional foreign-based opposition. They refuse to provide funds for the persons freed under this agreement.’

  The television transmission?’

  ‘The South African Government considers the statement to be untrue in substance and in fact and to be extremely prejudicial to the maintenance of law and order in this country. It refuses to allow transmission of the statement.’

  ‘They have accepted only one of our demands—’ The girl’s voice took on an even more strident tone, and her shoulders jerked in an uncontrolled spasm.

  ‘The release of political detainees and banned persons is subject to one further condition—’ Peter cut in swiftly.

  ‘And what is that—’ The girl demanded, two livid burning spots of colour had appeared in her cheeks.

  ‘In return for the release of political prisoners, they demand the release of all hostages, not only the women and children, all persons aboard the aircraft – and they will guarantee safe passage for you and all members of your party to leave the country with the released detainees.’

  The girl flung back her head, the thick golden mane flying wildly about her head as she screeched with laughter. The laughter was a wild, almost maniacal sound, and though it went on and on, there was no echo of mirth in her eyes. They were fierce as eagles’ eyes, as she laughed. The laughter was cut off abruptly, and her voice was suddenly flat and level.

  ‘So they think they can make demands, do they? They think they can draw the teeth from the U.N. proposals, do they? They think that without hostages to account for, the fascist governments of Britain and America can again cast their veto with impunity?’

  Peter made no reply.

  ‘Answer me!’ she screamed suddenly. ‘They do not believe we are serious, do they?’

  ‘I am a messenger only,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not,’ she screamed in accusation. ‘You’re a trained killer. You’re a pig!’ She lifted the pistol and aimed with both hands at Peter’s face.

  ‘What answer must I take back?’ Peter asked, without in any way acknowledging the aim of the weapon.

  ‘An answer—’ Her voice dropped again to an almost conversational level. ‘Of course, an answer.’ She lowered the pistol and consulted the stainless steel Japanese watch on her wrist. ‘It’s three minutes past noon – three minutes past the deadline, and they are entitled to an answer, of course.’

  She looked around her with an almost bewildered expression. The drug was having side effects, Peter guessed. Perhaps she had overdosed herself, perhaps whoever had prescribed it had not taken into account the forty-eight sleepless hours of strain that preceded its use.

  ‘The answer,’ he prodded her gently, not wanting to provoke another outburst

  ‘Yes. Wait,’ she said, and disappeared abruptly into the gloom of the interior.

  Karen was standing over the four hostages on the fold-down seats. She looked around at Ingrid with smouldering dark eyes. Ingrid nodded once curtly, and Karen turned back to her prisoners.

  ‘Come,’ she said softly, ‘we are going to let you go now.’ Almost gently she lifted the pregnant woman to her feet with a hand on her shoulder.

  Ingrid left her and passed swiftly into the rear cabins. She nodded again to Kurt, and with a toss of his head he flicked the lank locks of hair from his eyes and thrust the pistol into his belt.

  From the locker above his head he brought down two of the plastic grenades. Holding one in each fist he pulled the pins with his teeth and held the rings hooked over his little fingers.

  With his arms spread like a crucifix, he ran lightly down the aisle.

  ‘These grenades are primed. Nobody must move, nobody must leave their seats – no matter whatever happens. Stay where you are.’

  The fourth hijacker took up the cry from him, holding primed grenades in both hands above his head.

  ‘Nobody move. No talking. Sit still. Everybody still.’ He repeated in German and in French and his eyes had the same hard, glossy glitter of the drug high.

  Ingrid turned back towards the flight deck.

  ‘Come, sweetheart.’ She placed an arm round the girl’s shoulder, shepherding her towards the open hatchway – but the child shrank away from her with dread.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ she whispered, and her eyes were huge with terror. The boy was younger, more trusting. He took Ingrid’s hand readily.

  He had thick curly hair, and honey brown eyes as he looked up at her. ‘Is my daddy here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, darling.’ Ingrid squeezed his hand. ‘You be a good boy now, and you’ll see your daddy very soon.’

  She led him to the open hatchway. ‘Stand there,’ she said.

  Peter Stride was uncertain what to expect, as the boy stepped into the open hatchway high above him. Then next to him appeared a plump middle-aged woman in an expensive but rumpled, high-fashion silk dress, probably a Nina Ricci, Peter decided irrelevantly. The woman’s elaborate lacquered hairstyle was coming down in wisps around her ears, but she had a kindly humorous face and she placed a protective arm about the boy-child’s shoulders.

  The next person was a taller and younger woman, with a pale sensitive skin; her nostrils and eyelids were inflamed pink from weeping or from some allergy and there were blotches of angry prickly heat on her throat and upper arms. Under the loose cotton maternity dress her huge belly bulged grotesquely, throwing her off balance; she stood with her thin white legs knock-kneed awkwardly – and blinked in the brilliant sparkling sunshine, her eyes still attuned to the shaded gloom of the cabin.

  The fourth and last person was a young girl, and with a sudden blinding stab of agony below the ribs Peter thought it was Melissa-Jane. It took a dozen racing beats of his heart before he realized it was not her – but she had the same sweet Victorian face, the classical English skin of rose petals, the finely bred body of almost woman with delicate breast-buds and long coltish legs below narrow boyish hips.

  There was naked terror in her huge eyes, and almost instantly she seemed to rea
lize that Peter was her hope of salvation. The eyes turned on him pleading, hope starting to awaken

  ‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t let them hurt us.’ So softly that Peter could hardly catch the words. ‘Please, sir. Please help us.’

  But Ingrid was there, her voice rising stridently.

  ‘You must believe that what we promise, we mean. You and your evil capitalist masters must understand completely that we will not let a single deadline pass without executions. We have to prove that for the revolution we are without mercy. You must be made to understand that our demands must be met in full, that they are not negotiable. We must demonstrate the price for missing a deadline.’ She paused. ‘The next deadline is midnight tonight. If our demands are not met in full by then – you must know the price you will be made to pay’ She halted again, and then her voice rose into that hysterical shriek. ‘This is the price!’ and she stepped back out of sight.

  Helpless with dread, Peter Stride tried to think of some way to prevent the inevitable.

  ‘Jump!’ he shouted, lifting both hands towards the girl. ‘Jump, quickly. I will catch you!’

  But the child hesitated, the drop was almost thirty feet, and she teetered uncertainly.

  Behind her, ten paces back, the dark-haired Karen and the blonde lion-maned girl stood side by side, and in unison they lifted the short, big bored pistols, holding them in the low double-handed grip, positioning themselves at the angle and range which would allow the mass of soft heavy lead beads with which the cartridges were packed to spread sufficiently to sweep the backs of the four hostages.

  ‘Jump!’ Peter’s voice carried clearly into the cabin, and Ingrid’s mouth convulsed in a nervous rictus, an awful parody of a smile.