Miranda's Marriage

by Margery Hilton

  'No news at your place,' he said, nodding to Miranda, 'so I got on to Miss Mayo. Wakened her up, I'm afraid. Told her to get on to the airport people and check the passenger lists out of Bonn this morning. Should be hearing from her within half an hour at the most.'

  There was always a way of finding out, Miranda reflected while Sir Charles waited impatiently, provided you had the power of a massive business concern at your back. The call came through very soon, and the infallible Miss Mayo had used her initiative, as Sir Charles termed it approvingly. The Bonn departure lists had not included the name of Jason Steele—but the Frankfurt list had, and the flight was due in at noon.

  Nearly three hours to go. Then the reckoning that might begin the ending of her brief marriage. Tension laid its grip on Miranda during that lazy, sunfilled morning in the garden overlooking the river, making her increasingly oblivious to all but her own thoughts. He had said: 'We'll talk when I get back.' Almost as though his decision was already made. Had their marriage run the time which the affair would have en­dured, had she thrown aside all scruples and surrendered? Would he have begun to weary of her by now, begun the gradual easing out of the relationship? Did he bitterly regret his own surrender—of his freedom?

  Imprisoned in her thoughts, she scarcely heard Sir Charles' muttered protest as he got stiffly out of his deckchair and went to answer some summons of Marie. Lady Hubard was lying back, her eyes closed, her features placid in repose, and a bee droned softly somewhere near Miranda's head. The slam of a door within the house sounded abnormally loud in that drowsy, peaceful summer morn, and Lady Hubard's eyes fluttered open momentarily. Then steps pounded heavily across the ter­race and Sir Charles gasped:

  'The plane… that was the airport…'

  Lady Hubard started upright. 'Charles! What is it?'

  He stood there, breathless, his cheeks ashen.

  'The plane! There's a bomb on it!'

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It was a nightmare, of course.

  Miranda gripped the wood frame of the deck-chair sides until her hands hurt. She had to wake up, escape the terrifying comprehension that threatened to explode sanity. She closed her eyes, then stared up at Sir Charles, willing reality to return and that ashen mask of horror dissolve into the familiar genial features she knew.

  'They had two warnings. One at Frankfurt just after the plane took off; and one here. They—'

  His face wavered and blurred. A bomb! On the plane! On the plane Jason…

  She struggled to her feet like a swimmer fighting to surface. Her limbs felt like water and shock gripped her throat. Lady Hubard looked as though she were frozen to stone, horror and disbelief staring from her incredulous eyes.

  She gasped: 'Charles! What did you say? Did you say a—?'

  'They're diverting the plane to sea. A full-scale emergency. But the Frankfurt report said the detonating device is linked to the landing gear.' He punched one clenched fist into the other palm. 'Of all the sheer satanic genius! Unless they can locate it in time…'

  Suddenly he sagged, shrunken and aged, and Lady Hubard recoiled. 'But how will they land if—?'

  There was no reply. Abruptly she jumped up. 'It can't be true! It's a hoax. Some madman's perverted sense of humour. They're always ringing airlines to say there's a bomb on a plane, and time after time it proves to be another practical joker.'

  She saw Miranda's groping hands and rushed forward to support her, putting a strong arm round her shoulders. 'Charles, get some brandy! I think she's going to faint. Oh, if I could get my hands on the—Hurry, Charles!'

  'I'm not. I—' Miranda fought for control and lurched for­ward. 'I've got to get there. How do I get there? Her voice rose. 'I've got to get to Jason!'

  'Steady.' The firm arm round her shoulders tightened. 'I'm sure it's going to turn out a false alarm, but fright won't help Jason, my dear.' She guided her across the lawn and through the open garden door. 'Now sit down until it passes.'

  Sir Charles came back almost immediately, followed by a distraught-looking Marie. He passed the glass to his wife, who held it to Miranda's white lips. 'Now sip that, my dear, then we must try and find out what's happening.'

  'Shall I fetch the little wireless from the kitchen?' asked Marie.

  'No—they haven't released it yet to the press,' Sir Charles said, shaking his head. 'I think we'd better go to the airport.'

  But Marie had gone, to return with the small black transistor set. As Sir Charles had said, there was no report, and im­patiently he turned the volume control to mute the strident music.

  Lady Hubard watched Miranda anxiously, sighing as a tinge of colour began to return to the white cheeks. 'I thought they had detectors to trace explosives now, since the wave of hijack­ings started.'

  'This isn't a hijacking—it's a reprisal. And it's a long-range flight—Frankfurt's a major stopping place on the long distance international air routes.' Sir Charles paced backwards and for­wards across the room as he spoke. He halted. 'Let's get over to the airport and see—'

  'Ssh!' Lady Hubard's keen ears had caught the fade-out of music. She rushed to the radio and turned up the volume. The crisp voice flowed into the room:

  '—news flash! A report has just come in concerning a bomb threat to a jet airliner at present on its way from Frankfurt to Heathrow. Two anonymous phone calls have been received during the past hour, one by German police, the other by New Scotland Yard, stating that a bomb has been placed aboard the aircraft. The plane, a Boeing 707, is on a routine flight from the Far East. There are 173 passengers and crew aboard including four children. No details have yet been issued, but the author­ities are not treating it as a hoax…'

  The voice stopped. There was a pause, then the music came back. Miranda felt sick. Fear closed like a wall around her and turned her hands to ice as she got into the car. What was hap­pening up there? Did they know? Did Jason know? What were they doing to stop it? Before—? She shut her eyes against the dreadful thought and saw his image on her mind screen. Impos­sible to believe she might never see him again, never hear his voice, feel the touch of his hand… She was too shocked and terrified to weep, and in those moments she experienced so great a surge of love that all bitterness was forgotten. If by some miracle she were invested with supreme power she would have given anything to have him safe; and she would have given him Lissa if by doing so it brought him his heart's desire.

  A second report came over the car radio, but it differed little from the first, except by adding the item of information Sir Charles had already received. The news-reader's voice con­cluded: 'It is now known that the plane was delayed at Frank­furt earlier this morning while a minor technical irregularity was adjusted. Experts are discounting the terrorists' claim to have linked the explosive device to the aircraft's landing gear, but it is believed that the explosive has been smuggled aboard and concealed in some place inaccessible while the plane is aloft. Contact is being maintained from the control room of the south-eastern coastal airfield where officials, including a mili­tary explosives expert, are directing the search now taking place aboard the threatened aircraft.'

  A sigh escaped Lady Hubard, but she stayed silent. The same fear gripped her as gripped Miranda. If they had dis­counted the possibility of the landing gear triggering off the bomb, why then did they keep the plane in the air, above the sea, instead of bringing it down in some isolated airfield where more expert hands could seek the deadly seed it carried?

  Unwittingly Sir Charles supplied one answer they were both too distraught to think of when he said suddenly: 'That's the trouble with the big jets—takes such a vast runway to bring them down.'

  Lady Hubard sighed again and held Miranda's icy hands more tightly, trying to instil a measure of comfort and her own indomitable strength. And perhaps it was an obscure blessing that kept one other vital factor from entering their minds, thus postponing the impact of its own particular fear for a while.

  But it could not be escaped much longer, once the
y reached the airport and the tense air of drama generated there. Check­points had been set up at access roads, where police turned back the invasion of would-be sightseers and the sensation-seekers. Sir Charles produced proof of identity and the police officer's expression softened momentarily as he glanced into the back of the car and saw Miranda's distraught young face.

  They passed on, through the converging crowd of pressmen, photographers, TV cameramen, worried-looking officials and the frightened kinfolk of the passengers aboard the plane. Officials were evasive. No one wanted to commit himself, no one dared raise false hopes, no one seemed to have any definite information. In a private lounge a monitor screen had been hastily fitted, and there they were escorted, to wait and watch and pray while the frightening drama was played out in some anonymous sky, far above the sea.

  Someone brought trays of tea, cups that were taken grate­fully, sipped, then left to cool unheeded as the screen flickered and the reports began again, each one adding so little to its predecessor. For the first time four names were mentioned from the passenger list: of a famous sportsman, of a diplomat, of a Major Mark Shumann who was returning from the prov­ince of Rhukal with his wife and baby, and Jason Steele.

  A tremor went through Miranda and she sat forward, wait­ing, but there was no further information, and at last she slum­ped back despairingly.

  'Why don't they tell us what they're doing?' someone groaned.

  There was a silence among the roomful of strangers drawn together by the common bond of fear and suspense. Then Sir Charles shook his head. 'They dare not release any details for security reasons.'

  Heads nodded, dully accepting his reason, and time dragged by on leaden minutes. Noon approached, the hour which should have seen the safe descent of the great plane and the reunion with loved ones. It was then the other fear began: fuel and the time factor.

  How long could the plane stay up before its fuel reserves were exhausted?

  The nation sat by television or radio, its heart and prayers going out to those trapped in this grim race with fate.

  Numbness was pervading Miranda. She had almost reached the stage where she dreaded the voice from the screen. It brought nothing new, only the same facts they all knew by heart now, and the emergency plans to divert all incoming air traffic into the stacks when the plane was brought in. When…

  Sir Charles got up for the ninth time and paced across the room. He opened his lips to speak, and the voice came from the screen. A gasp came from a score of throats and Miranda scar­cely dared believe her ears, dared not believe it was true.

  The bomb had been found.

  A gabble of voices broke out. Everybody started to exclaim at once, then someone cried 'Quiet!' and instantly hush came. Every eye concentrated on the screen, nerves stretched to snap­ping point, waiting, and then the face of the newscaster flashed back. He held notes, and now he was making little attempt to sustain his former calm impartiality.

  'And now at last,' he said quickly, 'time is not running out so fast for those one hundred and seventy-three men, women and children aboard the Boeing 707 which has been circling the air above the Channel since ten-forty a.m. this morning while the search was made by passengers and crew for an explosive device reported to be concealed on board. That device has been found! And now the two military experts in bomb disposal who have been standing by since the alarm was first raised and in constant contact with the aircraft are deciding on the next course of action. Very soon now we hope to bring you news everyone is praying for—that the danger will be overcome and the plane safely landed.'

  For a long while there was only the silence that followed the long, heartfelt sighs that came in unison from so many lips. Then a woman began to weep softly.

  Miranda whispered: 'What will they do?'

  Sir Charles looked down at her. 'Try to identify the type of device first—there are so many.'

  'And the rough home-made variety are just as dangerous as the professional job,' put in a thin-featured, elderly man in a grey suit. 'Worse, sometimes, because they're less pre­dictable.'

  This information caused a visible tremor of fresh panic among some of the older people present, and a young girl hid her face in her hands.

  Sir Charles cast an angry glance at the elderly man. 'Too much surmise is out of place at the present,' he said rather curtly. 'At least they now know what they've to deal with. Having been reasonably controlled for so long I suggest we try to remain patient a little while longer and try not to distress the women any more than they are already.' He bent down to his wife and Miranda. 'Be brave, my dears. I'm going to see if I can obtain any more information.'

  He seemed to be gone a long time, until Miranda looked at her watch and discovered that only four minutes had elapsed since he left the lounge. Someone produced a packet of sweets and passed them round, and there was an almost feverish qual­ity in the way they were unwrapped and slowly eaten. The screen remained blank, no one seemed inclined to talk, and each time anyone moved the gaze of everyone instantly swivelled in that direction.

  Miranda looked at her watch again. Nine minutes. Where was Sir Charles? Why didn't he come back? Suddenly she needed his gruff strength.

  'Look,' said someone. 'They've lost contact! What does that mean?'

  A printed flash had appeared on the screen. We regret we have temporarily lost contact with South-Eastern Coastal Air Control. We hope to bring you a further bulletin very soon.

  Lady Hubard said calmly: 'They've lost contact with Air Control. It doesn't mean that Air Control has lost contact with the plane.'

  She stood up and went to the door, to look anxiously along the corridor. Miranda followed, to stand unsteadily in the door­way on limbs that ached with tension.

  She constantly looked back towards the monitor screen. Lady Hubbard said, 'Where has he gone?—Tell me if I miss anything…'

  Miranda stepped forward, not wanting to be left alone, then she saw Sir Charles coming back. He hurried towards them, looking flustered with excitement, and he was smiling. He opened his arms to his wife and Miranda, seizing their shoul­ders.

  'It's going to be all right! It's coming in now!'

  * * *

  They rushed to watch, tensed to breaking point, silent, still afraid to believe that the nightmare could be over.

  An electric hush descended on the airport. The skies were clear, and Miranda tried not to look at the ominous line-up of emergency service vehicles that had moved into position. She strained eyes and ears for the first sign and sound of the distant speck, and then someone cried: 'There it is!' and a pent-up sigh ran through the spectators. The distant mote glinted, grew larger with incredible speed, and Miranda whispered a fervent prayer.

  Never had the roar of the jets sounded so sweet and tri­umphant as the Boeing came down out of an innocent blue sky. Lower and lower it swooped, the massive landing wheels drop­ping smoothly like the outstretched claws of a great bird skim­ming down to earth. One second they were poised above the runway, then they touched down so smoothly the moment of impact was indiscernible. On the wings of its own impetus the plane rushed down the runway, slowing, checking, gliding the final few yards to quiver into a silent standstill, to Miranda, the most beautiful, majestic sight she had ever seen.

  Suddenly there was pandemonium. Everyone wanted to reach it, everyone was shouting, and police and officials were repeating orders and instructions. And then the first of the passengers began to disembark.

  A young woman emerged first, a stewardess and a tall, fair man supporting her. She looked white and shaken, but she stopped for a moment and looked round desperately until she saw the second stewardess who was following. The second stewardess was carrying a baby, and the young woman almost snatched the child from the girl, holding it tightly in her arms as she stumbled across to a waiting ambulance.

  'Shock, I expect, poor child,' said Lady Hubard. 'What a dreadful experience for a young mother.'

  Miranda scarcely heard her. She was watch
ing the stream of passengers, waiting for the first glimpse of the tall dark fam­iliar figure, and she did not register the fact that the stream of people from the Boeing were not approaching the usual clear­ance point but were being directed to another part of the pass­enger terminal cordoned off by security staff.

  In panic she turned to Sir Charles. 'What's happening? Why aren't they…?'

  'There's Jason!'

  She spun round as Lady Hubard gripped her arm, and her eyes blurred with the tears of thankfulness. She blinked hard and willed him to see her, but he moved at that moment, along­side the fair man and another man in uniform. Jason appeared to be arguing, and her heart leapt with hope as he gestured, then he shrugged and turned away.

  'I'm afraid you're going to have to be patient for a little while longer,' Sir Charles told her ruefully. 'We still don't know exactly what went on up there, and there's bound to be an inquiry. They'll want statements from everyone before they let them disperse.' He paused, cocking his head, 'And unless I'm mistaken the military have arrived.'

  Sir Charles was proved right in each of these surmises. And when at last the moment of meeting came Miranda had reached the point of anti-climax. Lost were the moments when relief and emotion would have carried her passionately into his arms, unheeding of whether he wanted her there or not. Now she re­membered that nothing had changed and was further inhibited by the presence of Sir Charles and his wife, and the many curious eyes still watchful everywhere.

  She said, 'Jason…' unsteadily, taking a step towards him and waiting for him to respond.

  He looked down at her, his eyes shadowed with strain. A strange, twisted little smile touched his mouth. 'Haven't you had enough of airports…?' He put his free hand on her shoul­der and brushed his mouth over her cheek. 'Come on, let's go.'

  'You're coming back with us.' Sir Charles was taking charge again. 'Your wife's been with us since yesterday morning, so I think you should spend the rest of the week-end with us while you recover from this nerve-racking experience.'