Cannibals and Missionaries

by Mary McCarthy

  Because, he gently explained, an escape plane, if it were to be furnished, would have to come from the armed forces. “Not KLM?” Certainly not; the decision being weighed was a decision of state, to be implemented from national defense stocks, which could only be drawn on with the Defense Minister’s consent. “It touches his budget, you see.” A screech announced that Aileen had been listening. “You mean they’ll transfer us to a military plane?” “Affirmative,” said the Senator. She bridled. “Why, I never heard of such a thing!” Her head turned, looking to others to share her outrage. What did she expect—Prince Bernhard’s private plane?

  He felt suddenly depressed. The boredom of confinement was beginning to tell. Hell, as Sartre said, was others. Outside, there were no signs of action. The big plane sat by itself, as if in quarantine, evidently because an explosion was feared. Somewhere there must be fire engines, police, ambulances, cameramen, but nothing was visible but the empty tarmac; he could not even make out in which direction the terminal lay. Yet from time to time he could hear other planes taking off; the ordinary course of life had not stopped in deference to the piteous exception.

  “Mynheer Van Vliet!” Aileen again. She had been thinking about those art collectors up in first class. “Don’t you think you ought to tell these people who they are? It’s not fair—honestly, is it?—for them to be let go while we sit here with a price on our head because some of us, like the Senator, are celebrities. We have an important job to do, in Iran—doesn’t anybody remember?—and they’re just idle rich.” Carey’s pained glance met Van Vliet’s. “For Christ’s sake, Aileen, change the record.” “The Senator doesn’t agree,” she persisted. “But somebody ought to let them know, before it’s too late, that they have better fish to fry than us. It wouldn’t hurt those millionaires a bit to be held for ransom. They could hand over their Giorgiones and Titians and priceless hare’s fur cups—it’s all loot anyway.” “Damn it!” begged Sophie. “Keep your voice down.” Aileen surveyed the gunwoman. “She’s not listening. Besides, I don’t care if she does hear. As a revolutionary, she ought to realize the social implications of holding us prisoner while useless members of society go free. I mean, it isn’t as if they were invalids or children. I don’t see why they should be entitled to my compassion. There has to be some scale of values. We should tell these liberation fighters or whatever they call themselves that holding this committee as hostages is giving direct aid to the Shah of Iran.”

  Van Vliet noticed that Sophie beside him was quivering. “President Simmons, I don’t understand you,” she exclaimed, turning around and speaking in a low trembling voice. “Are you prepared to buy our freedom in exchange for information we can furnish, or think we can furnish, on some helpless fellow-mortals? People we don’t even know. What gives us the right? The word for that is delation.” The vials of Sophie’s scorn, emptied on the older woman, produced no effect. Aileen appeared to consider before replying and, when she did, her tone was tranquil, as though she were interviewing a delinquent student in her office. “I don’t feel it would be a betrayal, if that’s what you’re implying, Sophie. Most of us have made sacrifices to join this committee. We’ve invested our time, our power of judgment, and even our savings in this work. Our loyalty should be to that, surely, rather than to a tour of millionaires with whom I, for one, have nothing in common. Perhaps you feel you have. But I don’t want to insist. Shall we put it to a vote?”

  “Unnecessary,” observed the Senator. “You’ve rendered the question moot.” He nodded toward the hijacker, who was heading with a rapid step toward the first-class cabin. She spoke into the inter-com, and in a minute the shorter Arab, the one with the submachine gun, replaced her on guard. It looked as if Aileen had played the informer with determination and success. And Van Vliet could not wholly dislike her for it; he felt a kind of pity for the democratic demon in the little woman that had been roused to fury by the news of Bloody Marys ahead. Besides, she had sinned to no avail, probably, if benefit to herself had been her motive: the millionaires’ loss was unlikely to be her gain. Instead, thanks to her intervention, both groups now qualified to be held as hostages, which meant that the hijackers would be requiring a roomier getaway craft.

  Shortly, as if to test the thesis, a bus drew up. Cameron, from his window, was the first to sight it. First-class passengers were indeed being released. But Cameron’s view was obstructed by a wing; he was unable to see much more than the feet and legs of some of the lucky ones and the duty-free shopping bags many were still carrying. Soon, though, the gunwoman showed her face again and beckoned to Van Vliet. He was marched once more up to the cockpit, past the first-class cabin. Many seats were now empty, but some contained passengers: Aileen’s “millionaires,” manifestly, to judge by the display of camel’s hair and crocodile and the American tongue being spoken. The cabin was in disarray, strewn with abandoned newspapers and magazines. One lady appeared to have fainted and was being given smelling-salts by a stewardess as Van Vliet was hurried up the stairs.

  How the winnowing out had been effected, he could only conjecture—probably with the aid of the crew’s manifest; the tour would have been booked as a unit, he supposed. His politician’s eye swiftly canvassed them—he noted the two minked women whom he had seen talking with the pastor in the departure lounge and who, he now perceived, were mother and daughter. The sexes were about equally divided; the median age was perhaps fifty, and altogether they numbered eleven. With “Mr. Charles,” still back in Economy and dozing, that gave a total of twelve and, with themselves, twenty. Plus the crew. Quite a party. On the whole, he was not sorry that Aileen had “fingered” the collectors; misery loved company, and their own band of liberals could stand some diversification. Still, a last-minute increment of eleven, more than doubling the number of hostages, must be demanding some serious readjustment in their captors’ thinking. He would be surprised if they had not sharply debated among themselves about taking on the additional burden. Cupidity, in St. Paul’s words, was the root of all evil; the temptation to take on the collectors might have sowed the first seeds of disunity—not necessarily a welcome development.

  In the cockpit, the tall northlander and the co-pilot, wearing headphones, were testing a recording device, while the Arab was busy with his grenades and a coil of wire, which he ran along the entry partition, as if readying the plane for demolition. In these menacing conditions, Van Vliet was to make a tape, he learned—in Dutch, to be relayed by radio to his government, urging prompt compliance with the latest demand. It was interesting that they were not inviting him to make a direct broadcast—a sign of mistrust he found flattering to his courage. He was curious to hear what the “latest demand” consisted of, and, true to form, the confederates hesitated. “Tell him,” said the woman finally. “His knowledge cannot hurt us.” The Groningener complied. They wanted a helicopter capable of transporting thirty persons. “And your lying government has answered that it does not have a helicopter of such dimensions.”

  Van Vliet inwardly whistled. “It is not a lie,” he remarked, after a moment, concealing his surprise. Having served on a parliamentary committee of liaison with the armed forces, he could assure them that no helicopter in the Dutch squadrons had a capacity of more than ten persons. “Can we believe this?” “Yes.” From their faces he saw that they were accepting his word and he pressed his advantage. Why a helicopter? Why not a regular plane? “This is not your concern,” the Groningener told him. “You will simply make the tape as we instruct you.” But this meant then that The Hague was aware that he was their prisoner. “Our guest, Deputy,” corrected his compatriot, with a tight-lipped smile. “So you told them?” “We confirmed that you were on board.”

  The inference was clear. Durgie, watching television or opening her morning paper, had feared for him. And he was glad, he fondly recognized. The wise girl must have telephoned to the Prime Minister’s wife, who was her friend: “Elisabeth, tell your husband. I think Henk is in that plane.” “We have con
firmed,” resumed the kaper. “But the fascists have asked for proof. So we send them your voice.” “Why not my ear?” Van Vliet quipped. “All in good time, Deputy. For the present, we shall let them hear your melodious voice.”

  Van Vliet considered. The strange thought struck him that what his government must really be asking for was proof that he was alive. A tape could not supply that. On receiving it, the cautious legalists in The Hague would feel justified in asking for further evidence, thus prolonging the wait. “If you will allow me, I will read first from the morning’s weather report. You will have had it, surely, from the control tower.” The kapers looked at each other. “That will be helpful,” the woman agreed in a grudging tone. It would be too much to expect thanks.

  He spoke to the recording instrument in the pilot’s box, announcing the winds and the morning’s temperature and the prediction of fog. Next he attested that he was Van Vliet de Jonge, that he and his fellow-hostages were unharmed and receiving correct treatment. But their continuing safety, he had been assured, depended on the delivery of a helicopter of the type already specified no later than 2:00 P.M. Interference with its fueling and departure would not be tolerated, and attempts to “tail” it would have serious consequences: “My greetings.” To his own critical ear, he sounded brainwashed, like the Patricia Hearst girl or an American POW bowing from the waist. But no variation on the prescribed text was permitted. His suggestion that he might take the occasion to appeal for some food for the hostages was vetoed; the Arab explained that the authorities could seize the humanitarian pretext to introduce a paralyzing gas into a sandwich container or coffee-urn. Only in regard to the two o’clock deadline had they agreed to a modification. Their original deadline had been noon. They did not say—and he did not inquire—what horrors lay in store if the deadline was not met. But the methodical wiring of the cabin had lent insistence to his argument that his government, typically slow and ponderous in its deliberations, would need more time.

  This was a fact, but there was another pertinent fact that second thoughts caused him to withhold. On hearing the text read to him, he had been strongly tempted to offer a bit of advice: “When you next speak with the control tower, you must tell them that you believe my government when it says it doesn’t have such helicopters. But then remind them of the NATO air forces.” Then he had buttoned his lips firmly, forcing that counsel back. It was true that the big German brother, across the border, had helicopters capable of holding at least fifty; only last fall, with a pang of small-country envy, he had watched squads of specialists emerge from them during NATO maneuvers. But were he to voice the suggestion, as a terse word to the wise men in his government, he would have become the hijackers’ ally; worse still, he would appear as such to the ministers in session. The hijackers might be sadistic enough to invite him to make it in propria persona on their tape. If he declined, they might shoot him, though that would be an imprudence at this stage, which would cost them a bargaining card (a fair Jack of Diamonds) with Her Majesty’s government. But whoever’s voice print was on the NATO reminder, Den Uyl and the rest would recognize the brain of Van Vliet de Jonge behind it, and he was too cowardly, he discovered, to face the judgment those good fellows would pass on him. To appear as privy counselor to a ruthless gang of terrorists was different from his cherished picture of himself, and he wondered whether the crisis was not opening for inspection a split or fatal crack in his character like a hidden “fault” deep in geology.

  In any case, the Cabinet did not need to have the NATO air forces recalled to its memory. His stiff-necked friend at Defense was well aware of those big whirring birds nested on the other side of the Rhine. Having been told that a Dutch parliamentarian was among the captives, he must be already overcoming his resistance to borrowing from the German neighbor. In the gloomy conference chamber at Justice, he would make the decision, swallowing his national pride in a single gulp. In his mind’s eye, Van Vliet already saw the convulsive movement of the spare gullet and prominent Adam’s apple as it went painfully down.

  But then argument was likely to be needed to convince the fellow-ministers—Dutch statesmanship required that all sides of every question be examined with due care, and the greater the urgency the more your stubborn Lowlander refused to be hurried—and still lengthier argument to convince the partner at Bonn that a loan under the circumstances was appropriate. “Bitte, sagen Sie mir, how does NATO enter?”—had Holland’s defenses, perchance, been penetrated by a Warsaw Pact force? If the German Defense people wanted to be sticky, they could declare it their duty, ja, sicher, to consult the supreme NATO command, i.e., the American general in Brussels, who in turn would have to consult Washington. And if Den Uyl, foreseeing all this, were to appeal directly to Schmidt, in the name of good social-democratic relations, to get him out of this pickle, Schmidt would no doubt agree to do the favor, resigning himself to eventual questions in the Bundestag. Even then there would remain matters to be chewed over: for example, whether German pilots familiar with that class of helicopter could be borrowed from the base in Aachen—better not, in view of the risks; in Den Uyl’s place, Van Vliet would ask for Dutch volunteers.

  At best, assuming that Helmut was in his chancellery, in a positive mood, and available to speak to Joop, the “decision making process” would surely take an hour or two, to which must be added the flight time from Aachen, another hour—a giant helicopter would not be much speedier than an automobile. And already it was ten o’clock. Counting up the hours of uncertainty lying ahead for his unfortunate government, Henk rested his head on his seat back and softly groaned. He deeply repented the vagary that had sent him winging off to Iran and left the group in The Hague (assembling even now, he supposed, to listen to the obviously dictated tape) in the humiliating quandary of going next door with hat in hand to save “the esteemed delegate’s” skin. He felt a sympathy, bordering on love, for his friend at the Defense helm; the others would disperse to their various departments, but his ordeal would not end till he knocked, once again, on the neighbor’s door, returning the borrowed craft like a housewife’s cup of sugar. In comparison, Henk recognized, his own state of mind was tranquil. Whatever was going to happen was beyond his control. No lives depended on his decisions. Ideally irresponsible, a captured pawn, he could only muse and conjecture.

  In his absence, he discovered, a silver flask of whiskey, belonging to the Bishop, had been circulating. The good man had saved some for him. He swallowed the last dram and let his mind run on the interesting question: why a helicopter, why not a regular plane? The answer could only lie in the terrain that awaited them. Either a small air-strip—“liberated” from some innocent flying club—with too short a runway to take even a Friendship, or else an open field or stretch of pasture. On the screen of his memory, he sought to project the countless films on the war in Vietnam he had watched on television; brushing aside MIGs, B-52s, falling bombs, bomb craters, screaming peasants, napalm canisters, napalm victims, at length he saw the big American “Hueys” descending on rice fields, i.e., on soft marshy ground. A small helicopter could land in a jungle or on a mountain top, but the big fellows had needed space.

  The Senator no doubt could tell him for sure, or Sophie from her time as a war correspondent, but it was a quirk he treasured in his character to think out a problem whenever possible unaided, using only his memory and his reasoning power, as though he were the last human on earth…. So (he reflected, closing his eyes) the presumption was that the gang’s prepared hideaway was not in a mountainous or even hilly area, not tucked away in a narrow secluded valley, but, rather, in flat country. The flying range of helicopters excluded desert sands—there were none in Europe, mercifully—and populous farm areas could be ruled out because of inquisitive neighbors. Flat terrain, sparsely inhabited. He considered the empty plain of Apulia, the huge tableland he had inspected one splendid late August while leading a Common Market delegation to the Agricultural Fair in Bari—the Fiera del Levante, it had been called. T
o wake up in that somber country would almost repay being a hostage: he could compose a Horatian ode. But the whiskey on an empty stomach must be addling him. Antique Apulia was nearly as distant as a stork’s winter quarters in Africa. A wide lonely northern beach, such as had served for commando operations during the Second War? He rubbed his jaw. No. Hardly at this season. All along, he had perceived, like a looming fatality, that Holland was going to answer the bill of specifications. Holland, of all places, and the Dutch pair would have known it. Not the industrial tulip fields, or the thickly populated south and center, not farm-rich Friesland either, but the polders. Most likely, the New Polder. Flevoland: Eureka! He let out a cry. “What’s the matter?” said Sophie. The jubilant sound issuing from him had contained a measure of pain.

  The others were turning to him too. “Anything wrong?” said Carey. “Are you all right, sir?” inquired the Bishop. He was all right, Van Vliet supposed—at least not all wrong. Everything fitted. He knew at last why they were here. But how could he tell these people that tonight they would be sleeping on a polder, when none of them, probably, knew what a polder was? Some kind of mattress, most of them would think. As usual with foreigners, he would have to explain that a polder was land reclaimed from the sea. They were on one now: Schiphol. The word meant “ship-hole.” The airport occupied what was formerly a wet marshy hole, made, according to legend, by a sinking ship. Wherever they looked, there had once been water. A hundred feet below them sails had billowed, and naval battles had been fought. A good third of Holland, you could say, was nothing but a collection or accretion of polders. That was why there were dikes. And, once upon a time, windmills. Nowadays their duties were performed by pumping-stations, draining off salt water so that the sea floor could be filled in and leveled and afterwards maintained in a dry state. Over the centuries, aided by a natural silting-in process, Holland had been encroaching on the sea’s territory. Or, as your Dutchman liked to say, it had been “won back” from the sea.