Kingfisher

by Gerald Seymour

  'You are wrong, David. Too tired to think,'

  'Where can there be rest now?'

  'You must calm yourself.'

  ' I should have been calm when I fired at the door."

  To the girl he seemed to sag, forcing her to grip at his waist to steady him. A terrible pain in his eyes, a great hurt. He hung on to her a full minute, then jolted awake.

  'You are the one who speaks English, you must come and talk to them.' But he made no move to loosen her, just stood, rocking slowly, feeling her body against his own.

  The words of the navigator barked over the loudspeaker system of the tower. Volume turned to maximum and the listeners knew from the sound of his breathing that the Russian was whispering.

  'They are all out of the cockpit now. Three of them. The two men have machine-pistols. There is also a girl, but she is always with the passengers and we have not seen her. I think they have gone for her, because they do not speak English, the men. I have said there are no Russian speakers. Sometimes they are calm, sometimes they shout. They believe they will get fuel for Israel, and . . . they are returning.'

  Nothing more came from the loudspeakers. There was an opportunity for the second tape recorder to be switched on, while the spool of the first was lifted off and hurried for transcription. There had been a short-hand note, but every word spoken from the control tower would, as usual, be recorded.

  'A very switched-on boy, that one,' the Assistant Chief Constable said. 'Be a star hanging on his chest when this lot's over.' He'd done the courses and seminars, Home-organized, and attended the Special Study Groups, because Stansted was in his 'manor', and if the fiction became reality then he was designated as having a part to play. He fancied he knew his subject, and liked the fact known. It put him a cut above administering CID and Regional Crime Squad and investigating the corruption allegations.

  'The fact that there's only three of them, and that one is a girl, where does that put things?' The question was from the Fusiliers colonel, familiar enough with urban guerrilla fighting across the Irish Sea, inexperienced in this particular field.

  The Assistant Chief Constable warmed, revelling in the deference shown him by the army officer. ' I think the fellow knew what we wanted to hear. Took his opportunity well and gave us the bones of it. Didn't mention explosives. On the Middle East jobs they try and booby-trap the doors, but he didn't say anything about that. Could be that he just doesn't know, but if they haven't them then it has to be easier for us if we go heavy. The fact that there are three means it's not likely to last long. But I didn't like what he said about the shouting: infinitely more dangerous to everyone if they become unstable. Then anything can happen.'

  There was much more the policeman could have said, a longer and more elaborate assessment. But the voices behind him cut him short, and the bustle of activity behind him, and the drift of the attention that he had held veered towards the door. The familiar TV features of the Home Secretary who grinned thinly at the stiff salute. There was a man at his right shoulder that he had not seen before, not present at the week-end courses - worn, pale, autumn face, and baggy under the eyes. There were handshakes and he caught a name, 'Webster, Charlie Webster,' no explanation of rank or department. Had they started talking yet from the plane? And he'd scarcely begun to answer before the newcomer was in the chair where he'd been sitting and close to the extended microphone and was gathering together rough paper and drawing a Biro from his pocket. Wouldn't say that he was unhappy that someone else had come to do the chat, but he'd like to have been asked, to have known the pedigree.

  Charlie slid his jacket from his shoulders, slung it over the back of the seat-rest, loosened his tie, and settled himself to wait for the contact. Sort of been drawn into it, hadn't he? Never really been asked. Just expected of him, taken for granted. Charlie Webster, terrorist hunter back on the job, keeping people safe in their beds, letting the great unwashed fornicate in peace, and by-the-by chopping a few kids who'd been sold some crap ideology and thought they could change the world on the strength of it.

  The transcript was placed in front of him; he read it briefly -three to chop this time. Shouldn't be too difficult, Charlie. Not unless they played stupid.

  The Parliamentary Private Secretary was at the cabinet administering the ice cubes, pouring out the gin.

  'Plenty of that, and not too much tonic.' The Foreign Secretary always said that and it didn't affect the same weak mixture that was always surrendered to him. He had hated the drive back from Dorneywood, detested the speed. It should have been one of the privileges of his rank that he didn't have to submit to those bloody siren-paced races up the M4. Generally he was able to instruct the driver that he wanted a steady ride, forty-five miles an hour, but events hadn't waited on him that evening. The Russian would be waiting outside, in the ante-room, but time first for a stiff one - not flat it would be. Some of the blighters you couldn't talk to, the Russians, not a spark of contact, dead as the Sargasso. But at least this fellow was out of the ordinary, quite human, and good enough English to ditch the interpreter which always seemed to smooth the way. He downed his drink in a single gulp, leaving the ice and the lemon slice unsullied, then handed the glass back to his PPS; the man knew the drill, put it out of sight in the cabinet and closed the doors on the array of bottles.

  'Let's have him,' the Foreign Secretary said.

  Decent-looking chap, in his way, hair well cut, and not a bad suit. First impressions of the Foreign Secretary at the entrance at the far end of the forty-foot office of the Russian Ambassador at the Court of St James. He offered him a seat on the sofa and took his own place in the armchair at the side. PPS behind them both with the scribbling pad and the pencil. Not really form, not having an FO man in here with them, but the Russian hadn't brought anyone either.

  There were times for an official, minuted record, times when it wasn't suitable; and neither was seeking to preserve this particular conversation for posterity.

  ' I would like to say first,' the Ambassador began - flawless English, marginal accent - 'that my government sends a message of gratitude to the British government for permitting the Aeroflot flight to land.' With a gesture of his hand the Foreign Secretary acknowledged the formalities.

  'But I think, Minister, that we both understand that we have reached a most difficult and complex stage in the handling of this criminal incident. I am informed by my government that prior to the murderous hi-jacking of the aircraft this gang of thugs had attempted to kill a policeman in the city of Kiev. For this they were being sought at the very time that they took over the Aeroflot flight from that city to Tashkent, and by doing so endangered the lives of many innocent passengers. During their capture of the aircraft - which had no armed security men on board - they killed the captain at his seat in the cockpit-we have been told by the young pilot officer who successfully flew the plane to Britain that her captain was executed as the assassins took over the flight deck. All of this you know, Foreign Secretary. Also you will have had by now the communication of my government, personally signed by the Comrade Secretary General of the Party, and sent to all heads of government in the countries in which we thought it possible that the aircraft might land.'

  He had the admiration of the British politician. So many of them would have taken half an hour to get to the point, but they were already there, and the first cigarette in the Russian's hand not half-smoked.

  'My government look upon these three not as political refugees but as murderers and criminals.

  We regard them as you regard the terrorists of the Irish Republican Army that bomb your cities.

  When you arrested the men and women of Birmingham and Guildford, the terrorists of your central London campaign, you put them through the courts and you sentenced them as your law permits. I venture to say that if these men had taken refuge in any European country you would have sought their arrest and extradition. We cannot believe that the British government would contemplate the refuelling of the aircraft t
o facilitate its flight to Israel.' There was a nod of acquiescence from the Foreign Secretary. 'And after your authorities have disarmed these people we will require that they be sent back forthwith to the Ukraine to face justice in Kiev. I am also informed-and this may help you arrive at your final decision - that the position of the aircraft at the moment the captain was shot places the crime within the jurisdiction of the courts of that city.

  "That is what I have been asked by the senior personalities of the Soviet Foreign Ministry to pass to your Excellency in addition to the communication of the Comrade Secretary General. I have also been asked to furnish some indication of the attitude that the British government will take in this matter.'

  Right between the eyes, and where he'd expected it. Been dealing with them long enough to know that the sting was always in the tail. Used a hard word, for the language of diplomacy that was: 'require', nearest thing to an ultimatum you could get, not a friendly word, not leaving much room for manoeuvre. And wanting some sort of answer off the cuff. He knew the problems just like everyone else did, but was piling on the pressure from the start, getting his foot in the door.

  He'd done it well.

  ' I can assure you - and you may pass this on to your government and to the Comrade Secretary General - that it is not the intention of the British security forces and officials who are currently at Stansted that the aircraft should leave there except as a free flight and without passengers and crew being held at gunpoint. There is no question while the plane is under the command of armed men that it will be refuelled for an onward flight to Israel. That is a solemn guarantee.' The easy section, obvious and would satisfy nobody. The next leg was harder, 'I am advised by the British government's legal officers that the hi-jackers have already contravened various sections of the British criminal code, certainly illegal possession of firearms, possibly kidnapping, and it is likely that should they surrender they would be required to face the due process of United Kingdom law...'

  ' I do not wish to have to report to my government that in my opinion the British would use minor charges to protect these three criminals from the Soviet courts. Perhaps I have not made myself clear, Excellency: we want these people back. We want them quickly. We would take procrastination on this point as a most serious matter.'

  'Threats will not be conducive to settling our problems.' It was quietly said by the Foreign Secretary, but with the acting and the politeness vanishing from the soft-lit room.

  'It is not a threat.'

  'Then I misunderstood your choice of words. We must be most careful in the choice of words that we use, otherwise we will have misunderstandings, which would be unfortunate.'

  'What then should I inform my government concerning the extradition of these people?' A fractional retreat, but tactical only, and the Foreign Secretary knew it would mean as little at the end of the day as his answer.

  'You should tell your government that the British Foreign Secretary has undertaken to pass on the details of this conversation personally to the Prime Minister. You should also say that the first priority of the British government is to ensure the safe release of all the passengers and crew of the plane. In the short term we regard that as the more important issue.'

  The Soviet Ambassador rose, smile back on his face, firm grip in his handshake, a word about future meetings and he was through the door and into the ante-room. He had time as he walked across the Isfahan carpet to recognize the short and stubbed presence, buried in an easy chair, of the Israeli Ambassador, now waiting for his appointment.

  There was no greeting, no acknowledgment from either.

  From where he sat Charlie Webster had as good a view as any of the Ilyushin.

  Static and immobilized, it was swathed in light from the portable floodlights that the military had put in place within

  a hundred yards of its towering, crab-like form.

  Behind Charlie were the Emergency Committee who would dictate his replies once the hi-jackers chose to begin transmissions. The Home Secretary, there at the Prime Minister's request to assume overall political control of the affair, with the convoy of civil servants hovering near to him, to advise and to caution. The Assistant Chief Constable, spruced and neat and boasting the thin multi-coloured ribbons of war service and police work on his chest. Two army officers who had made a separate journey from London, coming from Ministry of Defence.

  One civilian, as different from the rest of them in his own right as was Charlie; check shirt and the collar stiffeners bent in too many washes so that they rode up his sports coat lapels, a tie that had shields on it that were lost and disfigured by the many times it had been knotted, hair that was long and had not known the benefit of comb and water and that hung loosely from the body of his head, rounded brown corduroy trousers and scuffed brown shoes: not a man who was kept, not a man who owed allegiance to conformity, stiff bold cheekbones and a ferret nose that poked and pried into the conversations around him. Not somebody who was accepted but tolerated, because he was the psychiatrist in the team, with a special role to play: the man with experience of psychopaths, of the deranged, who had advised on the siege at Balcombe Street, and the Spaghetti House stake-out in London's West End. The Dutch with their knowledge of the prison and train hostage-taking operations had proved the value of a medical man in the team, and the Home Office had drafted Anthony Clitheroe into their plans, placing him on call so that he could be summoned from his Wimpole Street practice whenever the need arose.

  Later the group would disperse to the offices of the airport management but at that moment all of them wanted to witness the initial contact, sought to hear the timbre of the voices of the opposition still hidden from them by the sleek, wind-wiped walls of the Dyushin's fuselage.

  In front of him Charlie had placed the three photographs he had been given in London: he could see the faces, study them, learn from them. Further to his right, as if denoting its lesser importance, he had laid the diagram of the interior of the 11-18. He felt nervous, tense in his stomach, waiting for them to begin, longing for them to do so. But had to let them take the initiative, that was the procedure; the young people should not be hurried, all the privileges of the bride.

  It was the girl who spoke first.

  "To the authorities, do you hear u s . . . do you hear us?'

  'We hear you veiy clearly.'

  'Do you hear us . . .' The girl had forgotten, or never known, that she had to take her finger off the depress switch when she'd finished speaking, otherwise she couldn't hear the replies. Stupid cow.

  'We hear you very clearly.'

  Her memory of the technicalities jolted, or someone had told her, but now she had mastered the equipment. 'We call ourselves the Kingfisher group. We wish to talk to the responsible persons. Have they come yet?'

  Not bad English, out of the classroom - like your Russian, Charlie. She was speaking too close to the microphone so that she distorted and he could not gauge the strength of her spirits, her morale.

  'Hello, Kingfisher group.' Where had they dug that one up? Out of the norm-Black September, Black June, First of April movement, Struggle group of any wet November Thursday, that was what they'd come to expect. 'My name is Webster, Charlie Webster. We can talk in Russian or English, whichever you prefer. If you want to talk in Russian you must accept that there will be pauses while I translate to the people that are with me what you are saying.'

  Silence, while they worked it out. Decide whether the big man in the group wants to do the talking for himself, which means Russian, or whether they delegate to the girl. A handwritten note was passed in front of him. Charlie should not let it be known the Emergency Committee had already assembled at the airport. Going for the stall game and delay; Clitheroe's advice was clear on this, adamant.

  In Russian, and a man speaking. Sounded an age away, more distant than the girl, subdued, unsure; perhaps just the angle to the microphone.

  'My name is David. I wish to speak to the persons in charge.'


  Charlie in Russian too. Couldn't match his dialect, softer, less cruel to the ear than the harsher speech of the north, of Moscow. Wouldn't try to ape him, just speak the way he had been taught, the way they were all taught in T Corps where it was assumed that any Russian they would need to interrogate had done his secondary school in the Kremlin's shadows. Not easy, not at first. Seemed a long time since he'd spoken the language conversationally. One thing to read newspapers and official reports, even to write it, but quite another to chat in the tongue and summon up the persuasiveness to win confidence.

  'Webster, Charlie Webster here. I'm the Russian language speaker, but as I explained to your colleague there will be delays while I tell my colleagues what you are saying, and what I am telling you.' Take all night at this rate. He flicked the transmission button to 'off' on the console in front of him, told the men who stood behind what he had said. Back to 'on'. Live again.

  'We should say who we are. The Kingfisher group is Jewish. We are of a people who have long been oppressed and persecuted. We are political persons. We have flown out of the Soviet Union because we seek to arrive in Israel, and now we need fuel to continue our journey. We mean no harm to anyone, but we demand the fuel. Have you understood that?'

  ' I have understood that, David. I am going to tell my colleagues what you have said.' Charlie repeated the drill on the console, turned in the swing chair and explained the message.

  The Home Secretary said, 'You know, Mr Webster, that there is no possibility of them having fuel. The question is, do they find that out now or later?'

  Anthony Clitheroe was an eminent man in his field, accustomed to delivering detailed and lengthy speeches to his colleagues, with a considerable list of major studies to his name and a quarter of a column of Who's Who to back up his claims to be heard out. But he had learned from his two previous encounters with security forces that they required the shortest of responses from him in such situations.