'Pretty useless the audio will be,' said one who loathed to see the apparatus out of his personal control. 'With the doors closed you'll hear fuck-all. And the pictures not much better, not going to show through for you. It's not bloody magic.' And the sergeant that he spoke to was patient and explained that though the blinds were drawn now they would probably be raised during the daylight hours. That the people inside weren't fools, that the blinds were down because they needed the lights on in the cabin, and it would be different in daylight, wouldn't it?
Past two in the morning when Davies and four NCOs began their slow and time-consuming leopard-crawl out across the smooth surface of the tarmac. Davies leading, his sergeant the work donkey with the canvas bag that held the fish-eye and the audios and the lightweight nine-foot aluminium ladder, the other three in close fire support. Coordinated advance with the searchlights tilting their beams to new elevations, playing on the windows to dazzle and blind any who might look out.
They felt no excitement when they rose to their feet at. the belly of the fuselage beneath the various indecipherable words of the Cyrillic alphabet that were printed on the hatches.
Professional soldiers, with the emotion and fervour of their youth long dissipated. Calm and efficient, master artisans, working the pracised procedures. Ladder in position, foam rubber upper protection denying the sound of scratch or scrape against the metal of the fuselage. The sergeant climbing and as he went bending the fibre attachment, moulding it to the curve of the plane's exterior, planting the lens itself, upper right corner, third porthole starboard, suction pad and beyond it the shallow protuberance of the cobra head, the lens in place, reaching over the hp of the window fitting, need to be searched for, cursory look insufficient for discovery. The audio close to the next window forward but reservations there, waste of bloody time till the doors were opened. Second audio at the cockpit windows, low down and wrapped among the arms of the rain wipers.
They ran the cables quickly and with discretion across the fuselage, bringing them together where the starboard wheel rested, camera case fastened in the interior of the undercarriage flap.
Began to pay out the cables away from the plane, running them in the cracks that separated the concrete segments of the taxi area. Thirty-five minutes it took them till they were back to the cover of the tankers' shadows. David had slept through their visit, Rebecca too, and Isaac who straggled to stay awake had heard no sounds that could have aroused him from his vigil with the passengers.
'Bugs nicely in place, ready to bite,' Davies told the scientist - not a matter to boast of, just the communication of necessary information.
Receivers had been moved into the cement hut behind the tankers. Three men were busying themselves with screwdrivers and transistor circuit diagrams. 'Get a move on, lads. I want you out of here by sparrow fart, all tucked up in your beds by morning,' said the major. The civilians worked fast, knew that he joked, knew they were relegated to spend the next day, or two, or three, in the hut. When they had finished with their adjustments they returned to the van, unloaded camp beds, and one carried a Thermos flask, and another spoke of overtime or 'bubble at time and a half', as he called it. 'Not a bloody holiday camp,' was Davies's parting thrust. He walked out into the night again. Depended now on the boffins to get the kit into shape, but he'd met them before, believed in them and their equipment. The main thing was the secrecy of the fish-eye: the buggers inside wouldn't know of it, wouldn't look for it.
Davies eased himself into the small gap between cabin and tail of two tankers, where the plane was flush to him. Shouldn't be difficult, not if there's only three of them, and all youngsters. Be in there in no time, if that's what the gods on high decreed. Always the problem though, always the chance that one of the buggers won't see the reason of it, won't want to live, will take his last five seconds on earth blasting all and sundry round him. Plenty of plaudits for the rescue team if he doesn't, if the civvies come out of it in one piece, but sparse on thanks and short on medals for the chaps that pull out twenty stiffs and another fifteen in the ambulances with the sirens going full blast. All a matter of luck, whether one man stands his ground and wants to take people with him before he coughs. Same operation, same tactics, same drills, and you either end up a hero or a miserable bloody failure. Israelis understood that - wouldn't have taken thirty doctors to Entebbe if they hadn't - but Davies's masters, would they understand it? Not a bloody chance.
Behind him the voice said, 'There's nothing to see yet, and no one talking on the inside loud enough for the mikes,
But everything seems to be operational. Should be able to start the peep-show once they lift the curtain.'
Proud and bold, the battleship at her moorings, Aeroflot 927 rode out the night hours. No movement inside her visible to the army of watchers, no sound that was detectable. Splendid and serene and masking her secrets, defying the onlookers to penetrate her inner thoughts. With the darkness had come the dew that caused the soldiers sprawled in the grass to curse and fidget and envy those who owned at least the warmth and dryness of the aircraft seats in which to rest. Over all the turgid throb of the generators for the lights, beating out their own discordant rhythm, sending messages far beyond the circle of men who cradled their rifles and waited.
Charlie would have liked to have gone down from the tower, out into the air and walked close to the plane, sniffed at the atmosphere that surrounded it. But his place was by the radio, and he needed sleep. No point being knackered in the morning, not when the hard work would start.
Wondered how they'd take it, how they'd react, when they realized the time was up, come in 927, show's over. Go ape, or take it calmly? Never could say with these kids.
Past two when he came to terms with his camp bed. Not long till dawn, till the time to talk to the plane again. Endless repetition of the same thought. How good would they be? What calibre?
Brave? And if they were, how would they use it?
He remembered the kid in Sheik Othman, little bastard, with his shirt-tail flapping, and his futah loosened from the drive of his knees as he sought to clear the soldiers' cordon, and how they'd brought him down and laughed and sat on him, and you'd heard him scream, Charlie, scream for his father, and the captain had come, and the fist had lost itself in the bid's hair and they'd walked him to the corner. One shot you'd heard, you and all the others in the coffee shop, you with the ointment on your face that made you local, made you one of them. And you'd wanted to heave, and had looked around for guidance and for a lead. Not an eyebrow flickering, not a mouth cracking, not a breath drawn in. Called him a grenadier in the communique, and the little bugger should have been at school. Defence of the Empire, Charlie, defence of Law and Order. Shook you, Charlie, and you supposed to be a hard man.
Never could sleep without a pillow. Remember the night in the officers' mess, infantry battalion down at Plymouth and some bright sod had suggested you go down and talk to a few of the chaps before you went to Dublin the first time? Not that they said anything, anything that might be useful, but crowed like fucking cockerels. How we killed young Paddy, young Sean, young Micky. Terrorists all of them, seventeen years, eighteen years, nineteen years old. Bloody kids.
Chased them round the alleys, up the back entries, closed the net. One shot to slow, one shot to fell, one shot to finish, and get the Saracen up fast and over the body so Dad doesn't come out and whip the Armalite for the next pig-thick ignorant kid with holes in his shoes through to his socks and one pair of jeans to his name who wants burying and thinks he's a freedom fucking fighter.
Wrap it, Charlie, time for bloody sleep. Time to kill three more kids, little bright eyes all waiting for you, waiting for you in the morning, Charlie, and with a bit of luck the sun will be shining.
Long time coming, the sleep. Not that a pillow would have helped.
CHAPTER T E N
Many hours now the group had been meeting. Beyond the closing of the cafes and pubs, beyond the closing anthem of the tel
evision stations, beyond the gradual whittling of the drumming traffic noise on the Bayswater streets. At any time of concern this was where they always gathered, not because the cramped flat was in any way suitable for their deliberations but because its tenant was the General Secretary of their movement - in charge of their proud pile of headed notepaper, and the petty cash.
At times as many as twenty had been present, but the size of the group varied, some hurrying away, others coming fretful that they had delayed too long. There were enough, though, to fill all the chairs in the room, and the stools that had been brought from the kitchenette, and the pillows pressed into service from the bedroom. They drank coffee, sharp and gritty, swilled down with tap water and sweetened by spoonfuls of sugar, and they nibbled at supermarket biscuits, and straggled to stay awake lest any should miss the hourly news bulletins that could be found on the World Service of the BBC, and the more atmospheric Voice of America.
The members of the group had many factors in common. All had been born inside the confines of the Soviet Union. All were tarnished with the same labels -'refugee', 'exile'. All were Jewish, contributors and active members of the London-based 'Committee for Freedom of Soviet Jewry'.
All were worried, all anxious, all frustrated that the strand of involvement was stretched so loose.
All were attempting to focus their minds and thoughts on a lone aircraft, far away and at an airport none had visited. And all were willing their intellect to transport them across the miles of city- scape and countryside close to the hull of the Ilyushin airliner.
The shared tiredness had long since dulled the clarity of their conversation, so that for long spells the silence hung, burdening, upon the little room. Some it caused to feel unequal to the moment, others the anger of helplessness, and a very few to doze, comforted in the knowledge that they would be awakened at the chime of signature music that would herald the next bulletin.
These were kicked and pummelled people. They had experienced the soaring upsurge of spirit that comes from the first breath of freedom at stepping outside their rejected homeland, and now had realized that life was crueller, more savage, and that their visions of liberation had led to the bed-sit land where they lived and the hotel kitchens where they thought themselves fortunate to find work. Little people, whose escape had been quiet and without fanfare and who now fidgeted with their necklaces and their Star-of-David chains, and who searched each other's faces that the next news programme might be hastened, and coughed hesitantly, pulling at their cigarettes and expelling the smoke into the saturated air.
Most Sundays they gathered in a tight knot on the grass of Hyde Park. They took regular turns at making and listening to the familiar speeches, and clapped and cheered, and wondered why the great herd was so uncaring and so indifferent that it passed them by without even pausing to hear the stark message of oppression and humiliation. Most Wednesdays they came to the General Secretary's flat and discussed and argued and made the arrangements for their next public meeting. Always the culmination of the gathering was when the General Secretary's wife drew a single sheet of headed notepaper from the folder, and with pride wrote the requisite and formal letter to Scotland Yard requesting the necessary permission.
All easy, all clean - an absence of blurring obstructions. And if they had not yet roused the dormant wastes of British public opinion then there was always tomorrow, and next year, and a lifetime. But falling on them now was a cold gust that was foreign, and carried in its wind both fear and confusion.
Yet the evening had started well - back-slapping and jokes and wide and excited faces. Those that came first brought the last editions of the afternoon papers with their glaring headlines, and they had stayed, transfixed, beside the television and radio. Their people were coming out, a flight out of Egypt ! Escape on the grandest and most eloquent scale! Initially they had discussed a press statement, to be phoned to the agencies as an expression of solidarity with the young people who were brave and of their faith . . . Would not their next public meeting be crowded and packed, would not the masses at last awake to their cause and struggle? Later had come the flesh that covered the skeleton of the story. A girl flying a plane at gunpoint. Her captain who had carried no weapon dead beside her. A party of school children whose lives were at risk. Damning and deadening.
When the General Secretary had telephoned the Labour Member of Parliament who championed their people in the House of Commons his wife had answered the call. Yes, she would bring him to the phone, and there had been the scraped sound of a hand placed over the receiver and camouflaged and indistinct words. He was not at home, she had said. She was sorry.
Perhaps later. Was there a number she should take down? Another MP, not Jewish but a long-time sympathizer, was braver and less anxious to salve their sensibilities.
'It's aerial piracy and it's murder,' he'd said, with a gruff - ness that startled the General Secretary. 'You cannot dress it up any other way. They've killed a defenceless man, en-dangered a plane-load of people. I'm sorry, but that's the way I see it. I'm bloody sorry. Of course I'm sympathetic to you, and to the fight, but this is different. Take my advice: stay quiet, and don't get involved.'
They had followed the advice. The drafted statement to the press was now a torn shambles of paper in the rubbish basket.
Past four in the morning. Time for the lorries to start their trail into the city With the daily load of market fruit and vegetables, and for the street-cleaning trucks to be out on their business. None in the group able to leave now, held and magnetized by the radio reports. Fresh fiddling with the dials, away from World Service seeking again Voice of America. 'Behind the News' reports.
Read from the studio, taken from the despatches of the Associated Press Bureau in Moscow. A voice in a cracked, staccato rush so that all in the room had to strain to follow the words. The Bureau had been checking for reaction with those Soviet Jews who were at liberty in the Russian capital but whose opposition to the regime was known. A denial of all knowledge and connection with those who had taken the plane out of Kiev, a condemnation of violence from whatever source. In silence they heard the message, heard the door slammed at any suggestion, however guarded, of complicity. Next, a short voice-track from the network's correspondent in Jerusalem.
The Israeli government had no comment, on the record or off the record, to the hi-jacking of the Aeroflot flight. No government official was prepared to speak on the matter. The stance of the cabinet was well known on both terrorism and the plight of Soviet Jewry, the reporter had intoned, and it was the belief of observers in the capital that they were gravely embarrassed by what had happened. From Washington, also, no authorized comment, room only for journalistic speculation, and the expressed belief that the United States administration would not seek to influence the British on the course of action to follow. This incident was regarded as divorced from the President's often-repeated attitude on Human Rights inside ...
Savagely one of the listeners, galvanized now by his lack of sleep, switched off the set, plunging the room for a moment into an abyss of quiet. Then he shouted, 'The cowards, bloody cowards. Bloody stinking politicos . , /
An avalanche of contradiction fell on him.
'And what are the people that took the plane, what are they?'
'For years we have suffered in dignity that we might win support, and now that we have succeeded ______________________________ '
'They have betrayed the brave ones, these children . .
'In the Kremlin they will be drinking champagne, toasting each other.'
They can justify anything now. Pogroms, show trials, round-ups, arrests. Anything they wish to do, they are able to now. The children have given it all to them.'
A girl was crying, smearing a handkerchief across her eyes, her voice broken and frail. 'Why did they kill the man? Why did they shoot the pilot? There can have been no need to. If they had not killed the p i l o t . . . '
'Who are we to speak of what they have done, and
what their motives?' said the General Secretary, slowly and with deliberation. 'Who are we? We did not even make the journey to Israel. We are not a part of that place. We are the Jews that remain outside the family, and we are shocked now because a life has been cut short in the name of Israel, perhaps in heat, perhaps in cold blood. We do not know anything of these people ...'
Interruption from above. The battered protest of an umbrella handle pounding at the ceiling -
the upstairs tenant's only recourse to quell the surge of noise and argument.
s. . . whether they have been stupid or wise, brave or cowardly, they are of our people. They have stretched us, tested us. Perhaps already they have shamed us, and perhaps also they will destroy us. But they are of our people and they are alone, and they have the right to our prayers.'
Setting aside their weariness, those on the chairs and stools came down to kneel, those on the carpet and the cushions rose awkwardly that they could share the moment. As he shuffled his aged legs and felt the pain in the tightness of his joints, the General Secretary murmured, 'It would have been better for us if they had not come. But they are here, and they are few, and it should not be us that cast the rocks. There will be many others f o r that task.'
Each in his own form, and in silence, the members of the group prayed.
Body strength waning, muscles aching, head throbbing, limbs contorted in the limitations of her resting place, Rebecca sought sleep.
Elusive though, hard to touch. Too many images revolving, denying her the comfort of oblivion. The things that Isaac had spoken of. Tanks. Machine-guns. Soldiers. Cold, metallic, functional killing machines that had come for a purpose, that did not wait beyond the arc lights unless their value had been assessed and decided as necessary.
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