Kingfisher

by Gerald Seymour

  Then they had been permitted to go.

  There had been a cluster of neighbours outside the house - some Jewish, some not, but all had drifted away as the couple approached their home. Word of plague spreads fast and they were contaminated, this pair, dangerous to touch. They did not speak to those who backed away at their approach; there was no reason to.

  David's father opened the front door and put his arm around the shoulders of his wife. It had been a proud household, exemplary in the neatness of the three ground-floor rooms in which they lived. It would take them many hours to clear the debris from the floor, to shift the confusion of the search from the threadbare carpet. They had been thorough in their work, every drawer emptied, every cupboard spilled out, every chest upturned, every ornament split open.

  Thrown in the firegrate, the glass smashed, was the large portrait photograph of their son, taken many years back on the day of his Bar Mitzvah - young, radiant, close-cut washed- down hair, promise and hope. David's mother drew it from the resting place on the newspaper that in summer covered the coal and chopped wood. It should not be there when the girls returned.

  C H A P T E R S I X T E E N

  Alone among the passengers who could see from the starboard side windows Anna Tashova had stood her ground, not flinching during the shooting, staying close to the glass of the window. She had seen everything, heard and relished it all. Her hands had come up from her lap as if she was about to clap them together as David had jerked, then tumbled backwards, but she had desisted just as she had stifled the cheer of exultation within her. She felt no pity, no horror, no sadness at the snuffing out of a life, instead gloried that her captain was at last remembered and revenged.

  She had noticed long ago the way some of the passengers craved the friendship of their captors, mimicked the collaborators of the old wartime days, and this brought no surprise to her.

  Despicable, but to be anticipated; of course there would be those without the guts to fight who would wheedle and smile for favours, and hope to win advantage and they would be remembered when the affair was over, named, denounced.

  It was to be expected that some would choose to fraternize. At the seminar on hi-jack theory to which she had gone the last summer in Moscow she had heard the lecturer speak of the common practice of passengers in seeking to identify with the men who held the guns. There had been a titter of laughter round the hall but the man on the dais had stamped on that, told them this was not just to be expected: it could be guaranteed. She had talked of this among the cockpit crew with whom she had shared her next flight, and all had agreed that faced with the seizure of an aircraft by force they would never come to terms with terrorists, only play them along for the greatest benefit of their passengers. They were brave words, spoken in safety. Later she had wondered what type of person might confront her, educated or illiterate, young or old, nervous or controlled. But she had found no answer, had not prepared herself for the two young men who had crashed their way through her cockpit door.

  For hours, interminably, she had sat upright, staring to the front, trying to shut out the events enacted round her. She had watched the headmaster taken to his death, had not seen and did not know the manner of his escape, watched again as the Italian was pulled to his execution. Now her head moved, bouncing from window to window, swinging round so that she could see behind her, alive and vital because she had seen the man fall and watched the progress of the ribbon of blood that stretched a yard or so from him, highlighted on the pale concrete.

  So they did not always win, these people. But the one who called himself Isaac, that was the one she wanted to see demolished. She could wait for that, if it took another day, another week.

  To hear him scream and plead and collapse with pain. She found her thighs squeezed together, shoulders hunched, her arms rigid, all for the hatred of the young one with his curly hair and his confidence, who stood now at the rear of the aircraft where once his friend had been. She was hungry, thirsty too, longing for a cigarette, yearning to join the lavatory queues; but she would not bend, not ask. Not of these people.

  They had not spoken since David had gone.

  Isaac at the back, separated by the length of the cabin

  from Rebecca, abandoning her, kept his own dark counsel. Neither of them had watched David die, not willing to weaken their own fibre, through seeing the performance of a comrade dedicated to taking his own life because his will had crumbled. But they had been unable to shut out the noise of the gunfire, the little staccato bursts of the handgun, the one report of the heavier, killing rifle.

  Where to run now, Isaac, where to hide now that they know that one at least among you was ordinary, human, flesh and blood? Where to go? David had died, uselessly, believing in the value of a gesture. For you too, Isaac? Follow the leader? Follow the Party? No. We fight them, and we hit them.

  Oblivious to the passengers he strode down the aisle, gesturing to Rebecca not to come forward to meet him, to hold her position, not to move from her place at the open doorway. Not once did he look behind, never believing that any would dare to rise up against him.

  ' I give them one more hour. Then there will be another, another for them to watch. One o'clock for the next, and one every hour after that. We will bring them in a line so that all can see them, all who stand out there, they will see them and they can watch with their clocks for the precision with which the next will fall.'

  'Why, Isaac? What is there to achieve? After David? What is left for us?'

  'Because David was a coward.. .s

  'How can you say that? It was he who walked out to face them.'

  'Because that was the fool's escape, the quickest path. He was a coward and he was beaten, and he would not stand at our shoulder. We have to show them. One every hour- that will show that we are not defeated.'

  'Then they will attack us, they will storm the aircraft.' A breathiness in her words, and she clung to his arm, the little girl again, small and feminine and clinging, who has found her man and will follow. They will kill us, Isaac.'

  As he laughed she saw what she took to be a madness - the fanatical desire for self-immolation, the wish for martyrdom - and she felt the great force that drew her towards him, as if vertigo were dragging her to a cliff face. She had no strength to struggle against it, no willingness to do so.

  ' If we cannot go to Israel there is nothing left but to die here,' she said.

  Isaac broke off from her and went carefully towards the open door. A sharp and darting glance around the corner and to the outside. Time to see Charlie Webster there to the front of the tankers, arms folded, as if he would wait a lifetime, would stay as long as required. Another man behind him, who wore a jacket and who was younger, healthier, carrying the distinctive features of his own people. A bare second Isaac had been visible, and Charlie Webster had reacted to the movement.

  'We have to talk to you, Isaac.' The flattened voice, drained of emotion, devoid of tone, patient and carrying across the no-man's land of the tarmac. 'We have to talk again, Isaac.'

  Hidden from them and close to the aircraft walls Isaac whispered over his shoulder, 'Cover behind me. And really this time, without mistake.' He stayed watching till he saw her rise, walk to the centre of the aisle, and take up her position, standing where she could see all the passengers. He would miss David. Frightened, abject, pathetic David would at least have stood and presented a reliable front, but the girl...

  'There is nothing to say,' he shouted. I must keep back from the door, he told himself, no target, give the bastards nothing. ' I told you we wanted the fuel for the plane by ten o'clock or we would punish you for it. The man is there for you to see. At one o'clock there will be another if we have not had the fuel, at two there will be another, at three there will be another. Every hour from one o'clock. What time will you have the darkness you want, Mr Webster? Eight hours after we start?

  Nine, perhaps? Before it is dark and your troops can come for us, how many will you be able to c
ount down there beside the present one? There is no reason for you to stand there; you gain nothing from it. We will not allow you to repeat what you did earlier.'

  The answer was faint and hard for him to hear. 'Isaac, there is much to talk about. It has been a long fight for you, and your cause has been heard. But there is nothing further to be gained for you.'

  'There is fuel for the aircraft, that has yet to be gained. If you do not bring it then you must stand there and you

  must watch, and discover whether you like what you see. Understand this, Mr Webster: we have nothing against you, we want little of you, we want only the petrol. It is a small thing for you, it will not cost you much, not set against the lives you play with."

  Isaac crawled away from the door, and then stood up, brushed the grime from his trousers, and seemed to Rebecca to be laughing.

  'If they shout again, you talk to them, let them hear you, let them see you. Perhaps David went too early.' He walked past her, not with haste, but casually, cosseting his gun. Before he reached the drinks trolley where he would again take up his stance he was whistling: a song from the Ukraine, of his people, a cheerful tune.

  Behind Charlie's back Arie said, 'You told me he was the hard one, this Isaac. You knew your man.'

  'All over it's the same, in every group you find one . .'

  'Can we talk to him, Charlie, can you get him back?'

  Never looking behind, watching all the time the windows and the door, Charlie said, 'The little bastard thinks he can win. He doesn't believe in us, doesn't believe we have the will to beat him.

  That's where he has to be convinced . . .'

  'You must tell him I am here, Charlie. This is what I was sent for. It was for this moment.'

  'You feel something for the kid, right?' A slow smile at Charlie's mouth.

  'As you do, Charlie.'

  'And what do you want of him now.a

  That he should not be ashamed.'

  'And nothing else?'

  If he does as I ask of him then he will not be disgraced, and no more harm will come to the passengers. Your masters will be happy with you, Charlie, and will talk of a great victory. For us there can be no victory, only defeat, and if I cannot talk to Isaac then there will be defeat for us, but you will share in it.'

  'That's a long old speech, Benitz. Let's cut the crap and get on with it*

  Charlie walked forward three or four paces, isolating himself from the Israeli. Then he raised his voice again.

  ' Isaac, you must listen to us. A man has come from Tel

  Aviv. He is the representative of the Israeli government. He is a colonel of the Israeli Defence Force. You have to listen, Isaac, you have to hear what the Israeli government says to you. You must put the past behind you, forget all this rubbish about winning and will power and strength.

  You have to talk to this man, for God's sake.'

  He could imagine them back in the control tower. Crowded round the television set, picking up his words and searching on the outer camera monitor for the Israeli: be bedlam. Who authorized it? Whose sanction? Deep in now, Charlie, blown yourself, risked the lot, jeopardized the pension, the job, all the same things that mob will be thinking of. No point in saying you didn't reckon it was going to work out like this. Took him there yourself, and you've made it public, broadcast it to the world.

  Incessant in his ear were the tribal drums of anger and dissent. 'Come in, Webster. Come in immediately. Webster, respond to your call sign. What the hell is going on out there? Did you take the Israeli to the location? It was expressly forbidden that he should reach the plane.

  Answers must be given.' They seemed to be passing the microphone from one to the other. All climbing on you, Charlie, leaning on your back, pummelling you. Tell them to get stuffed.

  ' I have one message for you. They will start to shoot hostages again in something less than forty minutes. I repeat, the killing starts again in forty minutes. That is why I am here. I have nothing else to report. Nothing else.' There were further bleated demands for clarification, amplification, justification. He reached to his side for the control console, felt with his fingers for the volume button and turned it slowly, anti-clockwise.

  Another step forward. 'Isaac, you have to listen to this man. He comes at the direct instruction of the Israeli government. He's no trick, he's not a stooge. You have to hear him out. You have to listen to him before there is more killing.'

  The answer was a long time coming. It seemed fainter to their ears, and there was confusion and hesitancy in the voice.

  'It is Rebecca Who hears you. Isaac has said that we must have the petrol. Soon he will choose which man stands at the door at one o'clock. You have not much time for the petrol. After one o'clock then perhaps we should hear what your friend has to say."

  Charlie shouted again, and was not heeded. He brushed his hand across his mouth to clear the saliva that had gathered there. They'll have your neck for this, Charlie, right up high they'll swing you. Someone had to get the scene moving, didn't they? But there're ways of doing it, Charlie.

  Their way and your way. Your way's a loser.

  George Davies was well pleased with the training session, as pleased as he would ever be. Eight men approaching the aircraft from the dead ground at the rear. Four for the back door and needing more time because it must be forced from the outside and they would be unfamiliar with the locking devices employed on the Ilyushin. Four more to the front where the hatch was free, and pausing for the dovetailing of the plan, the synchronization of the triple movement that would come from his direction by radio. Three stages and all simultaneous - the opening of the rear door, attack at the front, and the detonation of flash grenades coupled with sustained machine-gun fire on the port side of the aircraft. As much noise as possible, he had said he wanted, create the diversion, get their heads to the wrong windows and rely on the instinctive reaction to gunfire, take cover. He reckoned that if he could get his men inside the plane while the pair were still crouched down, or looking to the port side, orientating themselves to a new situation, then he stood a good chance. But there were imponderables. If the diversion did not drive Isaac and Rebecca down, if their attention were not drawn across the aircraft. If they were standing and shooting. If the hostages panicked and ran from their seats. There were any number of things that could screw it. But you could go only so far in preparation. They had to realize that back in the control tower, had to know that if the military went in then the picnic was over. He did not give the civilians the benefit of his doubt, thought for the most part they hadn't the slightest idea of the consequences of what they now planned.

  Timing was working well, and the movement up the ladders could not be bettered. They had reasonable diagrams of the door mechanism to work off, and good photographs of the boy and the girl to imprint on each man's memory. The soldier who would carry the megaphone could handle the

  Russian language commands to order the passengers to remain seated - atrocious accent, but they'd understand him. Vital that - it was the one continual disturbing worry that obsessed him: that the passengers would start moving.

  Five times they worked the manoeuvre - more than that and there was a danger of staleness.

  Had to keep them hungry, prevent the risk of any blunting familiarity coming into the operation.

  When they gathered round him, back on the tarmac after the last run, they discussed equipment.

  They rejected helmets and also the armour-plated 'flak' jackets; too cumbersome, too likely to catch on the ladder, the doorway, between the seats. They peeled their webbing down to a minimum, belt and nothing else. Tennis shoes in place of boots, the short-barrelled Ingram in preference to anything that was heavier, larger, whatever the loss of hitting power. Nothing to be taken that could impede the one desperate dash along the aisle.

  'Remember,' Davies said to the small group, 'remember, the slightest sign of opposition and you hammer them. Three- round bursts, and angled because we're taking both end
s. They have to be bloody fast getting their hands up if they're to live through this little lot. Any chance of them shooting, blast them. If you're impeded, or can't see them, take the ceiling out . . . they only have to get one good burst off and we've wrecked the whole thing.'

  'When does the next ultimatum wind up?' One of the group was anxious to know how soon they might be called on to demonstrate before the live audience what they had mastered in rehearsal.

  'A little over half an hour. The civvie guy, the spook, is having another go at them at the moment. If he fails and the gaffers think they're about to start chopping again then we go. We won't be waiting for dark.'

  Three men were with the Israeli Prime Minister: his Foreign Minister, the head of military intelligence, and the personal adviser to his office on counter-terrorism. All four wore open-necked shirts and light slacks.

  It was an inconclusive meeting with little to report. The Prime Minister was assured that the British seemed adamant that in the event of a successful outcome to the siege of the Ilyushin 18

  then any surviving hi-jackers would be flown directly to the Soviet Union. It was unlikely, he was told, that the British would even bother to prefer charges for those offences committed inside the jurisdiction of local courts. It would be, the Foreign Minister remarked, the Iranian precedent rather than the Munich one to which the British would turn. When the Prime Minister had raised his eyebrows fractionally, the signal that he wished clarification, it was explained that the Iranians had sent back a Soviet Air Force pilot who had defected in a light aircraft seeking political asylum. The Munich option referred to the West German refusal to hand over a twenty-six-year-old fugitive who had seized an internal Prague-Bratislava flight at gunpoint and flown it to Munich.

  ' I had hoped for more from the Americans,' said the Prime Minister, turning to the army reserve general, an old friend, one who could be trusted and whom he had brought out of retirement to sit close by his office. ' I had hoped that their influence on the British would be greater.'