‘That is enough talking for now, please, Doctor. Mr van Deventer must attend to the business of take-off,’ Timothy admonished me, and I turned to give him the most expressive glare of hatred that I could force from my numbed features.
Roger asked for and received control clearance, and the take-off was routine and uneventful. The tense, anxious black faces relaxed and there were a few nervous laughs.
‘You will fly on course for Botswana,’ Timothy instructed Roger. ‘Once you are over the border I will give you a new course.’
Roger nodded stiffly, the machine-pistol still held at his head. I was assessing the strength of the gang, I had already formed a working idea of their motives. Apart from Timothy and the eight who had overwhelmed me, there were five others. These were the ones who had captured and guarded Roger and the ground crew. The wounded man and the two I had damaged were laid out on the floor of the cargo hold. The two girls were working over them, both girls from the Institute, they were fitting a splint and changing bloody bandages.
As I watched, the gang members began changing from civilian clothing into camouflage paratrooper battledress. I saw the red star shoulder flashes, and my last doubts were dispelled. I turned my head and found Timothy was watching me.
‘Yes, Doctor.’ He nodded. ‘Soldiers of freedom.’
‘Or the bringers of darkness, depending how you look at it.’
Timothy frowned at my retort. ‘I had always believed you to be a man of humanity, Doctor. You, I would have expected, could understand and sympathize with our aspirations.’
‘I find it hard to sympathize with gangsters carrying guns in their hands.’
We stared at each other for a few moments. Then abruptly he stood up and came to the radio equipment beside my chair. He switched on the set, glanced at his watch, and began sweeping the bands. The station came on loudly, and immediately all movement in the aircraft arrested, all attention fixed on the announcer’s voice:
‘This is the South African Broadcasting Corporation. The time is seven o’clock and here is the news. A spokesman for the South African Police states that at 2.15 AM this morning a detachment of the Security Police, acting on information received, raided a farm house on the outskirts of Randberg, a suburb of Johannesburg. A pitched battle between police and a large gang of unidentified persons armed with automatic weapons ensued. Elements of the gang escaped in four motor-cars, and after a chase by the police, two vehicles managed to evade pursuit. Initial reports are that eight of the gang were shot dead, and four were captured wounded or unhurt. It is anticipated that many of those escaping were also wounded. A full-scale police hunt is now in progress, and all roads out of the Witwatersrand area are under surveillance, together with all airports. It is with deep regret that we announce the death of three members of the South African Police Force, and the critical wounding of two—’
A ragged cheer rang out through the aircraft, and one or two of the gang clenched their fists over their heads in the Communist salute.
‘Congratulations,’ I murmured sarcastically to Timothy and he looked down at me.
‘Death is ugly, slavery is worse,’ he said evenly. ‘Doctor, there is a bond between us.’
‘My head is sore, my face is too painful to listen to your Communistic cant,’ I told him. ‘Don’t give me fancy words, you bastard. You want to burn my land and soak it in blood. You want to tear down everything I hold dear and sacred. It is my country and with all its faults I love it. You are my enemy. There is no bond between us - except that of the knife.’
Again we held each other’s eyes for a long moment, then he nodded. ‘To the knife then,’ he agreed and turned away. The Dakota bore on steadily into the north, and my injuries began to ache. I closed my eyes, and rode the long dizzy swells of pain that rose up out of my guts and exploded in my head.
The Mirage jet came up out of the east and flashed silvery sleek across our nose, and as it passed with incredible speed I saw the Air Force roundels and the goggled face of the pilot staring at us. Then it was gone, but immediately the Tannoy crackled into life.
‘ZA-CEE. This is Air Force Red Striker Two. Do you read me?’ I stared out of the window beside my head, and saw the Mirage turn sparkling in the sunlight high above us. Timothy came running forward to the set beside me and stared at it for a moment. The atmosphere was hushed and tense. Timothy could not reply, his Bantu accent was too thick for deception.
Again the jet howled across our front. The gunman crouched low behind Roger’s seat hidden from view.
‘ZA-CEE.’ Again the call was repeated. Timothy was sweating lightly, his face blue-grey with strain and the pain of the arm wound. He turned from the set and motioned to two of his men.
‘Bring him,’ he pointed to the white ground engineer. They dragged him into the radio compartment and held him in front of me. His face was pale and shiny with sweat, his terrified eyes held mine in pitiful appeal, the gag cut into his mouth. One of them stood behind him and pulled his head back, exposing his throat and stretching the pale skin so that the arteries showed blue and pulsing. He reached around in front of the man, and laid the glistening blade of a trench knife against his throat.
‘I am serious, Doctor.’ Timothy assured me as he freed the rope from my arms and put the microphone of the radio transmitter into my hand. ‘Reassure them. Tell them there are only two aboard, and that you are bound for the City of the Moon on a routine flight.’ He placed his finger on the transmit switch of the set ready to cut it off.
The terrified engineer moaned into his gag, the knife pressed to the softly throbbing skin of his throat. They pushed him towards me, closer so that I could see his face clearly.
‘Air Force Striker Two this is ZA-CEE standing by.’ I croaked into the mike, staring fascinated into the engineer’s terrified face.
‘Report your complement and destination.’
‘This is Dr Kazin of Sturvesant, Africa on a routine flight from—’ As I spoke I saw them relax, the tension eased and Timothy’s hand moved from the transmit switch of the set. The engineer’s eyes held mine and I wanted to tell him that I was sorry, that I wished I could save him. I wanted to explain that I was trading his life for those of fourteen of my country’s most dangerous enemies, that the sacrifice was worthwhile, and that I would willingly add my own life to the price. Instead I shouted into the handset:
‘Hi-jacked by terrorists! Fire into us! Disregard our safety.’ Timothy’s hand darted to the transmit switch, and at the same moment he turned towards the hostage. I think he was going to intervene, to try and stop it. He was
