'All the makings of a very cheery scene.' Charlie thanked him, and sat alone in his office. It was a bit confusing when he started to think about it. Terrorist hi-jack or freedom fighters' break-out.
Square pegs in round holes. What did you greet them with at the airport – bouquet and a speech of welcome, or a Saracen and a pair of handcuffs? Been rabbiting on long enough, hadn't they, our political masters, about the state of Soviet Jewry, so what were they going to do with this one?
Only one thing to do, he thought. Pray God it doesn't come here.
CHAPTER SIX
While the big Ilyushin purred its way across the airspace of Poland and the German Democratic Republic – with its now more discreet escort of Migs, scrambled from more forward Warsaw Pact airfields – frantic meetings were being convened throughout Western Europe.
All the continent's countries can now call on the services of 'crisis committees' of politicians, civil servants and senior police and army officers who are on call to advise the heads of government on what course they should take if confronted with a major guerrilla action. It is the task of these committees to evaluate the threat and the implications of involvement with the new breed of warfare that since the start of the decade had proved so costly in terms of money and prestige to the old world. The lesson of preparation had been learned the hard way, with cabinets ill-briefed and security forces poorly trained to do battle with the new militia playing by their own new rules of warfare who descend in their capitals and airports with the AK47s and RPGs and who spread mayhem and disgrace and disfigurement with minimal discrimination.
Meetings in Bonn, in Copenhagen, and Stockholm and Oslo and Helsinki. Ministers and officials hurrying to their chauffeur-driven cars in Brussels, Paris and The Hague. Policemen being called by telephone to the Cabinet offices in Madrid and Rome and Lisbon and Berne. In all these capitals, as in London, it was recognized that speed was of the essence, that a policy must be formulated and agreed before the Ilyushin attempted its inevitable landing. Dominating the discussions was the Russian note, now being studied in a dozen languages, none of which could blunt the harsh message that it had been the intention of the Secretary General of the Russian Communist Party to convey. They have something in common, the politicians of Europe who are answerable to an electorate; the constant factor is the determination not to lay their backs open to the rod that can strike and wound them. To permit the plane to land when it had fuel to fly on, that was only begging for difficulties, for diplomatic furore and dangers in the high echelons of international relations. Those countries most keenly affected, in that their airports lay within easy striking range of the present flightpath of the Aeroflot airliner, had the least discussion time available to their committees, and reached their decision first.
In Bonn the advice to the Chancellor was without equivocation. Under no circumstances should the aircraft be allowed to land. Any airport that the Ilyushin approached should immediately be closed; if necessary, trucks should be driven across the runways to prevent their being used. A drastic solution, it was agreed by all who took part in the evaluation, but then so were the alternatives horrifying. Let the plane land and offer yourselves to the whim and hazard of a full-blown hi-jack siege; there could be no question of allowing the airliner to refuel and fly on in the face of the Russian demands, and no possibility with the pilot still warm in his seat of offering safe conduct. Far better to skirt the issue, and pass the problem outside the Federal frontiers. The embassies of West Germany were instructed to pass on the government decision to other interested parties. Including the Soviet Union.
It was Isaac who stayed close to the navigator watching the pencil lines that he drew across the green heavily overscored map surface on the small pull-out table that acted as his work bench.
Slow and painstaking, the plotting of the course. A few more minutes and they would have crossed the dark and shaded line that marked the barricade between the cul-tares of East and West. Just a line on a map at that height, and hazed squares of toned brown and yellow beneath them. Nothing to demonstrate the wire, and the mines and the watch towers, and the fear and the clinging helplessness that the frontier meant twenty-seven thousand feet beneath. Soon the descent would start, and the ground shades would sharpen, and then it would be over, and they would have achieved the impossible. Escape, something that could not have been contemplated two short days before. And now it was achieved, bar a few miles, a few minutes' flying time.
'We are nearly there,' he called softly to David. Why is the man still so tense, why is it necessary to hold the gun so close to the girl? The Migs have gone, been defeated, seen off. Tt is over now, friend. We have beaten the pigs, hammered them, destroyed them. Relax, David.' Still the stress etched across David's face, still the suspicion there, nothing to show that he was convinced of their victory. Impatience now from Isaac. 'Can't you see, David, we are there?' He pulled the map from the navigator's table and thrust it under David's face. 'It's over, we are there.
What was it you called it? The Kingfisher flight? The Kingfisher flight is over. The break-out of the Kingfisher, and we have done it.'
David did not speak to him, but said quietly with strain eating at his voice to the pilot officer,
'Which airport should we land at?'
Disinterest on her face, not her concern, she jerked her head back in the direction of the navigator. 'You should ask him. He is the one who will tell you that.'
'Which airport do we go to?' David asked his question of the navigator, and the man in the blue uniform with twin rings of gold braid on his wrists waved away the question. 'I am talking to the ground. They have contacted us. They say they have a message for us and are awaiting the responsible person Who will read it. The nearest airport should be Hanover, that is the civil airport, also in that area are many of the military bases of the NATO forces of the British
… It's unlikely they would permit us to use an Air Force camp. There are many options that are open if they give us permission to land. But you must be quiet, because I do not have much English and that is the language they will use to me – the pilot officer has very little, insufficient to talk to the controllers. The man that you killed was the one who spoke English.'
'How far are we from the border?'
A momentary calculation by the navigator, a deviation from his main task of awaiting the message from the ground, pencil and ruler on the map. 'We are there.'
Isaac turned away from the cockpit, walked past the forward exit door and the lavatories and the cupboard space for the winter coats, came to the entrance of the passenger cabin, machine-gun still at the ready, held low across his thighs.
Looked at the faces, saw only the drained and exhausted stares that faltered back at him. He realized the ordeal to which they had subjected this passive, muted collection of strangers – only one thing in common, all of them, that they wanted to sleep tonight in Tashkent. Time to relieve their misery, and time too, to demonstrate the power of three young Jews, and what faith could win.
'Ladies and gentlemen, I have news for you that I hope will prove welcome. We are now crossing the frontier between the two Germanys. We are awaiting the instructions of the government of the BDR as to which airport they wish us to use for landing. You should be aware of our descent very soon. It has not been our intention to cause you any hurt, but you must stay in your seats and observe our orders. That is all.' And as an afterthought – and he laughed like a child when he said it -'Perhaps some of you would care to leave the plane with us?' His humour was met by the sad, tired eyes that offered no flicker of response. Separated from him by the full length of the cabin, half-hidden by the drinks trolley that was her protection from the rear passengers, Rebecca, flagging in her strength and leaning on the trolley top for relief and showing the pistol; he smiled to her, saw her return the greeting. Funny girl, he thought, but she'd done them well. There hadn't been the time, not the opportunity to talk to her of Yevsei. The little bugger must have been on a hope and prayer to have put the guns aboard, but he couldn't have made it with her, could he? Not if David wasn't getting it… No chance for Yevsei. If she wasn't round David so much, then there could have been the opportunity, roll of drums for Isaac. David just didn't understand – too busy with his war games to see what was there on a plate. But she couldn't have kept her legs crossed all night, must have let old Yevsei get his hand in somewhere
– stands to reason, if he was going to take a risk like that. Take a girl to persuade a man to put guns on Aeroflot, only a girl…
David was tugging at his shoulder, pulling at him, wrenching him backwards and off balance as he was swung
