flown together before, and she had forgotten his name – was shuffling his papers and maps. Methodical, a tidy man, and putting them quietly in his briefcase, as if they might be of further use. Yet the scope of the maps had long since been exhausted. To the border of the BDR, and everything after that on instruments and from the chorus of ground controllers who had passed them on, like a ship that flies the yellow flag and cannot find a welcoming port.
Both of them in their various ways ignored David's presence. The pilot officer who had not spoken since the landing, and the navigator who did not meet his eyes and who busied himself with trivia. And the captain too. Not a movement from him. Five hours dead now, and not a wavering of his posture; the ultimate act of defiance, sitting there, trapped, head bowed down.
Face whitening, the mouth clamped fast as if in determination not to show the pain that would have come too fast for him to know it.
Isaac stood behind him at the end of the corridor, the mouth of the cabin, studying the passengers, relentless and with total concentration after the attempt to overpower Rebecca.
Suspicious and hostile and watchful, seeming to crouch his body as though among the facing mass of people there was a missile or weapon that could damage him if he presented the broader target. He stood out in the centre of the aisle where all could see him if they stretched up from their seats and take note of the rock-firm grip on the handle of the submachine-gun. The passengers would know that the inhibitions of the pressurization of the cabin had now deserted him. The plane was on the ground: he would have no hesitation in shooting now.
' I am going to talk to the tower on the radio. I want all the people to remain in their seats. No one is to move, not for any reason.'
Isaac did not look away. His eyes were sweeping over the passengers like a prison tower searchlight, and nodded his agreement.
It seemed natural that David should resume the initiative, take up the leadership again. David waved-an afterthought -to the girl at the far end of the cabin, caught her attention and waved again and stayed long enough to see the thankfulness on her face.
'When you are ready, Isaac, take her place. She has been away from us too long.'
Inside the cockpit the navigator made way for him, but David declined the small, low-set seat, not wishing to box himself in, seeking the freedom of movement from which he could dominate.
He held the gun in his left hand now, away from the pilot officer and the navigator, and with his right he began to pull at the headset that was fastened to the ceiling of the flight deck.
'You waste your time,' the navigator said. 'Unless you speak in English there is no one there who can talk to you.'
The navigator saw the disappointment cloud over the young man's face. So far, so much at stake for him, and no one to speak his bloody language. Half a smile, little more than a suspicion, and covert, as David backed out of the cockpit, petulant anger rising.
He strode down the corridor, almost marching in his speed when he reached the passenger cabin aisle. For many of them it was their first clear glimpse of the man they took to be the leader of the group, the man most directly responsible for their position. Good-looking, those who could be remotely objective would have conceded, but they were few and from the majority there was only loathing, hidden in their turned-away faces. Edward R. Jones Jr took a surreptitious picture but doubted whether it would expose well in the dull, interior light. All the way to Rebecca, pushing past the drinks trolley, till he reached her and took her slowly and gently in his arms, the greeting of a brother, of a friend. An arm round her shoulders, and another pressing her head against his chest, the one that held his machine-gun, and the gesture was awkward till he sensed the intensity of her response.
David felt the ripple of her breath playing on the skin of his neck, heard her say, 'Are we free now, David? Is it over, is it finished?'
'The crewman says there is no one there who will speak in our language. You can speak some of their English; in a moment you must talk to them.'
'How will they be to us, after the Germans and the Dutch? How will the British be?'
He found that all he wished for was to hold the girl, keep her close, continue 'the contact. Her words now a distraction. He sensed the softness of her body, the pliant pull of her weight.
'Was it a great crime, the shooting of one policeman, and him not dead?' she continued. 'They know why we fight, they have told us on the radio of their sympathy. Does the wounding of one policeman outweigh all their statements?'
Tighter, closer, pressing her frailty against him. Silly, stupid girl. Lovely girl. Squeezing, hugging her to him.
'You forget, Rebecca, you forget the captain in his cockpit. You have put him from your mind.
But they know of it. At Hanover they had the knowledge, and at Amsterdam, and these people here will know of it. I have killed the captain, and to these people he will be the martyr and we will be the animals. One shot only I fired. One shot. It was I who fired it, not Isaac. The door would not open, and I fired. I did not angle the gun, Rebecca, I did not fire for the floor. I killed him, Rebecca, and to them that will be murder.,.'
'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
