unhappy that someone else had come to do the chat, but he'd like to have been asked, to have known the pedigree.
Charlie slid his jacket from his shoulders, slung it over the back of the seat-rest, loosened his tie, and settled himself to wait for the contact. Sort of been drawn into it, hadn't he? Never really been asked. Just expected of him, taken for granted. Charlie Webster, terrorist hunter back on the job, keeping people safe in their beds, letting the great unwashed fornicate in peace, and by-the-by chopping a few kids who'd been sold some crap ideology and thought they could change the world on the strength of it.
The transcript was placed in front of him; he read it briefly -three to chop this time. Shouldn't be too difficult, Charlie. Not unless they played stupid.
The Parliamentary Private Secretary was at the cabinet administering the ice cubes, pouring out the gin.
'Plenty of that, and not too much tonic.' The Foreign Secretary always said that and it didn't affect the same weak mixture that was always surrendered to him. He had hated the drive back from Dorneywood, detested the speed. It should have been one of the privileges of his rank that he didn't have to submit to those bloody siren- paced races up the M4. Generally he was able to instruct the driver that he wanted a steady ride, forty-five miles an hour, but events hadn't waited on him that evening. The Russian would be waiting outside, in the ante-room, but time first for a stiff one – not flat it would be. Some of the blighters you couldn't talk to, the Russians, not a spark of contact, dead as the Sargasso. But at least this fellow was out of the ordinary, quite human, and good enough English to ditch the interpreter which always seemed to smooth the way. He downed his drink in a single gulp, leaving the ice and the lemon slice unsullied, then handed the glass back to his PPS; the man knew the drill, put it out of sight in the cabinet and closed the doors on the array of bottles.
'Let's have him,' the Foreign Secretary said.
Decent-looking chap, in his way, hair well cut, and not a bad suit. First impressions of the Foreign Secretary at the entrance at the far end of the forty-foot office of the Russian Ambassador at the Court of St James. He offered him a seat on the sofa and took his own place in the armchair at the side. PPS behind them both with the scribbling pad and the pencil. Not really form, not having an FO man in here with them, but the Russian hadn't brought anyone either.
There were times for an official, minuted record, times when it wasn't suitable; and neither was seeking to preserve this particular conversation for posterity.
' I would like to say first,' the Ambassador began – flawless English, marginal accent – 'that my government sends a message of gratitude to the British government for permitting the Aeroflot flight to land.' With a gesture of his hand the Foreign Secretary acknowledged the formalities.
'But I think, Minister, that we both understand that we have reached a most difficult and complex stage in the handling of this criminal incident. I am informed by my government that prior to the murderous hi-jacking of the aircraft this gang of thugs had attempted to kill a policeman in the city of Kiev. For this they were being sought at the very time that they took over the Aeroflot flight from that city to Tashkent, and by doing so endangered the lives of many innocent passengers. During their capture of the aircraft – which had no armed security men on board – they killed the captain at his seat in the cockpit-we have been told by the young pilot officer who successfully flew the plane to Britain that her captain was executed as the assassins took over the flight deck. All of this you know, Foreign Secretary. Also you will have had by now the communication of my government, personally signed by the Comrade Secretary General of the Party, and sent to all heads of government in the countries in which we thought it possible that the aircraft might land.'
He had the admiration of the British politician. So many of them would have taken half an hour to get to the point, but they were already there, and the first cigarette in the Russian's hand not half-smoked.
'My government look upon these three not as political refugees but as murderers and criminals.
We regard them as you regard the terrorists of the Irish Republican Army that bomb your cities.
When you arrested the men and women of Birmingham and Guildford, the terrorists of your central London campaign, you put them through the courts and you sentenced them as your law permits. I venture to say that if these men had taken refuge in any European country you would have sought their arrest and extradition. We cannot believe that the British government would contemplate the refuelling of the aircraft to facilitate its flight to Israel.' There was a nod of acquiescence from the Foreign Secretary. 'And after your authorities have disarmed these people we will require that they be sent back forthwith to the Ukraine to face justice in Kiev. I am also informed-and this may help you arrive at your final decision – that the position of the aircraft at the moment the captain was shot places the crime within the jurisdiction of the courts of that city.
'That is what I have been asked by the senior personalities of the Soviet Foreign Ministry to pass to your Excellency in addition to the communication of the Comrade Secretary General. I have also been asked to furnish some indication of the attitude that the British government will take in this matter.'
Right between the eyes, and where he'd expected it. Been dealing with them long enough to know that the sting was always in the tail. Used a hard word, for the language of diplomacy that was: 'require', nearest thing to an ultimatum you could get, not a friendly word, not leaving much room for manoeuvre. And wanting some sort of answer off the cuff. He knew the problems just like everyone else did, but was piling on the pressure from the start, getting his foot in the door.
He'd done it well.
' I can assure you – and you may pass this on to your government and to the Comrade Secretary General – that it is not the intention of the British security forces and officials who are currently at Stansted that the aircraft should leave there except as a free flight and without passengers and crew being held at gunpoint. There is no question while the plane is under the command of armed men that it will be refuelled for an onward flight to Israel. That is a solemn guarantee.' The easy section, obvious and would satisfy nobody. The next leg was harder, 'I am advised by the British government's legal officers that the hi-jackers have already contravened various sections of the British criminal code, certainly illegal possession of firearms, possibly kidnapping, and it is likely that should they surrender they would be required to face the due process of United Kingdom law…'
' I do not wish to have to report to my government that in my opinion the British would use minor charges to protect these three criminals from the Soviet courts. Perhaps I have not made myself clear, Excellency: we want these people back. We want them quickly. We would take procrastination on this point as a most serious matter.'
'Threats will not be conducive to settling our problems.' It was quietly said by the Foreign Secretary, but with the acting and the politeness vanishing from the soft-lit room.
'It is not a threat.'
'Then I misunderstood your choice of words. We must be most careful in the choice of words that we use, otherwise we will have misunderstandings, which would be unfortunate.'
'What then should I inform my government concerning the extradition of these people?' A fractional retreat, but tactical only, and the Foreign Secretary knew it would mean as little at the end of the day as his answer.
'You should tell your government that the British Foreign Secretary has undertaken to pass on the details of this conversation personally to the Prime Minister. You should also say that the first priority of the British government is to ensure the safe release of all the passengers and crew of the plane. In the short term we regard that as the more important issue.'
The Soviet Ambassador rose, smile back on his face, firm grip in his handshake, a word about future meetings and he was through the door and into the ante-room. He had time as he walked across the Isfahan carpet to recognize the short and stubbed presence, buried in an easy chair, of the Israeli Ambassador, now waiting for his appointment.
There was no greeting, no acknowledgment from either.
From where he sat Charlie Webster had as good a view as any of the Ilyushin.
Static and immobilized, it was swathed in light from the portable floodlights that the military had put in place within a hundred yards of its towering, crab-like form.
Behind Charlie were the Emergency Committee who would dictate his replies once the hi-jackers chose to begin transmissions. The Home Secretary, there at the Prime Minister's request to assume overall political control of the affair, with the convoy of civil servants hovering near to him, to advise and to caution. The Assistant Chief Constable, spruced and neat and boasting the thin multi-coloured ribbons of war service and police work on his chest. Two army officers who had made a separate journey from London, coming from Ministry of Defence.
One civilian, as different from the rest of them in his own right as was Charlie; check shirt and the collar
