stiffeners bent in too many washes so that they rode up his sports coat lapels, a tie that had shields on it that were lost and disfigured by the many times it had been knotted, hair that was long and had not known the benefit of comb and water and that hung loosely from the body of his head, rounded brown corduroy trousers and scuffed brown shoes: not a man who was kept, not a man who owed allegiance to conformity, stiff bold cheekbones and a ferret nose that poked and pried into the conversations around him. Not somebody who was accepted but tolerated, because he was the psychiatrist in the team, with a special role to play: the man with experience of psychopaths, of the deranged, who had advised on the siege at Balcombe Street, and the Spaghetti House stake-out in London's West End. The Dutch with their knowledge of the prison and train hostage-taking operations had proved the value of a medical man in the team, and the Home Office had drafted Anthony Clitheroe into their plans, placing him on call so that he could be summoned from his Wimpole Street practice whenever the need arose.
Later the group would disperse to the offices of the airport management but at that moment all of them wanted to witness the initial contact, sought to hear the timbre of the voices of the opposition still hidden from them by the sleek, wind-wiped walls of the Dyushin's fuselage.
In front of him Charlie had placed the three photographs he had been given in London: he could see the faces, study them, learn from them. Further to his right, as if denoting its lesser importance, he had laid the diagram of the interior of the 11-18. He felt nervous, tense in his stomach, waiting for them to begin, longing for them to do so. But had to let them take the initiative, that was the procedure; the young people should not be hurried, all the privileges of the bride.
It was the girl who spoke first.
'To the authorities, do you hear u s… do you hear us?'
'We hear you veiy clearly.'
'Do you hear us…' The girl had forgotten, or never known, that she had to take her finger off the depress switch when she'd finished speaking, otherwise she couldn't hear the replies. Stupid cow.
'We hear you very clearly.'
Her memory of the technicalities jolted, or someone had told her, but now she had mastered the equipment. 'We call ourselves the Kingfisher group. We wish to talk to the responsible persons. Have they come yet?'
Not bad English, out of the classroom – like your Russian, Charlie. She was speaking too close to the microphone so that she distorted and he could not gauge the strength of her spirits, her morale.
'Hello, Kingfisher group.' Where had they dug that one up? Out of the norm-Black September, Black June, First of April movement, Struggle group of any wet November Thursday, that was what they'd come to expect. 'My name is Webster, Charlie Webster. We can talk in Russian or English, whichever you prefer. If you want to talk in Russian you must accept that there will be pauses while I translate to the people that are with me what you are saying.'
Silence, while they worked it out. Decide whether the big man in the group wants to do the talking for himself, which means Russian, or whether they delegate to the girl. A handwritten note was passed in front of him. Charlie should not let it be known the Emergency Committee had already assembled at the airport. Going for the stall game and delay; Clitheroe's advice was clear on this, adamant.
In Russian, and a man speaking. Sounded an age away, more distant than the girl, subdued, unsure; perhaps just the angle to the microphone.
'My name is David. I wish to speak to the persons in charge.'
Charlie in Russian too. Couldn't match his dialect, softer, less cruel to the ear than the harsher speech of the north, of Moscow. Wouldn't try to ape him, just speak the way he had been taught, the way they were all taught in T Corps where it was assumed that any Russian they would need to interrogate had done his secondary school in the Kremlin's shadows. Not easy, not at first. Seemed a long time since he'd spoken the language conversationally. One thing to read newspapers and official reports, even to write it, but quite another to chat in the tongue and summon up the persuasiveness to win confidence.
'Webster, Charlie Webster here. I'm the Russian language speaker, but as I explained to your colleague there will be delays while I tell my colleagues what you are saying, and what I am telling you.' Take all night at this rate. He flicked the transmission button to 'off' on the console in front of him, told the men who stood behind what he had said. Back to 'on'. Live again.
'We should say who we are. The Kingfisher group is Jewish. We are of a people who have long been oppressed and persecuted. We are political persons. We have flown out of the Soviet Union because we seek to arrive in Israel, and now we need fuel to continue our journey. We mean no harm to anyone, but we demand the fuel. Have you understood that?'
' I have understood that, David. I am going to tell my colleagues what you have said.' Charlie repeated the drill on the console, turned in the swing chair and explained the message.
The Home Secretary said, 'You know, Mr Webster, that there is no possibility of them having fuel. The question is, do they find that out now or later?'
Anthony Clitheroe was an eminent man in his field, accustomed to delivering detailed and lengthy speeches to his colleagues, with a considerable list of major studies to his name and a quarter of a column of Who's Who to back up his claims to be heard out. But he had learned from his two previous encounters with security forces that they required the shortest of responses from him in such situations.
'Find an excuse, put him off, tell him the people necessary to make such a decision are not here, and won't be till the morning.'
Finger back to the console, Charlie speaking again to the flight deck.
'David, this is a very important request that you are making, and one which would have to be considered very carefully by the British government. The problem is that we're in the middle of the holiday season here. Many of the most senior men are away on their vacations. There is no one here who could give that sort of authorization. Probably we won't be able to get a decision till the morning.'
'Don't make a fool of me.' The inanimate, detached voice cracked back from the loudspeaker high on the back wall of the control tower. Pitch rising, and hostility communicated.
' I'm not making a fool of you, David.'
'Don't take me for an idiot. The Germans were able to make a decision that we should not land, the Dutch were able to offer us impossible conditions knowing that we would not accept. We are not peasants. Your people facilitated this landing; that was not authorized by a junior official. Do not tell me that the responsible people cannot now be contacted. Do not play a game with me. We are very tired, we are impatient now. Do you know why I say that…?'
'Of course you are tired, and that is the more reason why you should sleep, and the pilot too must have a chance to sleep, and then we can talk in the morning.'
'Not in the morning. We want the fuel tonight. In the morning we fly.'
'It is not possible..
'It must be possible. Tell your people that, whoever they are. Tell them.'
Clocks ticking, a subdued cough, the shuffling of feet. Charlie sighed, loosened his collar further and turned once more to his audience; but they didn't need him – not to give them the bones, at any rate. They'd picked that up from the voices – David's anger, Charlie's wheedling.
But he went through the drama and the explanation.
The Assistant Chief Constable had manoeuvred till he was at the Home Secretary's shoulder.
'With respect, sir – and I acknowledge that there are others better qualified in these matters than myself-but it's dangerous this way round, codding them along. I suggest we make it plain, right from the start, that they are not flying on, that it's not negotiable.'
' I want to lead them to the realization gradually.' Clitheroe held his ground, not seeking proximity to their political master, aloof and with his hands in his pockets. 'You have heard the man's voice; it didn't need Mr Webster's translation to tell you he's near-hysterical. He is exhausted, and may become totally irrational. If you push him you could have a suicide situation, at best a collapse, at worst mayhem among the passengers.'
First conflict, Charlie thought to himself. Haven't been here forty-five minutes and they're swapping punches already. Always the same when you try and do things by committee.
'You have to take a firm line,..' sNot for its own sake, only if that helps the end result.'
The Home Secretary looked beyond his protagonists. Then he went to the man who had impressed him in London, who seemed to know and who had the humility of caution in his assessments.
