segments of the taxi area. Thirty-five minutes it took them till they were back to the cover of the tankers' shadows. David had slept through their visit, Rebecca too, and Isaac who straggled to stay awake had heard no sounds that could have aroused him from his vigil with the passengers.
'Bugs nicely in place, ready to bite,' Davies told the scientist – not a matter to boast of, just the communication of necessary information.
Receivers had been moved into the cement hut behind the tankers. Three men were busying themselves with screwdrivers and transistor circuit diagrams. 'Get a move on, lads. I want you out of here by sparrow fart, all tucked up in your beds by morning,' said the major. The civilians worked fast, knew that he joked, knew they were relegated to spend the next day, or two, or three, in the hut. When they had finished with their adjustments they returned to the van, unloaded camp beds, and one carried a Thermos flask, and another spoke of overtime or 'bubble at time and a half', as he called it. 'Not a bloody holiday camp,' was Davies's parting thrust. He walked out into the night again. Depended now on the boffins to get the kit into shape, but he'd met them before, believed in them and their equipment. The main thing was the secrecy of the fish-eye: the buggers inside wouldn't know of it, wouldn't look for it.
Davies eased himself into the small gap between cabin and tail of two tankers, where the plane was flush to him. Shouldn't be difficult, not if there's only three of them, and all youngsters. Be in there in no time, if that's what the gods on high decreed. Always the problem though, always the chance that one of the buggers won't see the reason of it, won't want to live, will take his last five seconds on earth blasting all and sundry round him. Plenty of plaudits for the rescue team if he doesn't, if the civvies come out of it in one piece, but sparse on thanks and short on medals for the chaps that pull out twenty stiffs and another fifteen in the ambulances with the sirens going full blast. All a matter of luck, whether one man stands his ground and wants to take people with him before he coughs. Same operation, same tactics, same drills, and you either end up a hero or a miserable bloody failure. Israelis understood that – wouldn't have taken thirty doctors to Entebbe if they hadn't – but Davies's masters, would they understand it? Not a bloody chance.
Behind him the voice said, 'There's nothing to see yet, and no one talking on the inside loud enough for the mikes,
But everything seems to be operational. Should be able to start the peep-show once they lift the curtain.'
Proud and bold, the battleship at her moorings, Aeroflot 927 rode out the night hours. No movement inside her visible to the army of watchers, no sound that was detectable. Splendid and serene and masking her secrets, defying the onlookers to penetrate her inner thoughts. With the darkness had come the dew that caused the soldiers sprawled in the grass to curse and fidget and envy those who owned at least the warmth and dryness of the aircraft seats in which to rest. Over all the turgid throb of the generators for the lights, beating out their own discordant rhythm, sending messages far beyond the circle of men who cradled their rifles and waited.
Charlie would have liked to have gone down from the tower, out into the air and walked close to the plane, sniffed at the atmosphere that surrounded it. But his place was by the radio, and he needed sleep. No point being knackered in the morning, not when the hard work would start.
Wondered how they'd take it, how they'd react, when they realized the time was up, come in 927, show's over. Go ape, or take it calmly? Never could say with these kids.
Past two when he came to terms with his camp bed. Not long till dawn, till the time to talk to the plane again. Endless repetition of the same thought. How good would they be? What calibre?
Brave? And if they were, how would they use it?
He remembered the kid in Sheik Othman, little bastard, with his shirt-tail flapping, and his futah loosened from the drive of his knees as he sought to clear the soldiers' cordon, and how they'd brought him down and laughed and sat on him, and you'd heard him scream, Charlie, scream for his father, and the captain had come, and the fist had lost itself in the bid's hair and they'd walked him to the corner. One shot you'd heard, you and all the others in the coffee shop, you with the ointment on your face that made you local, made you one of them. And you'd wanted to heave, and had looked around for guidance and for a lead. Not an eyebrow flickering, not a mouth cracking, not a breath drawn in. Called him a grenadier in the communique, and the little bugger should have been at school. Defence of the Empire, Charlie, defence of Law and Order. Shook you, Charlie, and you supposed to be a hard man.
Never could sleep without a pillow. Remember the night in the officers' mess, infantry battalion down at Plymouth and some bright sod had suggested you go down and talk to a few of the chaps before you went to Dublin the first time? Not that they said anything, anything that might be useful, but crowed like fucking cockerels. How we killed young Paddy, young Sean, young Micky. Terrorists all of them, seventeen years, eighteen years, nineteen years old. Bloody kids.
Chased them round the alleys, up the back entries, closed the net. One shot to slow, one shot to fell, one shot to finish, and get the Saracen up fast and over the body so Dad doesn't come out and whip the Armalite for the next pig-thick ignorant kid with holes in his shoes through to his socks and one pair of jeans to his name who wants burying and thinks he's a freedom fucking fighter.
Wrap it, Charlie, time for bloody sleep. Time to kill three more kids, little bright eyes all waiting for you, waiting for you in the morning, Charlie, and with a bit of luck the sun will be shining.
Long time coming, the sleep. Not that a pillow would have helped.
CHAPTER TEN
Many hours now the group had been meeting. Beyond the closing of the cafes and pubs, beyond the closing anthem of the television stations, beyond the gradual whittling of the drumming traffic noise on the Bayswater streets. At any time of concern this was where they always gathered, not because the cramped flat was in any way suitable for their deliberations but because its tenant was the General Secretary of their movement – in charge of their proud pile of headed notepaper, and the petty cash.
At times as many as twenty had been present, but the size of the group varied, some hurrying away, others coming fretful that they had delayed too long. There were enough, though, to fill all the chairs in the room, and the stools that had been brought from the kitchenette, and the pillows pressed into service from the bedroom. They drank coffee, sharp and gritty, swilled down with tap water and sweetened by spoonfuls of sugar, and they nibbled at supermarket biscuits, and straggled to stay awake lest any should miss the hourly news bulletins that could be found on the World Service of the BBC, and the more atmospheric Voice of America.
The members of the group had many factors in common. All had been born inside the confines of the Soviet Union. All were tarnished with the same labels -'refugee', 'exile'. All were Jewish, contributors and active members of the London-based 'Committee for Freedom of Soviet Jewry'.
All were worried, all anxious, all frustrated that the strand of involvement was stretched so loose.
All were attempting to focus their minds and thoughts on a lone aircraft, far away and at an airport none had visited. And all were willing their intellect to transport them across the miles of cityscape and countryside close to the hull of the Ilyushin airliner.
The shared tiredness had long since dulled the clarity of their conversation, so that for long spells the silence hung, burdening, upon the little room. Some it caused to feel unequal to the moment, others the anger of helplessness, and a very few to doze, comforted in the knowledge that they would be awakened at the chime of signature music that would herald the next bulletin.
These were kicked and pummelled people. They had experienced the soaring upsurge of spirit that comes from the first breath of freedom at stepping outside their rejected homeland, and now had realized that life was crueller, more savage, and that their visions of liberation had led to the bed-sit land where they lived and the hotel kitchens where they thought themselves fortunate to find work. Little people, whose escape had been quiet and without fanfare and who now fidgeted with their necklaces and their Star-of-David chains, and who searched each other's faces that the next news programme might be hastened, and coughed hesitantly, pulling at their cigarettes and expelling the smoke into the saturated air.
Most Sundays they gathered in a tight knot on the grass of Hyde Park. They took regular turns at making and listening to the familiar speeches, and clapped and cheered, and wondered why the great herd was so uncaring and
