What was different, unique, that made you stand up and plan and conspire?
Not enough now, too late, to call to the soldiers that you were just a follower, that it was not of your willing, not your choice. Too many questions, Isaac had said, and Isaac was right. Always right.
And the talk of killing. All the preparations for the death of another. All the plotting, all the reconnaissance. All the hours in the hut used to prepare for the struggle that would be launched against the oppression that sat on their people. All that time, and no thought of this moment, of the trapped incarceration. Brave talk it had been, and Rebecca in the thick of it. Remember?
Remember the calling for the choice, haphazard and not by merit, that determined that Moses should go first?
Why, Rebecca?
God, how do I know?
Would David have loved you then, if you had drawn the short straw?
Perhaps.
If you had killed a man, would that have fired, stiffened, strengthened him?
Perhaps.
Did you have to kill a man to win David's love?
But he never came to me, never came to me as a woman. Only as a friend, a colleague… an adjunct, never as a woman.
His fault or your fault, Rebecca?
I don't know. God knows it's the truth, but I don't know.
Is it that he cannot, Rebecca? Is it that he is not man enough…?
Let me sleep, please, please.
Did we have to come to this place for your answer, Rebecca, and have we now found it?
I have to sleep. I must sleep.
Is that your answer, Rebecca?
If that is the truth better never to have known, better never to have come. Better to have stayed the ordinary girl. Brave, ignorant and happy.
It was cold in the control tower when Charlie woke and he shivered as he recalled where he was, and why. A policeman grinned down at him from the chair in front of the console that he had occupied, guarding the radio, while Charlie slept. Long time since Charlie had slept rough, not since the family camping holiday outside Aberystwyth when they'd packed it in after four days, conceding second best to the weather and he'd vowed never again, no more holidays for the mob without confirmed hotel bookings. Have to get ready for when they opened the radio circuit.
Should wash his socks through first though, not that anyone else would have, but a standing privilege of a desk job was that a man had the right to clean socks. Quit the rubbish, Charlie, get up and concentrate.
Charlie dressed quickly, just his trousers and shirt, and felt a moment of distaste at the darkened rim of his collar.
'Any chance of a cup of tea and a half-minute with a battery razor?'
The policeman was happy to vacate the chair, said he'd go and look, and that the Committee was dossing down below in the Airport Manager's office, all except the Home Secretary, of course: found him a billet in the Fire Chief's house, a bit away, but inside the perimeter.
'Tell them I'm on the seat, my compliments and remind them that the plane's due to come through any time now.'
Going to have to be careful with this one. This was the crucial conversation: that much had been decided last night. Should be left in no doubt they'd get no petrol, fly nowhere else.
Clitheroe had given it his sanction, all right once they'd rested to give them the pill. But didn't really matter how freshened they were, how much they could think things out, labour with the logic; always unpredictable when they flatten into a brick wall for the first time, realize they haven't a safety belt on… Shut up, Charlie, shut up and wait for the tea to come.
But the radio call came before the tea.
'Kingfisher here, Kingfisher here. The man we spoke to last night, is he there?'
Charlie waved behind him, the fantasies scattered, alert, in control. There was a shout that echoed away down the stairs, and then the drumming of feet taking the stairs two at a time.
'Charlie to Kingfisher'- humour the silly apes -'Charlie here. Please identify who is calling. Is that David?' Keep it simple to start with while you tune into the language.
What a time in the morning to be fluent in Russian! 'Have you slept well inside the plane? Did you get your heads down?'
' It is immaterial. We are waiting for the answer. We want the fuel. Do you have the authorization for that?' He'd slept all right, the bastard. Didn't sound as if he were back on the ropes like last night – fresher, keener, more determined, and rejecting the request for identification. Someone was tapping on Charlie's shoulder. Assistant Chief Constable there, looking as though they'd pulled him backwards through a hedge and still combing what hair he had, and Clitheroe in his braces and short of his jacket and tie and still breathless from the race up the stairs.
'Dont worry about the translation now, Mr Webster. Give it to them hard and straight.'
Finger to the console, switch to transmission. Deep breath, steeled himself.
'David, this is Charlie. I have a very important statement for you from the British government.
I want you to hear it right through, and I don't think you should interrupt me, not till I've finished.
Is that understood?'
'We will hear what you have to say.' Concession and a fragment of subservience.
'David, this is the reply of the British government. You are ready to listen? There will be no refuelling of the aircraft. There is no possibility, whatever your reaction, that the plane will be refuelled in order that you can fly to Israel…' There was a fast and angry explosion of shouting from the loudspeaker, explanatory, aggressive, yet difficult for Charlie to follow in detail. 'You said you'd hear me out. Shut up and listen. There will be no fuel, there will be no negotiation about flying this or any other plane to Israel. The journey is over, David. Your plane is surrounded by a military force that includes specialist troops of the highest calibre. There are two ways that you can leave the aircraft. You can come off dead, or you can come off alive with your hands over your heads, unarmed and after you've released the passengers. There are no other options. We will sit here as long as you need to make up your minds, but we think that you are all intelligent people, we think you will realize that there is no point in continuing, that you will understand your situation. Look out of any windows and you will see the armoured cars.
There is nowhere for you to run to, David. That is what the British government says.'
Charlie sat back in his seat, heaving his chest in relief, then half-spun in the chair and gave the men who waited behind him a precis of what had passed. Then he swung back and was writing hard on his pad.
New voice, different accent, devoid of subservience.
'That is all you have to say to us?' Like meeting a pen friend for the first time. Had to be Isaac, and Charlie pointed without comment to the photograph for the benefit of those who watched.
'Yes, Isaac, that is all. There is no room for negotiation, no scope for it. Your position is a hopeless one from any military or physical point of view, and you must surrender unconditionally. If you do that, and have first released the passengers and crew, then I guarantee that no harm will come to you when you give yourselves up.'
'You know what the consequences will be?' Too fast a reply for him to relay an English translation to what he had said, had to hang on, keep up the momentum, hopeless if he broke the spell now.
'There are no 'consequences' as you put it, Isaac, that will alter the decision of the British government.'
'You believe that?'
' I know it, Isaac. They will not change their stance.'
'Wait till ten o'clock, ten this morning. Then tell me again.'
' Isaac, there is no point in threats. There is nothing to be gained from them, only the worsening of your situation…' No one listening, the empty, unresponsive echo of discarded headphones far away. Charlie looked up at the digital clock immediately above, saw the numeral flip over – four fifty-two. Five hours till Isaac turned his words into action. More explanations to the men behind and a graveness in their faces as they heard the final stages of the exchange.