usually evident, followed him through the door.
David hung the headset back on the top of the pilot seat. He felt the lead weight clutching at him, numbing, and Rebecca pestering, pulling at his sleeve and whispering her demand f o r their final answer, the people in the tower. Isaac still sleeping, innocent of what they had done.
'He is coming to the plane, the one called Charlie. He says the matter is sensitive, that he wishes to talk to us face to face, on the question of what they will do with us if we…' Surrender.
Capitulation. Couldn't say it, couldn't say the words.
'When will he come?'
' In a few minutes, very soon, he will walk alone to the plane.'
'Is there a danger from this?'
' If one man comes there can be no danger.' And what did it matter, how could it concern them?
What further danger could there be at the moment of defeat? But he didn't know, hadn't thought through the possibilities, untuned to those technicalities of defence that had so obsessed Isaac.
'Will you wake him?'
David seemed to shake his head – not a definite movement, just the imperceptible wave of the eyebrows, the flick of the hair across his forehead. They clung together a long time, arms round each other, cheek to cheek, Rebecca stretching upwards to match her height with his. Many times David said, with the tears running on his face, ' I'm sorry.
I am sorry.' And Rebecca crying too, choking in her throat, unable to reply.
It was a pleasant enough room that had been set aside for Colonel Arie Benitz.
Calendars on the walls – gifts of aviation companies that showed a combination of light aircraft and bikini- clad girls draped on their wings. Photographs, too, of the first airliners that had used Stansted, sepia-toned and looking frail and historic. Flowers on the window ledge. Easy chairs and a desk with a telephone.
When the call came he let it ring several seconds before answering, time to summon his caution and prepare himself. He did not identify with either rank or name, was wary till he heard the Hebrew language that was used.
The Embassy in London. He should know that the Soviet Ambassador had been received at the Foreign Office that morning, that he had made a statement to the press, had spoken of agreement with the British that the three should be returned to Russia. He also should know that there were journalists' reports that an ultimatum had been set on the aircraft, due to expire at ten hundred hours, and that it was the opinion of advice available to the Ambassador that further violence on the part of the three would only strengthen the resolve of the British to fulfil their arrangement with the Soviets.
He should find a public telephone kiosk and immediately contact those designated to liaise with him in London. The number he should call would be the first given him in the small hours.
There was a wish of the Foreign Ministry in Jerusalem to clarify his instructions in view of the new circumstances.
Arie Benitz let himself out of the office. There were many civilians and policemen and soldiers who hurried purposefully about their business and who passed him in the corridors, and none had cause to notice him. A cleaning lady, with time on her hands because many of the rooms she normally tidied at this time were occupied, directed him to a telephone in the staff canteen in the building's basement. She even changed for him the fifty- pence piece into the range of coins he would require to make the connection.
As he walked down the stairs Benitz felt the irritation rising in him, fuelled by the ill-shaped and ill-fitting clothes, ignited by the problems of the mission that he had been given. Ill at ease, unwanted, a stranger among the bustle of those who had a task and work that could not wait.
Unaccustomed to being a watcher, and on the side-lines.
Arie Benitz was steeped in the history of the State of Israel. He was committed to the defence of its people, had experienced moments when protection came only from the hammering of his Uzi, and the cries of pain from his enemies. He was treated with respect in his own country, called by his given name when spoken to in conference by his Chief of Staff. And these people had declined his help, ignored him.
As he walked into the canteen he was thinking of the three young ones, frightened and alone, in the Ilyushin. And they had said on the telephone to him that they would be returned, that he would not be required by the British to help in surrender. Arie Benitz had to fight against the thought that came into his mind. Willing them, willing the children, to hit back, attack, show their defiance. Had to suppress it, because that was contrary to his country's interests, and he was a servant of his country.
The hard one, the one they called Isaac, the one who led them now, he was the material of Squad 101, he was fashioned for the Anti-terrorist Unit. Do not lose your courage, children, thought Arie Benitz. There can be no help, there can be no rescue, but do not lose your courage.
Unwatched, unobserved, he dialled the London code.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The soldier inclined his rifle and stepped back for Charlie to pass. Out through the frosted glass door of the control tower, on to the tarmac. The heat saturated him from the moment he was clear of the protective air- conditioned blanket, warm enough to feel it wrap about him, carrying an instant clamminess to his chest and legs. The staircase had been darkened with Venetian blinds, and the brightness reflecting up from the open concrete wounded his eyes. He had left his jacket on the back of the seat, and forsaken his tie; Clitheroe had wanted that. 'Let them see from the start that you have nothing concealed on you' – those were the psychiatrist's instructions. Only the radio transmitter and receiver that bumped against his hip, swinging from the strap he had hooked over his shoulder. His shoes squelched as he moved, suffering from the time he'd worn them, and his toes were uncomfortable, irritated, so that he was reminded of the smell and the shave he had wanted. They'd given it to him very straight before they'd packed him off – just follow the line we've given, don't play hero games, don't go promising things that haven't been authorized or sanctioned.
Dont hurry it, they'd said. They will want to have a good look at you, size you up, know you're not a threat. We don't want them jumpy, not now, not with ten o'clock closing. Halfway there, getting closer, Charlie. Breathing faster, be panting by the time you arrive. Slow it. Remember the missus, what she says, no need to hurry, Charlie, we've all night, don't rush, don't speed up.
He was close enough now to see the outline of some of the faces at the windows – not the expressions, just the basics – eyes and ears and mouths. And how many behind them that were masked from him, and how many in the grass and the rain ditches beside the runway? Half a bloody army o u t there, and all that shows is a few armoured cars and the men sitting on them.
Hands a bit closer to the main armament than when you saw them from the tower, Charlie. All watching and wondering what the hell's going to happen. There'll be concentrated fire-power to support you, that's what they'd said, and he believed them, and he also believed it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference if Isaac or David didn't take a shine to him. Bad place not to be making friends, sonny boy.
Time to start putting it together. Walk round the nose and approach from the far side, with the petrol tankers behind you, where the heavies are, the SAS men. Still be able to see him from the tower, on the outside video camera, and the microphone button was permanently up so he could talk if he found anything to say. Colossal the plane looked, damn great predator, thirty tons of it, and the fools called it 'Kingfisher'. Like a great carrion crow. Near to the wing now that he should skirt, should begin to angle his approach so that he would move in front of the hulk and into the empty ground beyond. Charlie didn't look up, resisting the impulse to scan the windows: it might be taken as anxiety. Must walk as if out with the dog for a Sunday morninger down to the pub.
He wiped a smear of sweat from his forehead and with his fingers instinctively tidied his hair.
Thirty yards from the aircraft and level with the forward starboard door he stopped. Cockpit to the right, passenger cabin to the left. High above him, dominating and impersonal, was the Ilyushin, expression not known, mood uncertain. Difficult to see it that way, but that's how it was, with a mind and pulse of its own.
He shuffled his feet together waiting for a response to his presence. No point shouting, no way anyone inside would hear him through the pressure-resistant windows and doors. Charlie Webster waved, right hand high above
