laughing, uncaring humanity around him. Dull, miserable little people, who understood nothing, and would be frightened when their livers or their kidneys failed them, and they were close to death. They understood nothing, or else they would be hushed and passive, and thinking of three children, and a plane full of people, and what might be their fate.
Out through the door and moving briskly towards his assigned room; where else to go? What would have triggered them, he thought? An incident, a single episode? Unlikely. It was never straight-forward, not with these people, never as simple as the outsider believed. Did not take a kicking, or a rape or injustice to fashion the guerrilla, just an accumulation of circumstances, a construction of despair, a fabrication of hatred. Not a sudden thing, a momentary decision, but a slow-burning, stoked loathing. And courage. Nothing without courage. Even the Palestinians…
He flopped down at the desk. Had any of those who passed his door stopped to look at the hunched figure they would have seen a sad and hurt man.
Seventy yards behind Charlie were the petrol tankers, their considerable forward and rear heavy-duty tyres providing cover for the SAS marksmen. Two of them handled the old Lee Enfield bolt action rifle mounted with the tubular telescopic sight now trained on the door of the Ilyushin. Another pair lay beside the standard NATO General Purpose Machine Gun, belt-fed. The rifles would provide accurate shot protection, the GPMG trained on the same target was the fall-back precaution, concentration of fire. Behind the central tanker were men with smoke canisters fitted to the barrel tip of FNs. He was unaware of all this and stood feeling a peculiar loneliness as he waved to the windows and door. Bloody stupid way to be carrying on, Charlie.
It seemed to take an age before the door began to move. A slight shuddering action at first, as if someone was operating the mechanism who had not handled it before. There was a stutter, then a sweeping movement, as the door came away on its arms from the fuselage and swung out before coming to rest. It took Charlie time to get his eyes tuned to the grey artificial light of the interior, and then the girl was standing there looking down on him, more with curiosity than anything else, her left hand on the edge of the door. Least of her problems, thought Charlie, falling out of the bloody thing. Pistol in her right hand; he prided himself that he knew most makes, but this wasn't one that he recognized, almost hidden amid the folds of her dress. He smiled at her, big and open and friendly, the smile that Parker Smith said would sell sand to the Saudis, ice to the Eskimos, the smile that his wife always giggled at.
'Hello, it's Charlie Webster. You're Rebecca?' Daft really, like a pick-up at a YWCA hop. Had to be some sort of formality. 'I've come to speak with David and Isaac… and with you.' Don't count her out, at least not till you've looked at the scene a fair bit closer.
'You can talk to me, they are listening. They would prefer that we talk in Russian. If you speak loud they can hear what you say, and they will tell me what to reply.'
Good thinking, and Charlie always admired that, whether it was from the friendlies or the opposition. If they were thinking well then they should be respected. Keeping out of sight where the guns weren't on them. Particularly Isaac: drop him and the whole thing could be wrapped up, and with all the hardware lying about no way that he would show if he had any sense. Seemed the boy was working it out.
'What I've come here to do is to explain the situation as it stands at this moment.' Time for the big speech, time to calm them down because it gets serious right now if you get them excited. The position is very clear really, and since you are all intelligent people we think you will see the only option that is open to you. Your plane has no fuel, and we have said that while the aircraft and the passengers are under your control it will get none. While you are on board the plane goes no further. That is the decision of the British government and it is irreversible.' Working at each sentence before he spoke it, considering the most appropriate Russian words from his comprehensive but rust-worn vocabulary. Made him slow but gave an impression of deliberation and authority. 'The aircraft is surrounded by troops who have orders to shoot to kill should there be any attempt to break through our perimeter using the hostages as a shield. There is no escape from the aircraft. You will only leave it when you have disarmed yourselves, when all the passengers have been released. I am instructed to repeat the solemn guarantee of the British government that you will not be harmed by our security forces.'
Clipped to the neck of his shirt, clearly visible, was a small black microphone. From it a thin colourless connection had been threaded, running up his shirt to his collar where it merged with his hair before blending into a plastic moulded earpiece.
'Keep it going, Charlie,'- Clitheroe, slightly distorted, but directing and controlling him-'Tough stuff first, then on to the message they've put over to the world, and next the freeing of the hostages.' The voice made him lose his concentration for a moment, throwing him fractionally, and he felt a flush on his face as he watched the girl stare back at him, not responding, merely waiting for him to finish.
'We want you to know that your flight out of Russia has been widely reported by the international news media. If it was a protest that you were seeking against any grievances that you may feel you have then you have been widely heard.
If publicity was your aim then you have achieved it. We think that any aggressive action you may be considering will only alienate the many millions of people all over the world who are currently sympathetic to you.' Crap, Charlie, but what else to say? How do you get a conversation going at thirty yards? No known way. Bound to stand there exchanging speeches. But it's a load of rubbish you're talking and you know it. He wondered how they knew what he was talking about in the tower; must have brought some of the FO girls down, or one from the Department Spoke Russian better than he spoke English. Boot-faced ladies with heavy rings on the fingers, gold in their teeth who'd made it out in the '30s and started to work for the British in the war, and were in their sixties now and had to keep going till pension day if they were to afford the bed-sitters of retirement. Hated the Soviets like shit which gave them high security clearance.
'You have many women and children on board. We understand there is a party of schoolchildren. There is no need for you to keep them; all of them could be released now and it would make a great impression on all those people that are following this action.' The girl still looked down at him. He could see her ankles, a little fat, and the solid and muscular shins before the hem of her dress denied him. Face devoid of expression, and Charlie wondered which of them was screwing her – wouldn't get much for his efforts. 'That's what I came to say. There is no point in talking about ultimatums. It's nonsense and it wont work.'
'That is all?' She had a thin, reedy voice, and he had to strain to hear her.
'If there is anything you want me to answer, then I will try to help you.'
She ducked back inside the aircraft, lost to him, and the doorway was emptied. There was just time for him to see the faces of the passengers at their portholes – poor bastards, going through the familiar hoop, and with their hopes raised now because there was a contact.
Charlie said quietly into the microphone, speaking in English, 'That's the first chat over.
They're talking about it now.'
'They're all on the monitor,' he was told. 'The open door drives them into the passenger cabin, that's where the three of them are, but the girl seems out of it. It's the two fellows who are involved. Seem calm enough, no arms flying about. Now that the door is open we are getting some sort of sound, but we can't read it right now, only the girl when she spoke to you. They've probably dropped their voices to avoid being overheard by the passengers.'
'Right,' said Charlie. The girl was back in the doorway.
'When you said you would come it was because you wanted to talk to us about our request for information. The question that we asked was what would happen to us if we followed your instructions. What is the answer?'
' I have said that you will not be harmed.'
That is not an answer. I repeat, what will happen to us?'
If you have committed offences you will be charged and will face a fair and impartial trial.'
That is not the answer. Where would the trial be?'
'If you have committed offences inside the United Kingdom you will stand trial in the United Kingdom.' Not much longer, thought Charlie, not much longer this bloody nonsense can go on.
'You are not helpful, you seek to deceive us. Will we be sent back to Russia? Is that your plan?'
' I know of no plan to send you back to Russia.' Lying sod, Charlie, but what else to say? And anyway remember the parting shot of the big political gaffer, nothing sewn up at this stage. And what right have these three to know the truth? Forfeited that, hadn't they, when they took the guns on board? '1 have not heard of such a
