plan.' Never could lie well, not that many people that can.
Only a few, and they're the exception. The girl didn't believe him, agitated and leaning back to be told what to say.
'My friends say that this is a trick, that you will send us back to Kiev. We do not trust you. If you had been able to promise, if there had been a document then we would have believed you, but there has been nothing. Only you, and you are a little person with no authority.'
Now she tells me, thought Charlie. There was a light breeze that fastened to the moisture of his skin and cooled it, giving comfort from the heat. A great clear sky, cloudless, peopled only by the curving seagulls, far off course…
'Charlie, Charlie, keep your bloody wits about you'-the message beating through his earpiece -
'The two men have gone halfway down the cabin.,. pulling one of the passengers out… down the corridor… from among the kids, must be one of the staff travelling with them… there are hands trying to stop it… not a bloody hope, and the guy himself isn't fighting it… off the monitor
…'
The girl was gone, pulled by an arm, roughly and without explanation, replaced by a man, thinly-woven grey suit, masking the shape of another, whose left arm was gripped around the first man's throat and whose right held the snub nose of submachine-gun to the captive's jaw. The face of the man in the suit was ashen, and his eyes were pleading and helpless and without fight.
The knees shook and trembled, sending eddies down the lower length of his trousers. Charlie could see the summit of black curly hair above the man's shoulder. Isaac was out, Isaac was at the door. Had to break the tension, pacify him, calm him, couldn't shout, not with the barrel an inch from the man's face, not with the finger inside the trigger guard.
'Isaac, it's Charlie Webster. We have been speaking on the radio. You have to understand that we are here to help you. We understand your problems and there is much sympathy throughout the world for the fate of your people. Nothing, nothing can be gained from further bloodshed, only the loss of the sympathy that you have already won.'
All the men that Charlie had hunted when he was active had been young: it had been the common factor, characteristic. No terrorist or urban guerrilla or freedom fighter makes it to middle age. Either dead, locked up or in love with life by then. Youth was the crucial element to see things with the clarity needed to topple windmills, struggle against the sponge of society.
'My friends called to you when I was sleeping. They wanted to surrender. They would have done if you had said to them that they would not have been sent back. But you could not say that.
Perhaps you could not tell them the lie that would have made you the victor. But that part of them you have destroyed now-you have made them fighters, you have lost them, Charlie Webster.
Perhaps you do not know the Jews. Perhaps you do not know that we have been turned aside many times, pushed and manipulated and tricked and bent. We know what it is to be trampled over, to be a second class of man. Go to Ukraine one day, Charlie Webster, go to the great synagogue in Kiev. Look at the people there, people who have been deceived and duped. Look at their misery, at the agony of their lives, at their fear. Go and look for yourself then come back and tell me that you expect a Jew to believe you when you say 'I have not heard of such a plan.''
No breath left, lungs drained. Isaac paused.
'Isaac, we have to talk about this sensibly..
The talk of surrender is over. We have told you that we want the petrol to fly to Israel. That is what we came here for, what we will leave with. This man is the headmaster who is travelling with the school children. He is the one who will die at ten o'clock if the fuel is not loaded. He will stay in this doorway where you can watch him. You have your radio, so you can tell your people what we have decided. You can stay where you are, you can watch and you can think for yourself who has the will, your people or ourselves.' The headmaster stood limp in his hold, almost as if he needed Isaac to hold him up, and all the time his eyes were fashioned on Charlie's face, seeking a sign, a reassurance that was not Charlie's to give.
' Isaac, you must understand..
' I understand everything. I want fuel. You at the moment do not wish me to have it. You are playing with the lives of many people on the aircraft – tell your authorities that.'
Clitheroe on Charlie's earpiece, 'Don't move away, Charlie. Stay put and keep quiet. Leave it a few minutes then try to resume the dialogue. We have to keep the conversation moving if we're to save this fellow's life. From what you've seen of Isaac, from his voice – our pick-up is not that good here – is this a real threat or will he soften nearer the time?'
Charlie thought of the face that he had seen, sharper and with a reality because it was now freed from the one- dimension flatness of the photographs and the television tube. And he thought of the strength and the ferocity of the grip on the headmaster. He tilted his head till his mouth was directly above the microphone. 'He means it The way he is now he'll shoot others afterwards if nothing happens to satisfy him. Right through the whole bloody lot he'll go.' So it would be a killing job, a hard, messy, killing job, and carcasses to be picked up, and thrown on to stretchers.
He eased himself on to the tarmac and sat cross-legged, the hot surface penetrating the fabric of his trousers. They had taken the man back from the doorway and he stood now, blurred and indistinct against the far wall of the aircraft. Charlie reckoned the girl would be watching him, but he could not be certain. Had a headache, not rampant but nagging, chewing at him, always did when he was tired. He looked at his watch: time ebbing away. He hadn't felt it when they were talking, but was aware of it now. Half an hour to go, the minimum, because his watch usually ran fast. Thirty minutes to see what Isaac was made from; only you already know, Charlie, can sense it Smell it,
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In the control tower the 'No Smoking' signs had long been ignored, and the fierce pall of smoke was unnoticed as the cigarette butts burned on the edges of tables and in saucers among the debris of coffee cartons and sandwich wrappings. Voices were subdued as if the men there were inside a great and famous cathedral where noise would be deemed irreverent The Home Secretary had alternated through the morning between his room below and the operational centre, but since Charlie Webster had walked out on the tarmac he had remained upstairs. Now he talked by telephone to the Prime Minister. Clarification was what he sought, suggested by his aides because they were employed to protect the reputation of their master.
Could there be any flexibility in the official stance the government had taken, now that a life was at immediate risk? Not possible, especially at this moment, not after the Soviet statement, not after the leaking by the press that an ultimatum was due to expire: there was to be no suggestion of compromise or weakness under threat. While he listened he pulled at his collar, as if his breathing were constricted, and those who looked to him for some indication of the burden of the conversation saw only anxiety and a slackness about his mouth that spelled dilemma and irresolution. He made his farewells to the Prime Minister, and put back the receiver with a circumspection before turning to those around him.
'The Prime Minister has said what I think we all expected him to say. There will be no alteration in our position. The fate of this unfortunate does not affect the decision that we have taken. He wants me to pass to you all that he has the greatest faith in our judgment He leaves it to us to decide whether the aircraft should be stormed before the expiry of the ultimatum. We do not have very long, gentlemen, and we need to know the options.' His voice tailed away, reflecting a mood that came as no surprise to those who knew him well. His reign at the Home Office had been characterized by a humanity and sympathy that was not always traditional. The newspaper columnists spoke of him as a man of compassion. His concern now was for the passenger they knew only as 'the headmaster', whom he had seen brought to the doorway of the aircraft set inside the squared television frame. A man in a grey suit about whom nothing else was known except that his chin shivered and his hands clenched and straightened again continuously.
'What are the options, gentlemen?'
