Clitheroe rose from the stool on which he sat and paced slowly the length of the tower, a few feet only, but a space that gave him room to consider. There was a diffidence about him that they had not seen before.
'It's Webster's opinion – his opinion only on the killing of this man – it is just his assessment that they will go through with it, go to the limit of their threat. Webster is in a very exposed position, probably nervous, perhaps not the best judge. I don't wish to patronize the man, not in any way at all, but we have to remember where he is. He is unarmed, he is within clear range of their guns, he has been close to the intended victim. It is his judgment that they will shoot, but he may not…'
'Who is in a better position?' the Home Secretary said.
' I dont know-none of us, I think. All I am trying to do is to remind you of the circumstances that Webster finds himself in: we should not follow his judgment blindly.' But he too had seen the fish-eye pictures, the man pulled from his seat, the hands that rose to his help thrust aside. ' I just don't know. Perhaps they will kill, perhaps not. It is impossible to be certain. And if they kill once it does not follow that Webster is right and that they will begin a wholesale slaughter. The effect of one killing might be to break these three that has to be considered. We are dealing with the intangible. We cannot draw up a blueprint and say that because one thing has happened then a logical process will ensue. There is another aspect: these people are Jews, but not Israelis, and that may colour the will that they talk so much of.' Clitheroe sat down again, aware of his own limitations.
' If Mr Webster is right, and they intend to kill the man, is it possible to take physical action to pre-empt it? What is the feasibility of attacking the aircraft?' The Home Secretary directed the question without enthusiasm to the Assistant Chief Constable.
'The military would not be happy about it. There are obvious difficulties – open ground, the need to get ladders to the plane. The SAS estimate they would need a minimum of fifteen seconds from the time they leave the tanker till they are entering the cabin. Even with far side diversions it's dangerous, a risk to the troops and to the passengers. At night they could manage it, but by daylight… What it comes down to, sir, is this – do we endanger many lives at this stage in the hope of saving one?'
' It would be difficult to sit here and watch a man die and know we have so much strength and not utilize it.'
The politician had expressed the fear that swamped them all. It was a challenge to their virility, to their professions, that they should stand on the sidelines, acknowledge their inadequacy.
'The Dutch did it,' the policeman intoned, 'at the train siege at Beilen, when the Molluccan group took hostages. A passenger was executed and they took a decision not to storm because conditions were unfavourable. They backed off and relied on negotiations; and no more passengers were-'
'We are not the Dutch,' the Home Secretary rasped. 'Because they have taken a course of action it does not mean we follow. We cannot hide from responsibilities behind precedent.'
He paused, seemed to stumble in his words, losing track of his theme, and there was age and unhappiness on his face. He could not have held this high office twenty years earlier when capital punishment was still exercised; he would not have had the strength or the commitment to sign the final authorizations, would not have surmounted the mountain of conscience and refused to recommend that the monarch use her prerogative of reprieve.
'There has to be something that can be done. We cannot just sit here and idle the time away.'
'At times, sir, we are not given freedom of action. Options are not always open to us.' The policeman spoke With respect, understanding the sense of failure that pervaded the room. 'We just have to hope that Webster is wrong.'
The job of guarding the headmaster had been left to Rebecca.
He remained erect and tall, breathing coming fast and in slight gasps, but with his head still and his eyes stretching out beyond the middle distance towards the fields and trees, and the further perimeter fence, and the farm with the white- painted walls and the embossed and dark-stained beams, following the swooping movement of a bird that hunted for food among the migrating swarms of summer insects. When he looked straight ahead he could not see the girl and was only aware of her presence by the occasional shuffled movements as she eased her body into less contorted positions, leaning all the time against the coat cupboard beside him. His thoughts were of classrooms, clean and ordered and where his rule held sway. Of the management of his pupils. His work for the Party. The Party required of him a discipline that he welcomed, gave an outlet for the enthusiasms that he had harboured since his release from the army at the end of the war. The comradeship of the Party, the sense of achievement and accomplishment in his work. Frustrations, yes, but nothing when set against the successes that could be attained. Could take a pride in the way the children had behaved since the taking of the plane, a tribute to his responsibility, and he had not been betrayed by the little ones. Calm and collected and without panic, the children had been impeccable, even with the hunger in their bellies, their fear of the guns. Should be recognized, and reported back to those in authority, whatever became of him; should not be forgotten that they were children under his tutelage and they had not disgraced themselves. He knew what time the men would come for him, when he would pass out of the care of the girl and into their hands, but did not look to his watch. He could hear the two men, talking among themselves, but only faintly, and he could not make out their words. They were behind him and to the left, positioned where they could see past him and down the passenger cabin. Leaving him to what peace he might find.
He saw the man on the tarmac shift his body and settle on his toes with his legs bent out in front of him, squatting as if mounted on a flattened toilet. The man was of his own age, the one who had been sent to talk, and who had been rejected, and who showed now an emptiness of initiative. He had tried – discernible from his voice – to plead with all the reasonableness that he could muster, had tried to save him, and for that the headmaster was grateful; but he was not dealing with people that were reasonable. The stranger no longer looked about him, ranging the length of the plane, and the headmaster gradually became aware that the concentrated gaze of the man on the ground was directed at him. First the man's eyes strained for understanding and comprehension, but then the lips moved as if with a message. Seemed to say one word, one word alone, again and again from the rhythm of the way the mouth moved. The headmaster felt again the weakening of his legs, the trembling of his hands.
One word, one word only, shouted and deafening so that it split into his consciousness, an order, a demand. He fought to follow, struggled to relate the bellowed voice to his movements,
'Jump.'
The noise had been soaring inside Charlie for minutes before he could summon himself to howl the command. Fearful in the moment that his voice would desert him, that it would come as a feeble croak without the incision he needed. From deep in his lungs, far down, reaching for a depth and volume that would make the bastard up there react from instinct.
Charlie saw the headmaster lurch towards the open void of the Ilyushin's doorway, saw him move into the pitching fall with all the expertise of the trainee parachutist who leaves the balloon basket for the first time. Heard the single shot that was an age late. Charlie was on his feet and sprinting. A haze of confusion as the man landed. Awkwardly, agility destroyed by the years, Charlie saw his face rise from the concrete, eyes harrowed and frantic, desperate for new instructions.
'Run, you bugger, run!'
Crazy, slow motion, broken trot, and Charlie was closing with him, and then the first crescendo of gunfire. Ricochets impacting from the tarmac, and exploding pockets of dust to trace the bullets. Charlie turned and saw Isaac standing there, indecisive, then the gun at his shoulder again, steadying his aim. Stupid bastard, he must have fired from the hip the first time.
Charlie plunged forward, felt his chest buffet into the other man and sweep him to the right towards the shelter and haven of the wing structure. Had to push him when they were together on the ground, like a bloody sack and whimpering all the time, like he can't believe it, like he thinks they'll still come for him. Together they rolled across the ground, bucking and confused.
' It's all right,' Charlie whispered. 'It's over.' He checked himself, surprised that again he'd spoken in Russian. Spread- eagled over the man's body he could only see his head, pale and with the skin stretched drum-tight, and the reflection where the tears ran.
'You walk at my speed,' Charlie said, louder, and pulled the man up, arms round the flabbiness of his waist. He didn't know whether they'd made the dead ground of the wing or not. Hell of a weight the bugger was, had to carry him really, made him use muscles he'd forgotten. In step, an exhausted dance routine… just a few more seconds and they'd be clear, out of range. Charlie didn't look back, his eyes unwavering on the pole in the perimeter
