“Our first demand-” the girl had steadied and was watching Peter shrewdly now, 4 our first demand is that the statement I have just made be read on every television network in Britain and the United
States, and also here upon the South African network.” Peter felt his loathing of that terrible little box rise to the surface of his emotions.
That mind-bending electronic substitute for thought, that deadly device for freezing, packaging and distributing opinion. He hated it,
almost as much as the violence and sensation it purveyed so effectively. “It must be read at the next occurrence of 7 p.m. local time in LOS Angeles, New York, London and Johannesburg-” Prime time, of course, and the media would gobble it up hungrily, for this was their meat and their drink the pornographers of violence!
High above him in the open hatch the girl brandished a thick buff envelope. “This contains a copy of that statement for transmission it contains also a list of names. One hundred and twenty-nine names,
all of them either imprisoned or placed under banning orders by this monstrous police regime. The names on this list are the true leaders of South Africa.” She flung the envelope, and it landed at Peter’s feet.
“Our second demand is that every person on that list be placed aboard an aircraft provided by the South African Government. Aboard the same aircraft there will be one million gold Kruger Rand coins also provided by the same government. The aircraft will fly to a country chosen by the freed political leaders. The gold will be used by them to establish a government in exile, until such time as they return to this country as the true leaders of the people.” Peter stooped and picked up the envelope. He was calculating swiftly. A single Kruger
Rand coin was worth $170 at the very least. The ransom demand was,
therefore, worth one hundred and seventy million dollars.
There was another calculation. “One million Krugers will weigh well over forty -tons,” he told the girl. “How are they going to get all that on one aircraft?” The girl faltered. It was a little comfort to Peter to realize that they hadn’t thought out everything perfectly.
If they made one small mistake, then they were capable of making others.
“The government will provide sufficient transport for all the gold and all the prisoners,” the girl said sharply. The hesitation had been momentary only.
“Is that all?” Peter asked; the sun was stinging his naked shoulders and a cold drop of sweat tickled down his flank.
He had never guessed it could be this bad.
“The aircraft will depart before noon tomorrow, or the execution of hostages will begin then.” Peter felt the crawl of horror.
“Execution.” She was using the jargon of legality, and he realized at that moment that what she promised she would deliver.
“When those aircraft arrive at the destination chosen by the occupants, a prearranged code will be flashed to us, and all women and children aboard this aircraft will immediately be released.”
“And the men?” Peter asked.
“On Monday the sixth three days from now, a resolution is to be tabled before the General Assembly of the United Nations in New
York. It will call for immediate total mandatory economic sanctions on
South Africa including withdrawal of all foreign capital, total oil and trade embargoes, severance of all transport and communications links, blockade of all ports and air borders by a U.N.
peace-keeping force pending free elections under universal suffrage supervised by U.N. inspectors-” Peter’s mind was racing to keep ahead of the girl’s demands. He knew of the U.N. motion, of course, it had been tabled by Sri Lanka and Tanzania. It would be vetoed in the Security Council. That was a certainty but the girl’s timing brought forward new and frightening considerations. The beast had changed shape again, and what he had heard sickened him. It surely could not be merely coincidence that the resolution was to be tabled within three days of this strike the implications were too horrible to contemplate. The connivance, if not the direct involvement, of world leaders and governments in the strategy of terror.
The girl spoke again deliberately. “If any member of the Security
Council of the U.N. America, Britain or France uses the veto to block the resolution of this General Assembly, this aircraft and all aboard her will be destroyed by high explosive.” Peter had lost the power of speech. He stood gaping up at the lovely blonde child, for child she seemed, so young and fresh.
When he found his voice again, it croaked hoarsely. “I don’t believe you could have got high explosive aboard this aircraft to carry out that threat,” he challenged her.
The blonde girl said something to somebody who was out of Sight,
and then a few moments later she tossed a dark round object down to
Peter.
“Catch!” she shouted, and he was surprised by the weight of it in his hands. It took only a moment to recognize it.
“Electronically fused!” The girl laughed. “And we have so many I
can afford to give you a sample.” The pilot, Cyril Watkins, was trying to tell him something, touching his own chest but Peter was occupied with the explosive in his hands. He knew that a single one of these would be fully capable of destroying the Boeing and all aboard her.
What was Watkins trying to tell him? Touching his neck again.
Peter transferred his attention to the girl’s neck. She wore a small camera slung around her neck. Something connecting camera and grenade perhaps? Is that what the pilot was trying to tell him?
But now the girl was speaking again. “Take that to your masters,
and let them tremble. The wrath of the masses is upon them. The revolution is here and now,” she said, and the door of the hatchway was swung closed. He heard the lock fall into place.
Peter turned and began the long walk back, carrying an envelope in one hand, a grenade in the other, and sick loathing in his guts.
Colin Noble’s rugged frame almost filled the hatchway of the
Hawker, and for once his expression was deadly serious, no trace of laughter in his eyes or at the corners of the wide friendly mouth.
“Doctor Parker is on the screen.” He greeted Peter who was still buttoning his overalls as he hurried to the command plane. “We copied every word, and he was hooked into the system.”
“Christ, it’s had, Colin,” Peter grunted.
“That was the good news,” Colin told him. “When you have finished with Parker, I’ve got the bad news for you.”
“Thanks, pal.” Peter shouldered his way past him into the cabin, and dropped into his leather command chair.
On the screen Kingston Parker was hunched over his desk, poring over the teleprinter sheet on which the entire conversation between
Ingrid and Peter had been recorded, the cold empty pipe gripped between his teeth, the broad brow creased with the weight of his responsibility as he studied the demands of the terrorist commando.
The communications director’s voice from off-screen alerted
Parker.
“General Stride, sir. “And Parker looked up at the camera.
“Peter. This is you and me alone. I have closed the circuit and we will restrict to single tape recording. I want your first reaction,
before we relay to Sir William and Constable-” Sir William Davies was the British Ambassador and Kelly Constable was the United States
Ambassador to Pretoria.
“I want your first reaction.”
“We are in serious trouble, sir,”
Peter said, and the big head nodded.
“What is the militant capability?”
“I am having my explosives team take down the grenade but I have no doubt that they have the physical capability to destroy 070, and all aboard. I reckon they have an overkill potential of at least ten.”
