“My men think we can do better than that ourselves, said the
Minister of Defence, also bespectacled, but he spoke in the thick blunt accent of the Afrikaaner.
“Atlas is probably the best equipped and most highly trained antiterrorist group in the world, Kelly Constable said, and the Prime
Minister interrupted harshly.
“At this stage, gentlemen, let us confine ourselves to finding a peaceful solution.”.”
“I agree, Prime Minister. “Sir William nodded briskly.
“However, I think I should point out that most of the demands made by the terrorists are directly in line with the representations made by the government of the United States-“
“Sir, are you expressing sympathy with these demands?” the Prime Minister asked heavily, but without visible emotion.
“I am merely pointing out that the demands will find sympathy in my country, and that my government will find it easier to exercise its veto on the extreme motion of the General Assembly on Monday if some concessions are made in other directions.”
“Is that a threat, sir?” the
Prime Minister asked, a small humourless smile hardly softening the question.
“No, Prime Minister, it’s common sense. If that U.N.
motion was carried and implemented, it would mean the economic ruin of this country. It would be plunged into anarchy and political chaos, a ripe fruit for luther Soviet encroachment. My government does not desire that however, nor does it wish to endanger the lives of four hundred of its citizens.” Kelly Constable smiled. “We have to find a way out of our mutual predicament, I’m afraid.”
“My Minister of Defence has suggested a way out.”
“Prime Minister, if your military attack the aircraft without the prior agreement of both the British and American heads of state, then the veto will be withheld in the Security Council and regretfully we will allow the majority proposal to prevail.”
“Even if the attack is successful?”
“Even if the attack is successful. We insist that military decisions are made by Atlas only,” Constable told him solemnly; and then, more cheerfully, “Let us examine the minimum concessions that your government would be prepared to make. The longer we can keep open the lines of communication with the terrorists, the better our chances of a peaceful solution. Can we offer to fulfill even one small item on the list of demands?” “Ingrid supervised the serving of breakfast personally.
Each passenger was allowed one slice of bread and one biscuit with a cup of heavily sweetened coffee. Hunger had lowered the general resistance of the passengers, they were apathetic and listless once they had gobbled their meagre meal.
Ingrid went amongst them again, passing out cigarettes from the duty-free store. Talking gently to the children, stopping to sympathize with a mother smiling and calm.
Already the passengers were calling her “the nice one”.
When Ingrid reached the firstclass galley she called her companions to her one at a time, and they each ate a full breakfast of eggs and buttered toast and kippers. She wanted them as strong and alert as the arduous ordeal would allow.
She could not begin to use the stimulants until midday.
The use of drugs could only be continued for seventy-two hours with the desired effects. After that the subject would become unpredictable in his actions and decisions. Ratification of the sanctions vote by the Security Council of the United Nations would take place at noon New York time on the following Monday that was seven p.m. local time on Monday night.
Ingrid had to keep all her officers alert and active until then,
she dared not use the stimulants too early and risk physical disintegration before the decisive hour, and yet she realized that lack of sleep and tension were corroding even her physical reserves; she was jumpy and nervous, and when she examined her face in the mirror of the stinking firstclass toilets, she saw how inflamed her eyes were, and for the first time noticed the tiny lines of ageing at the corners of her mouth and eyes. This angered her unreasonably. She hated the thought of growing old, and she could smell her own unwashed body even in the overpowering stench from the lavatory.
The German, Kurt, was slumped in the pilot’s seat, his pistol in his lap, snoring softly, his red shirt unbuttoned to the waist and his muscular hairy chest rising and falling with each breath. He was unshaven and the lank, black hair fell over his eyes. She could smell his sweat, and somehow that excited her, and she studied him carefully.
There was an air of cruelty and brutality about him, the machismo of the revolutionary, which always attracted her strongly, had perhaps been the original reason for her radical leanings so many years ago.
Suddenly she wanted him very badly.
However, when she woke him with a hand down the front of his thin linen slacks, he was bleary-eyed and foul breathed, not even her skilful kneading could arouse him, and in a minute she turned away with an exclamation of disgust.
As a displacement activity, she picked up the microphone, switched on the loudspeakers of the passenger cabins. She knew she was acting irrationally, but she began to speak.
“Now listen to me, everybody, I have something very important to tell you.” Suddenly she was angry with them.
They were of the class that had devised and instituted the manifestly unjust and sick society against which she was in total rebellion. They were the fat, complacent bourgeoisie.
They were like her father and she hated them as she hated her father. As she began to speak she realized that they would not even understand the language she was using, the language of the new political order, and her anger and frustration against them and their society mounted. She did not realize she was raving, until suddenly she heard as from afar the shriek of outrage in her own voice, like the death wail of a mortally wounded animal and she stopped abruptly.
She felt giddy and light-headed, so she had to clutch at the desk top for support and her heart banged wildly against her ribs. She was panting as though she had run a long way, and it took nearly a full minute for her to bring herself under control.
When she spoke again, her tone was still ragged and breathless.
“It is now nine o’clock,” she said. “If we do not hear from the tyrant within three hours I shall be forced to begin executing hostages. Three hours-” She repeated ominously, only three hours.” Now she prowled the aircraft like a big cat paces along the bars of its cage as feeding time approaches.
“Two hours,” she told them, and the passengers shrank away from her as she passed.
“One hour.” There was a bright sadistic splinter of anticipation in her voice. “We will choose the first hostages now.
“But you promised,” pleaded the fat little doctor as Ingrid pulled his wife out of her seat and the Frenchman hustled her forward towards the flight deck.
Ingrid ignored him, and turned to Karen. “Get children, a boy and a girl-” she instructed, ” oh yes, and the pregnant one. Let them see her big belly. They won’t be able to resist that.” Karen herded the hostages into the forward galley and forced them at pistol point to sit in a row upon the fold down air-crew seats.
The door to the flight deck was open and Ingrid’s voice carried clearly to the galley, as she explained to the Frenchman Henri,
speaking in English.
“It is of the utmost importance that we do not allow a deadline to pass without retaliating strongly. If we miss one deadline, then our credibility is destroyed. It will only be necessary once, we must show the steel at least once. They must learn that every one of our deadlines are irrevocable, not negotiable-” The girl began to cry. She was thirteen years old, able to understand the danger. The plump doctor’s wife put her arm around her shoulders and hugged her gently.
“Speedbird 070-‘-the radio squawked suddenly, we have a message for Ingrid.”
“Go ahead, Tower, this is Ingrid.” She had jumped up to take the microphone, pushing the door to the flight deck closed.
