“The negotiator for the British and American governments has proposals for your consideration. Are you ready to copy?”
“Negative.”
Ingrid’s voice was flat and emphatic. “I say again negative. Tell the negotiator I will talk only face to face and tell him we are only forty minutes to the noon deadline. He had better get out here fast,” she warned. She hooked the microphone and turned to Henri.
“All right. We will take the pills now it has truly begun at last.” It was another cloudless day, brilliant sunlight that was flung back in piercing darts of light from the bare metal parts of the aircraft. The heat came up through the soles of his shoes and burned down upon Peter’s bare neck.
The forward hatch opened, as it had before, when Peter Stride was halfway across the tarmac.
This time there were no hostages on display, the hatchway was a dark empty square. Suppressing the urge to hurry, Peter carried himself with dignity, head up, jaw clenched firmly.
He was yards from the aircraft when the girl stepped into the opening. She stood with indolent grace, her weight all on one leg, the other cocked slightly, long, bare, brown legs. She carried the big shot pistol on one hip, and the cartridge belt emphasized the narrow waist.
She watched Peter come on, with a half-smile on her lips.
Suddenly a medallion of light appeared on her chest, a dazzling speck like a brilliant insect and she glanced down at it contemptuously.
“This is provocation,” she called. Clearly she knew that the bright speck was the beam thrown by the laser sight of one of the marksmen covering her from the airport building.
A few ounces more of pressure on the trigger would send a .222
bullet crashing precisely into that spot, tearing her heart and lungs to bloody shreds.
Peter felt a flare of anger at the sniper who had activated his laser sight without the order, but his anger was tempered by reluctant admiration for the girl’s courage. She could sneer at that mark of certain death upon her breast.
Peter made a cut out sign with his right hand, and almost immediately the speck of light disappeared as the gunner switched off his laser sight.
“That’s better,” the girl said, and she smiled, running her gaze appraisingly down Peter’s body.
“You’ve a good shape, baby,” she said, and Peter’s anger flared again under her scrutiny.
“Nice flat belly-” she said, good legs, and you didn’t get those muscles sitting at a desk and pushing a pen.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “You know I think you’re a cop or a soldier. That’s what I think, baby. I think you’re a goddamned pig.” Her voice had a new harsh quality, and the skin seemed drier and drawn older than it had been before.
He was close enough now to see the peculiar diamantine glitter in her eyes, and he recognized the tension that seemed to rack her body,
the abrupt restless gestures. She was onto drugs now. He was certain of it. He was dealing with a political fanatic, with a long history of violence and death, whose remaining humane traits would be now entirely suppressed by the high of stimulant drugs. He knew she was more dangerous now than a wounded wild animal, a cornered leopard, a maneating shark with the taste of blood exciting it to the killing frenzy.
He did not reply, but held her gaze steadily, keeping his hands in view, coming to a halt below the open hatchway.
He waited quietly for her to begin, and the itch of the drug in her blood would not allow her to stand still; she fidgeted with the weapon in her hands, touched the camera still hanging from around her neck. Cyril Watkins had tried to tell him something about that camera and suddenly Peter realized what it was. The trigger for the fuses? he pondered, as he waited. Almost certainly, he decided, that was why it was with her every moment. She saw the direction of his eyes, and dropped her hand guiltily, confirming his conclusion.
“Are the prisoners ready to leave?” she demanded. “Is the gold packed? Is the statement ready for transmission?”
“The South African
Government has ac cesse to urgent representations by the governments of
Great Britain and the United States of America.”
“Good. “She nodded.
“As an act of common humanity the South Africans have agreed to release all the persons on your list of detainees and banned persons-“
“Yes.”
“They will be flown to any country of their choice.”
“And the gold?”
“The South African Government refuses categorically to finance or to arm an unconstitutional foreign-based opposition. They refuse to provide funds for the persons freed under this agreement.”
“The television transmission?”
“The South African Government considers the statement to be untrue in substance and in fact and to be extremely prejudicial to the maintenance of law and order in this country. It refuses to allow transmission of the statement.”
“They have accepted only one of our demands? ” The girl’s voice took on an even more strident tone, and her shoulders jerked in an uncontrolled spasm.
“The release of political detainees and banned persons is subject to one further condition-” Peter cut in swiftly.
“And what is that-” The girl demanded, two livid burning spots of colour had appeared in her cheeks.
“In return for the release of political prisoners, they demand the release of all hostages, not only the women and children, all persons aboard the aircraft and they will guarantee safe passage for you and all members of your party to leave the country with the released detainees.” The girl flung back her head, the thick golden mane flying wildly about her head as she screeched with laughter.
The laughter was a wild, almost maniacal sound, and though it went on and on, there was no echo of mirth in her eyes.
They were fierce as eagles” eyes, as she laughed. The laughter was cut off abruptly, and her voice was suddenly flat and level.
“So they think they can make demands, do they? They think they can draw the teeth from the U.N. proposals, do they? They think that without hostages to account for, the fascist governments of Britain and
America can again cast their veto with impunity?” Peter made no reply.
“Answer me!” she screamed suddenly. “They do not believe we are serious, do they?”
“I am a messenger only,” he said.
“You’re not,” she screamed in accusation. “You’re a trained killer. You’re a pig!” She lifted the pistol and aimed with both hands at Peter’s face.
“What answer must I take back?” Peter asked, without in any way acknowledging the aim of the weapon.
“An answer-” Her voice dropped again to an almost conversational level. Of course, an answer.” She lowered the pistol and consulted the stainless steel Japanese watch on her wrist. “It’s three minutes past noon three minutes past the deadline, and they are entitled to an answer, of course.” She looked around her with an almost bewildered expression. The drug was having side effects, Peter guessed.
Perhaps she had overdosed herself, perhaps whoever had prescribed it had not taken into account the forty- eight sleepless hours of strain that preceded its use.
“The answer,” he prodded her gently, not wanting to provoke another outburst.
“Yes. Wait,” she said, and disappeared abruptly into the gloom of the interior.
Karen was standing over the four hostages on the fold down seats.
She looked around at Ingrid with smouldering dark eyes. Ingrid nodded once curtly, and Karen turned back to her prisoners.
“Come,” she said softly, “we are going to let you go now.” Almost gently she lifted the pregnant woman to her feet with a hand on her shoulder.
Ingrid left her and passed swiftly into the rear cabins.
