'But you found the strength to fight them,' encouraged Isaac.
'Never again, not like that… never again,' David whispered, and he trembled, his whole frame consumed by the convulsions as Isaac held him. And he no longer stared out through the small cockpit windows, but was again magnetized by the captain's slowly moving head, its inverted pendulum motion.
'He still fights me..
'Don't be so stupid. You weren't to know. It was only one bullet. You weren't to know.'
'He still fights me…'
'Keep the bloody plane on course,' said Isaac wearily.
Radio chatter amongst the Migs.
'Eagle 4 to Sunray. What do they want us to do now?"
'Eagle 3 to Sunray. We cross the Polish border in under a minute.'
'Eagle 2 to Sunray. Do we shoot to bring them down or not?'
'Sunray to Eagle Flight. You hear the orders as I do. The order is to wait-they are checking something out. Maintain course.'
'Eagle 4 to Sunray. What is there to check out?'
'Eagle 3 to Sunray. Did you see the children at the windows? Quite clearly you can see them.'
'Eagle 2 to Sunray. There is the man in the cockpit. I saw him… with the gun.'
'Sunray to Eagle Flight. Stop the bloody talking. I know where we are, so does Ground. I have eyes too – I have seen the children – I have seen the man. They will be checking the passenger list. They want to know who is on board.'
'Eagle 4 to Sunray. If there is no one important we shoot is that why they want to know who is on board?'
'Sunray to Eagle 4. Keep the airwave clear. Keep your opinions to yourself. Observe the order.'
The Migs overflew Polish airspace for two minutes then peeled away.
Three years previously a hi-jacked aircraft had mysteriously disappeared from the radar screens of Western military forces stationed in Germany, and was presumed to have been shot down. That Aeroflot 927 was permitted to continue its progress was determined by the composition of the passenger manifest. The matter of the children on their way to the ballet festival at Tashkent did not sway the issue, nor did the question of the survival of the Russian adult passengers and the Russian crew count in any degree towards the final decision. It was the knowledge that among the passengers was the delegation of the Italian Communist Party, senior men all of them and belonging to a Party with whom the Soviet Union was trying to heal ideological rifts. Luigi Franconi and his comrades ensured the safety of all on board. If the only foreigners to have taken the Tashkent flight had been Edward R. Jones Jr and Felicity Ann then the Ilyushin would have been a mess of wreckage, burning and disintegrated, scattered over a half mile square, scorching the summer stubble of a collective field. Perhaps the Italians would have been flattered had they known their lives were held in such esteem, but their ignorance was total, as was that of David and Isaac. Both stood in the cockpit above Anna Tashova as the plane powered on, content in the belief that their determination, their power had won them a great victory, that their greatest test was behind them.
The defining of the problem and the 'taking of the decision not to shoot down the Ilyushin had involved two of the Soviet Union's most senior officials in a bitter and protracted argument fought out over the telephone fines between their respective ministry buildings. Defence was for the strong arm of physical prevention of the aircraft leaving Russian airspace. Foreign Affairs held out a calmer option, and pledged a massive diplomatic campaign by telephone 'hot-line' and teleprinter to dissuade all governments in whose territory a landing might be attempted to offer the terrorists either refuge or succour for their onward journey to Israel. From the moment that David had broadcast over the aircraft radio that the group was Jewish he had played into the hands of those who saw, with sharp clarity because they had only bare minutes in which to reach their conclusion, that a great diplomatic ooup was offered for the talcing should the three be returned to Russia to face trial. The discussion had ultimately been three-pronged – Defence, Foreign Affairs, and the all-omnipotent Secretary General of the Party who would ultimately influence events – and the argument of the Foreign Ministry had been the most persuasive to the ears of the ruler of the country.
'If we destroy the plane in the air we have achieved the aim of the Jewish terrorists. We will highlight what they call their 'cause*. The whole world will talk of our brutality. We will make these three into martyrs and none will remember the crimes from which they are fleeing.
Problems from Italy, problems from the
PCI. All this can be avoided. It is the suggestion of this ministry that we let them fly to the
West and that we precede their landing by messages to the heads of government in all the countries in which they might come to rest that we expect these people to be immediately disarmed and returned to face the charges that can be brought against them.'
There was more that he could have said but insufficient time. The Migs were in the air, pilot's hands close to the shooting triggers that would release the cones of cannon fire and the projectiles that would seek out the heat of the Ivchenko engine exhaust. The airspace was being eroded as they talked.
'And among the passengers, who do we have?' The Secretary General, seeking time before his decision.
'We have children. We have a delegation of comrades from Italy, from the Central Administration of the Party, and the effect there could be catastrophic. Also to be considered is the fact that they have broadcast from the plane. In the West it is now known what has happened.
The incident is no longer confined inside our own frontiers.'
'We are all agreed that the plane could only be brought down over our own territory. You have very few seconds to make up your minds.' The final intervention of the Defence Minister, certain by this stage that he had lost the day, certain too that the time of the hard men who had mobilized the great wartime defence of the country, whatever the cost, was now a thing of the past.
'Let the plane fly on.' The order of the Secretary General. 'And the message that goes to the foreign governments, I will want it read to me before it is released. It will bear my name.'
Three o'clock and a London afternoon. Charlie Webster at his desk and with precious short of nothing with which to entertain himself. Usually like that after lunch; worked fast enough la the morning to clear his desk, didn't space it out like the others who seemed to have something to get round to, to keep them busy, all eight hours that God gave for working. Too hot, and the bloody air – conditioner still up the spout. Typical, really: put them all in a damn great tower block with all that glass to soak up the sun, and not a window that could be opened in the whole place. Must be some sort of breeze flying about this high up, if only the window could be opened and we could tempt the little bl ighter in.
Trouble is, Charlie, you're not really an inside man. Never were and never will be. Not the temperament, not the patience, not any of the things to believe shuffling paper is worthwhile.
Wrap it, Charlie, becoming a grumpy old goat. Stop worrying about yourself, worrying about what happens to old soldiers too ancient for anything useful and too young to fade away.
He'd changed from the Cyprus boy and the Aden boy, when he hadn't cared, when he was with military intelligence, not thirty, not married, and not a doubt to trouble him. Ireland was the undoing, the greyed, opaque fight, the tedium of procedure and rule books. The danger, too.
Something he hadn't thought of before, hadn't concerned himself with.
Not worth getting your arse shot off, Charlie, he'd told himself. Not worth getting blasted into a gutter in Monaghan or Clones or Ballyshannon. Not worth bumping across the churchyard with the Union Jack to keep the sun off the box and eight blanks to give the rooks a fright. And so he had said that he would like to come inside, and everyone had seemed very pleased, and said he'd be a big asset to the team. He'd told them he didn't want anything connected with his previous work, wanted a change, and pointed to his Russian course qualifications, taken years ago on national service before he'd decided to go for Regular. So out of military intelligence he'd popped, demobbed, bought a grey suit- nothing special and off the peg, and they sent him over to SIS, Soviet Desk. Probably bloody glad to see the back of you, Charlie.