One of the chaps from sub-Desk Military coming in with out knocking. Didn't do that normally, observed protocol. A flimsy in his hand and couldn't keep it to himself, not till he reached Charlie's desk.
There's a hi-jack, Charlie. Over Russia. All hell broken out, lighters up and everything.'
Day-dreams gone. Feeling-sorry-for-self time over. All attention. Charlie said, 'Out of Kiev, is it?'
'How do you know? How did you know that?' Looked blank, stopped in his tracks, puzzled.
'You mean it really is?' said Charlie. "Really Kiev? Just a guess and something we were talking about yesterday. Let's have a look.'
Eight teletype lines, and telling him all he needed to know. Aeroflot internal, pilot dead, Jewish group, broadcast from the aircraft, unsuccessful attempt by Air Force to turn it round, shots across the nose, now over Poland, still escorted at a distance. Too good to be true, thought Charlie. They'll have me down as fortune teller at the next Christmas binge.
'Any more?"
'Well, that's not bad for starters. There's something coming through. The Russians are putting out a long screed. In essence it demands that the plane and the passengers and the hi-jackers be returned to them forthwith after landing. It's pretty hard stuff. They're saying it was only for humanitarian reasons and in the interest of the passengers that they didn't shoot the aircraft down.
But they want them back. Say they're gangsters and attempted to murder a policeman.'
Bloody amazing, Charlie, 'Boobed it though, haven't they?' he said. 'Shouldn't have dropped the pilot. That's not the way to earn a nice jolly welcome, not when there's blood sloshing round the joy stick. Someone's going to have a packet of trouble when that little bird…'
'Fuel isn't its problem. It's a long-range Ilyushin 11-18, and well tanked. It was on a run to Tashkent, and was lifted straight after take-off. There's enough juice to go anywhere in Europe, including here. They've all of Europe to choose rom. Anywhere they want, except Israel-that's off-limits to this plane, out of fuel range. But they can take their pick round these parts.'
'All the makings of a very cheery scene.' Charlie thanked him, and sat alone in his office. It was a bit confusing when he started to think about it. Terrorist hi-jack or freedom fighters' break-out.
Square pegs in round holes. What did you greet them with at the airport – bouquet and a speech of welcome, or a Saracen and a pair of handcuffs? Been rabbiting on long enough, hadn't they, our political masters, about the state of Soviet Jewry, so what were they going to do with this one?
Only one thing to do, he thought. Pray God it doesn't come here.
CHAPTER SIX
While the big Ilyushin purred its way across the airspace of Poland and the German Democratic Republic – with its now more discreet escort of Migs, scrambled from more forward Warsaw Pact airfields – frantic meetings were being convened throughout Western Europe.
All the continent's countries can now call on the services of 'crisis committees' of politicians, civil servants and senior police and army officers who are on call to advise the heads of government on what course they should take if confronted with a major guerrilla action. It is the task of these committees to evaluate the threat and the implications of involvement with the new breed of warfare that since the start of the decade had proved so costly in terms of money and prestige to the old world. The lesson of preparation had been learned the hard way, with cabinets ill-briefed and security forces poorly trained to do battle with the new militia playing by their own new rules of warfare who descend in their capitals and airports with the AK47s and RPGs and who spread mayhem and disgrace and disfigurement with minimal discrimination.
Meetings in Bonn, in Copenhagen, and Stockholm and Oslo and Helsinki. Ministers and officials hurrying to their chauffeur-driven cars in Brussels, Paris and The Hague. Policemen being called by telephone to the Cabinet offices in Madrid and Rome and Lisbon and Berne. In all these capitals, as in London, it was recognized that speed was of the essence, that a policy must be formulated and agreed before the Ilyushin attempted its inevitable landing. Dominating the discussions was the Russian note, now being studied in a dozen languages, none of which could blunt the harsh message that it had been the intention of the Secretary General of the Russian Communist Party to convey. They have something in common, the politicians of Europe who are answerable to an electorate; the constant factor is the determination not to lay their backs open to the rod that can strike and wound them. To permit the plane to land when it had fuel to fly on, that was only begging for difficulties, for diplomatic furore and dangers in the high echelons of international relations. Those countries most keenly affected, in that their airports lay within easy striking range of the present flightpath of the Aeroflot airliner, had the least discussion time available to their committees, and reached their decision first.
In Bonn the advice to the Chancellor was without equivocation. Under no circumstances should the aircraft be allowed to land. Any airport that the Ilyushin approached should immediately be closed; if necessary, trucks should be driven across the runways to prevent their being used. A drastic solution, it was agreed by all who took part in the evaluation, but then so were the alternatives horrifying. Let the plane land and offer yourselves to the whim and hazard of a full-blown hi-jack siege; there could be no question of allowing the airliner to refuel and fly on in the face of the Russian demands, and no possibility with the pilot still warm in his seat of offering safe conduct. Far better to skirt the issue, and pass the problem outside the Federal frontiers. The embassies of West Germany were instructed to pass on the government decision to other interested parties. Including the Soviet Union.
It was Isaac who stayed close to the navigator watching the pencil lines that he drew across the green heavily overscored map surface on the small pull-out table that acted as his work bench.
Slow and painstaking, the plotting of the course. A few more minutes and they would have crossed the dark and shaded line that marked the barricade between the cul-tares of East and West. Just a line on a map at that height, and hazed squares of toned brown and yellow beneath them. Nothing to demonstrate the wire, and the mines and the watch towers, and the fear and the clinging helplessness that the frontier meant twenty-seven thousand feet beneath. Soon the descent would start, and the ground shades would sharpen, and then it would be over, and they would have achieved the impossible. Escape, something that could not have been contemplated two short days before. And now it was achieved, bar a few miles, a few minutes' flying time.
'We are nearly there,' he called softly to David. Why is the man still so tense, why is it necessary to hold the gun so close to the girl? The Migs have gone, been defeated, seen off. Tt is over now, friend. We have beaten the pigs, hammered them, destroyed them. Relax, David.' Still the stress etched across David's face, still the suspicion there, nothing to show that he was convinced of their victory. Impatience now from Isaac. 'Can't you see, David, we are there?' He pulled the map from the navigator's table and thrust it under David's face. 'It's over, we are there.