Setting aside their weariness, those on the chairs and stools came down to kneel, those on the carpet and the cushions rose awkwardly that they could share the moment. As he shuffled his aged legs and felt the pain in the tightness of his joints, the General Secretary murmured, 'It would have been better for us if they had not come. But they are here, and they are few, and it should not be us that cast the rocks. There will be many others f o r that task.'
Each in his own form, and in silence, the members of the group prayed.
Body strength waning, muscles aching, head throbbing, limbs contorted in the limitations of her resting place, Rebecca sought sleep.
Elusive though, hard to touch. Too many images revolving, denying her the comfort of oblivion. The things that Isaac had spoken of. Tanks. Machine-guns. Soldiers. Cold, metallic, functional killing machines that had come for a purpose, that did not wait beyond the arc lights unless their value had been assessed and decided as necessary.
There because of you, Rebecca. There to watch you, pry over you, examine you, and there to eliminate you, Rebecca. Eliminate, if that should be the instruction passed to them.
Subjugated grey Shadow in the fuselage, and the fidgeting quiet of the passengers. The only movement, the sporadic prowling guard that Isaac maintained.
Love, Rebecca?
Was that the sensation and the addiction that had brought her this far with the boys, with David and Isaac? Love of one, or love of both? Was that where the answer lay?
And what was love? Not something physical, not body to body, not flesh to flesh, not with the muscles straining and the warmth soft and moist. Had not felt their hands perusing her, wanting her, searching the secret intimacy that she thought of as love.
If not love, then why are you here, Rebeoca? What is your purpose?
How can I know? Who now may I ask the question of, and find the answer?
An ordinary girl, Rebecca. Ordinary as cheese and mice, buses and queues, work-shifts and roubles… Ordinary, predictable. But there are not tanks and machine-guns and soldiers deployed through the slow night hours watching and waiting on an ordinary girl, to see what her thoughts and actions will be when the light comes and when she has rested herself.
So easy in the hut, when the battle was just of words. No doubts that the cause was right, certainly. Not in dispute, Rebecca. But if the cause is right then someone must stand and defend it
… but why you, Rebecca? Persecution, humiliation, spoliation, all those things have been visited on our people, and they have not stepped forward, have not armed themselves in their defence. So why you, Rebeoca? What was different, unique, that made you stand up and plan and conspire?
Not enough now, too late, to call to the soldiers that you were just a follower, that it was not of your willing, not your choice. Too many questions, Isaac had said, and Isaac was right. Always right.
And the talk of killing. All the preparations for the death of another. All the plotting, all the reconnaissance. All the hours in the hut used to prepare for the struggle that would be launched against the oppression that sat on their people. All that time, and no thought of this moment, of the trapped incarceration. Brave talk it had been, and Rebecca in the thick of it. Remember?
Remember the calling for the choice, haphazard and not by merit, that determined that Moses should go first?
Why, Rebecca?
God, how do I know?
Would David have loved you then, if you had drawn the short straw?
Perhaps.
If you had killed a man, would that have fired, stiffened, strengthened him?
Perhaps.
Did you have to kill a man to win David's love?
But he never came to me, never came to me as a woman. Only as a friend, a colleague… an adjunct, never as a woman.
His fault or your fault, Rebecca?
I don't know. God knows it's the truth, but I don't know.
Is it that he cannot, Rebecca? Is it that he is not man enough…?
Let me sleep, please, please.
Did we have to come to this place for your answer, Rebecca, and have we now found it?
I have to sleep. I must sleep.
Is that your answer, Rebecca?
If that is the truth better never to have known, better never to have come. Better to have stayed the ordinary girl. Brave, ignorant and happy.
It was cold in the control tower when Charlie woke and he shivered as he recalled where he was, and why. A policeman grinned down at him from the chair in front of the console that he had occupied, guarding the radio, while Charlie slept. Long time since Charlie had slept rough, not since the family camping holiday outside Aberystwyth when they'd packed it in after four days, conceding second best to the weather and he'd vowed never again, no more holidays for the mob without confirmed hotel bookings. Have to get ready for when they opened the radio circuit.
Should wash his socks through first though, not that anyone else would have, but a standing privilege of a desk job was that a man had the right to clean socks. Quit the rubbish, Charlie, get up and concentrate.
Charlie dressed quickly, just his trousers and shirt, and felt a moment of distaste at the darkened rim of his collar.
'Any chance of a cup of tea and a half-minute with a battery razor?'
The policeman was happy to vacate the chair, said he'd go and look, and that the Committee was dossing down below in the Airport Manager's office, all except the Home Secretary, of course: found him a billet in the Fire Chief's house, a bit away, but inside the perimeter.
'Tell them I'm on the seat, my compliments and remind them that the plane's due to come through any time now.'
Going to have to be careful with this one. This was the crucial conversation: that much had been decided last night. Should be left in no doubt they'd get no petrol, fly nowhere else.
Clitheroe had given it his sanction, all right once they'd rested to give them the pill. But didn't really matter how freshened they were, how much they could think things out, labour with the logic; always unpredictable when they flatten into a brick wall for the first time, realize they haven't a safety belt on… Shut up, Charlie, shut up and wait for the tea to come.
But the radio call came before the tea.
'Kingfisher here, Kingfisher here. The man we spoke to last night, is he there?'
Charlie waved behind him, the fantasies scattered, alert, in control. There was a shout that echoed away down the stairs, and then the drumming of feet taking the stairs two at a time.
'Charlie to Kingfisher'- humour the silly apes -'Charlie here. Please identify who is calling. Is that David?' Keep it simple to start with while you tune into the language.
What a time in the morning to be fluent in Russian! 'Have you slept well inside the plane? Did you get your heads down?'
' It is immaterial. We are waiting for the answer. We want the fuel. Do you have the authorization for that?' He'd slept all right, the bastard. Didn't sound as if he were back on the ropes like last night – fresher, keener, more determined, and rejecting the request for identification. Someone was tapping on Charlie's shoulder. Assistant Chief Constable there, looking as though they'd pulled him backwards through a hedge and still combing what hair he had, and Clitheroe in his braces and short of his jacket and tie and still breathless from the race up the stairs.
'Dont worry about the translation now, Mr Webster. Give it to them hard and straight.'
Finger to the console, switch to transmission. Deep breath, steeled himself.