Kingfisher

Behind Charlie someone asked, 'What's the sound quality?'

'Not good, very muzzy. We'd hear something loud, shouting or a shot, but ordinary voice levels won't be satisfactory. Might be better when we put the tapes through the cleaners, wash the backgrounds out a bit. But don't count on it.' They let the audio man get on with it – sound was second best. That the picture was sensational was the general consensus; a new toy, and they were revelling in its versatility.

'That's Isaac,' Charlie broke in. 'The one in the front. The girl's behind him – Rebecca.'

Total attention on the screen now, and hazy in the middle distance was the figure of Isaac, his chin low on his chest and his hair messed and tangled, shirt creased and floppy and the tail out of his trousers. Watchful and suspicious and minding his charges. Two hands on the gun – World War Two, and Charlie wondered where they'd dug that one up from. He didn't really look at the girl, didn't know anything about her to convince himself that she wasn't there just for the ride; saw she kept close, not more than half a pace behind the man, and that her dress was torn, and that her cheekbone showed the discolouration of bruising. A long way up the aisle the fish-eye followed them before they were lost, cut off by the thick lip of the window's casing.

'That's the one you have to concern yourselves with,' said Charlie to anyone who cared to listen. 'If you can convince him to walk out with his hands up when there's half a chance he'll be shipped back to Kiev, then it'll be champagne all round, and on me.'

Pushing your luck, Charlie, only a cog, and a little one at that, and it's a big wheel you're working in. Steady down, sunshine. Not that anyone was listening to you anyway.

The Foreign Secretary had not slept well. Never did in the Club beds. But the Party had been in office only four months, and the Prime Minister talked that frequently of the impossibility of continuing with so slight a majority and his wish for a snap election that it seemed pointless to make the expensive investment in a central London home. Better to wait and see whether the future was in the chauffeur-driven Foreign Office limousines or the wife-piloted Mini of Opposition. The Club was adequate and useful after the welter of official dinners that the Foreign Secretary was obliged to host, and at least it was quiet, with a code of ethics in the smoking lounge that would not tolerate him being accosted by other members and quizzed on government intentions.

In his pyjamas he ate the scrambled eggs that the venerable servant had brought him at five.

He glanced fitfully at the morning's screaming headlines. Milking it dry, pulling the udders down, but could hardly blame them. It was the height of the silly season, with parliament not sitting, damn-all going on and now a hi-jack in their back garden. Teams of reporters and teams of photographers, all with the credits above the stories and under the pictures. Even a photograph of himself leaving the Foreign Office by the side entrance that he favoured; shouldn't have smiled, wasn't right for the occasion, but the little devils were everywhere and you never saw them in the dark, only felt the flash against your face. Past midnight when he'd abandoned his desk. Three long telephone sessions with the Prime Minister and not much to chew on as a result of them. Usual story. 'You're the man Who knows the implications of it all, as far as foreigners go. You're the man in charge, Home Office will work to you. You act and we'll be behind you.' How far behind? Inside knifing range or out? How many years back was it that socialist chap had called his Ministry 'a bed of nails'? He'd only had Labour and Industrial Relations to worry about – should have tried Foreign Office for a week.

A barely audible knock, and the entry of the PPS. Shaved, suited, clean, and bringing more coffee. Thoughtful lad: good choice.

'Before your solicitations I slept damned badly, feel washed out and would give almost anything to exchange my desk today for a decent morning's fishing.' Smiles all round. 'What have you brought me?'

'Transcripts from the late night radio and television in Moscow. Going very hard. Meeting the Ambassador had with you last night, spelling out their demands; internal consumption stuff but still a very tough stance.'

'And the Israelis?' Mouthful of toast, and a smear of marmalade to go with it. Beds might be lumpy but the Club at least maintained a good standard with their breakfasts.

'Nothing direct from them, and no commentary on the tail of their bulletins. They're taking it very straight.'

'State Department, and White House, anything there?'

'Secretary of State's office called. Said they didn't want to wake you – I said you'd be in the office by six-fifteen. The

Secretary will call you fifteen minutes later. They asked me to say he would be coming out of a function to do so. They describe it as a confidential and clarification matter.'

The lobby getting to work, all its power and all its tentacles beginning to weave into the scene.

To be anticipated.

'There was a demonstration outside the British Embassy in Washington late last night their time, a couple of hours ago. Few rocks over the fence and the police broke it up. Fairly Renta-mob, but the law went a bit heavy so there will be pictures that won't be friendly. Banners about not sending them back to their deaths, that sort of thing.'

"Trifle premature, but they don't waste time.' He reached for the new supply of coffee, poured it himself, and the PPS noticed that the hand was not steady, slurped into his saucer. Never at his best in the mornings, not till he'd put himself together. 'What do you think, my young friend?

Give me an opinion.'

'You can view the question from three angles. From emotion. From principle. From pragmatism. Take the first and last. If emotion wins the day then well find a reason not to return them. If it's the pragmatic we're after then we ship them home because sizeable though the Jewish stroke Israeli scene is it does not compare with the importance of our enjoying the continuing goodwill of the Soviet Union. Leaves only the principle of the matter. We're signatories to the Hague Aerial Piracy Convention, it's old now and it's gathering dust, but we and everyone else said at the time that we wanted a firm stand taken against hi-jacking. The firmest stand you can take is to send these people back.'

That's making it all very simple.'

The Foreign Secretary headed towards the bathroom. Once there he turned on the spurting taps, leaving the PPS to compete with the half-closed door and the running water.

'As our chaplain at school used to say, where principle is involved there can be no leeway.'

'And the limit of his concern was you little blighters smoking behind the physics lab and trying to deflower the art master's daughter.'

' If you take those three points you must come out two to one in favour of freighting them. It would only be emotion that would guide you to keep them here.'

'And votes' – a distant reply echoing from the tiled walls of the bathroom, 'and your seat in the House and mine.'

'All it comes down to is a selling matter. News Department can handle that. It's what they're paid for.'

'And if I were to extract a public promise from the Soviet authorities that in view of the youth of these three persons the death sentence would not be exacted should they be found guilty, how would that affect matters?'

'If you pulled that, Sir, I'd say you'd wrapped it all up very neatly.'

More water running, topping up from the hot tap. 'Get the Russian chappie in for half-seven, and my car here for six.' Would be very tidy if it worked, solve a lot of problems- and not wound too many consciences. Israelis wouldn't like it, but then they didn't like anything, so damned prickly, but it would be a fair solution, and one that he was pleased with.