An RAF staff car had brought Lt-Col. Arie Benitz from Brize Norton. There had been a shortage of serviced helicopters that was the excuse given to him on landing for the change of transport.
That they were not ready to have him at Stansted was immediately apparent by the initial niggling delays. They had insisted that he should eat something after his long overnight flight, not just a sandwich, but something hot, and the Mess would soon be open, the cooks on duty.
There was the problem of the civilan clothes that had to be mustered, a surprise to Benitz because he was medium height with unexceptional contours. It was suggested that he might care to telephone his Embassy and more time was consumed while they found the keys to a private office, and then again while the call was routed through to the Ambassador's home.
'The British have a dilemma, Colonel,' the Ambassador had said. ' If they bow to the Soviet pressure then your journey will have been wasted. But if they stand up for themselves and it might be the first time in many years – then there is a role for you. But do not count on it: remember the spare parts for the Centurions in the time of Yom Kippur. At the moment their decision has not been made. I suggest you let the Air Force bring you to London, to the Embassy.
There is not the great urgency that we had feared earlier, and the British show they are in no hurry to throw their apple to either side of the fence.'
Two and a half hours it had taken him, first winding and turning on the country roads, then powering along the empty M3, until finally they were catacombed among the half-lit streets of the capital. First visit to London, first to England, and nothing to do but stare at the fleeing sights from the window and with only a taciturn driver for company. When he reached the Embassy he was not surprised at its fortress- like protection. A private road and a message sent ahead by telephone from the Kensington-end gates to warn of his arrival. Floodlights at the front of the building, a remote camera on an arm jutting above him, steel-faced door, an age of identification and explanation before the bolts were withdrawn, the lock turned.
He was taken to the Ambassador's office to read the latest decoded communications from Jerusalem, to hear the most up-dated reports from Stansted, to study the photographs and biographies that the Russians had supplied to the Foreign Office and which had been passed on to the Israelis in confidence. He said little as he paced his way through the folder of documents, needing to scour the typed words only once, a man who assimilated information without hardship. When Benitz closed the file, signifying that the contents had been digested, the Ambassador spoke, quietly and with concern.
'You have a detestable job, Colonel – not one that should be given to an officer of your experience and ability. If there is a role f o r you in this matter it will be to talk these people into a surrender and will be both wounding and hurtful to many of the Jews of the world. The position as we see it is this – and you must forgive any repetition of what you may have been told before you left Israel, but I understand the briefing time was short. There is little to no chance that the British will provide fuel for the aircraft. The escape of the three students has ended at Stansted, and it is their future there that concerns us. If they defy the British calls for surrender, if there is more bloodshed, more killing, then and I do not have to stress this to you – there will be grave embarrassment to our government. We want them out of that plane before they have done more damage, before they have had more opportunity to fuel the propaganda machine of the Soviets.
But how, Colonel Benitz, can we wash our hands of them? Jewish children, fighting an oppression that we loudly and frequently condemn. We cannot abandon them. We cannot permit them to be returned to the Soviet Union. Our Defence Minister spoke in the Cabinet last night of our country's shame if they were to be sent back to their deaths.
It is a dreadful dilemma that we face. That is my speech, Colonel, but it was necessary that we should all understand the position we find ourselves in. We have offered your services to the British because we believe that the children will hear you, because you are a fighter, and that is how they see themselves. But we make one fundamental precondition for the use of your good offices. Should you help to win this surrender, then the British must guarantee that there will be no question of extradition.'
'Are the British likely to accede to our request?'
'No. It is unlikely in my opinion.'
"And if they do not?'
' I think we have not yet arrived at that point.'
"Most of the men we fight against in the Anti-Terrorist Unit, those that come into our country, have come to terms with the price of their struggle… understand that there can be no return… know that we will kill them.'
Not articulate, trying to find the words he wanted and disappointed in himself that he could not match the fluency of the diplomat.
'These will be different, without the training, without the discipline… their fear and confusion will be great by this time. Yet on their own scale they will believe they have achieved much.' A slow-forming smile on his face. 'Perhaps to them they have won their own Entebbe…'
' I said to you, Colonel Benitz, that it was a detestable job that you have been chosen to perform.'
'And there is no chance, no hope whatsoever, that they will be allowed to come to Israel?'
'How can there be? With the pilot dead, it is impossible. And even should the British allow it, could we receive them? When you are unpopular, alone as we are, and you wish to fight back, then your hands must be scrubbed clean. If we falter now, because our kith are involved, then we will have forfeited the right for ever to speak out against the terrorism that you know better than I. If we accept that these children can become the heroes of Zionism then we have borrowed the language of the Palestinians.'
With a shrug Benitz said, 'The killing of the pilot has destroyed them.'
'It has critically affected the matter.'
'And would have been the action of a moment'
'You are charitable, Colonel.'
'Not charitable, just realistic.' He seemed to go far away, beyond the horizons of the room, to have lost interest in the conversation. It's so fast, so rushed, there is not time for thinking, not in the moment of assault, not in the seconds that count if you are to succeed…'
It was not long before they parted. On his way out the Colonel wrote down a series of telephone numbers, some that ran through the switchboard, others that were connected to direct outside lines.
'We asked,' said the Ambassador with a pleasant smile on his face, one that was rarely revealed, 'we asked that we could send our own communications system to Stansted, to enable you to report to us directly. The British indicated that there would be so much radio traffic that it was impossible for them to accommodate us, they said they regretted this. It would hinder their operations. We are used to these affairs, the British are not, and therefore they are tense and concerned that they will emerge well at the conclusion.'
They had shaken hands and Benitz had returned to the waiting staff car. He dozed for much of the way out of London – not that he was particularly tired, but simply that he was used to taking his rest where he could find it. After a while he woke, aware of the sound of voices and of the car no longer moving. In the demi-light at the outer perimeter road block he could see a policeman scanning the travel authorization with his torch. Three miles further on there was another enforced stop, and again the production of the magic paper, and salutes from men in uniform for the huddled figure sprawled on the car's back seat.
They took him to the control tower building, men gesturing to his driver the direction he should take, to which entrance he should report. He was conscious of the military as he stepped out of the car, bracing himself to the freshness of the morning – the howl of an armoured car accelerating in low gear, the medley of chatter and static on a soldier's radio set, tyres that had gouged tracks in the dried-out summer lawn. Familiar sounds, and sights that he was accustomed to.