Getting like the old days, Charlie. Calling for volunteers. He repeated the message in Russian.
Not that they'll buy that one, never in a month of Sundays. First basic of the hijacker's bible.
Book One, Chapter One, Verse One: never let the opposition near you; keep them at arm's length.
'Keep the pressure on them,' snapped Clitheroe. 'Tell them you're going to come out of the control tower and that you'll be walking to the plane. They'll see you all the way. They'll know there's no trick. But I want to get you to them, face to face, so we can start the confidence phase.'
Seemed excited at the prospect. And too bloody right he should be. Wasn't his arse that was going on show. 'See it this way, they've called us up because they're anxious, they want to do some talking. The whole thing is about this answer, this question, the crucial one to them. They want out, and they have to trust somebody, follow someone's guidance. It has to be you, because of the language, Charlie. They won't hurt you, not unless you take them bad news, and you're not going to do that.'
Broke off, allowed Charlie to talk again to the aircraft. 'Don't discuss it with them, don't debate. Just say you're coming.' Charlie speaking, trying to sound calm, organized, casual, efficient, and half the room chuntering in his right ear. Finished, thwacked the transmission button away from him.
'So, what do you want me to tell them when I get there? What's the answer?'
'There is no answer,' Clitheroe said. 'Vague and general, that's how you play it. You're a little man, you don't have that sort of authority. You're not going out there to talk to them, you're going to show yourself, that's all. Most likely you'll be the first Englishman they've ever spoken to.
You'll show them that you don't represent a threat, that they'll have nothing to fear from you.'
'But if they want an answer?' Fair enough for these bas tards, sitting behind the glass with binoculars. ' If they want the answer, what do I say then?'
'Cover it over, Mr Webster,' the Home Secretary, authoritative, on home territory, used to ploughing through the arguments of committee. 'You've heard the news bulletins, and you know what the Russians are saying. Gives you an idea what's being said in London. Not possible for you to be in any way specific but your own mind can be at rest. Soviets say there's no question of the death penalty for these people, and anyway I wouldn't put too much store by the diplomatic optimism" of Moscow at this stage. More likely these people will spend a period in British prisons if no more damage is done.'
Charlie turned to face him, but was denied the politician's features-had walked away, towards the f a r windows, meandering apparently without purpose. The Home Secretary knew his limitations.
'You'll need some equipment,' chimed the Assistant Chief Constable. Charlie, with a meekness that was not usually evident, followed him through the door.
David hung the headset back on the top of the pilot seat. He felt the lead weight clutching at him, numbing, and Rebecca pestering, pulling at his sleeve and whispering her demand f o r their final answer, the people in the tower. Isaac still sleeping, innocent of what they had done.
'He is coming to the plane, the one called Charlie. He says the matter is sensitive, that he wishes to talk to us face to face, on the question of what they will do with us if we…' Surrender.
Capitulation. Couldn't say it, couldn't say the words.
'When will he come?"
' In a few minutes, very soon, he will walk alone to the plane.'
'Is there a danger from this?'
' If one man comes there can be no danger.' And what did it matter, how could it concern them?
What further danger could there be at the moment of defeat? But he didn't know, hadn't thought through the possibilities, untuned to those technicalities of defence that had so obsessed Isaac.
'Will you wake him?'
David seemed to shake his head – not a definite movement, just the imperceptible wave of the eyebrows, the flick of the hair across his forehead. They clung together a long time, arms round each other, cheek to cheek, Rebecca stretching upwards to match her height with his. Many times David said, with the tears running on his face, ' I'm sorry.
I am sorry.' And Rebecca crying too, choking in her throat, unable to reply.
It was a pleasant enough room that had been set aside for Colonel Arie Benitz.
Calendars on the walls – gifts of aviation companies that showed a combination of light aircraft and bikini-clad girls draped on their wings. Photographs, too, of the first airliners that had used Stansted, sepia-toned and looking frail and historic. Flowers on the window ledge. Easy chairs and a desk with a telephone.
When the call came he let it ring several seconds before answering, time to summon his caution and prepare himself. He did not identify with either rank or name, was wary till he heard the Hebrew language that was used.
The Embassy in London. He should know that the Soviet Ambassador had been received at the Foreign Office that morning, that he had made a statement to the press, had spoken of agreement with the British that the three should be returned to Russia. He also should know that there were journalists' reports that an ultimatum had been set on the aircraft, due to expire at ten hundred hours, and that it was the opinion of advice available to the Ambassador that further violence on the part of the three would only strengthen the resolve of the British to fulfil their arrangement with the Soviets.
He should find a public telephone kiosk and immediately contact those designated to liaise with him in London. The number he should call would be the first given him in the small hours.
There was a wish of the Foreign Ministry in Jerusalem to clarify his instructions in view of the new circumstances.
Arie Benitz let himself out of the office. There were many civilians and policemen and soldiers who hurried purposefully about their business and who passed him in the corridors, and none had cause to notice him. A cleaning lady, with time on her hands because many of the rooms she normally tidied at this time were occupied, directed him to a telephone in the staff canteen in the building's basement. She even changed for him the fifty-pence piece into the range of coins he would require to make the connection.
As he walked down the stairs Benitz felt the irritation rising in him, fuelled by the ill-shaped and ill-fitting clothes, ignited by the problems of the mission that he had been given. Ill at ease, unwanted, a stranger among the bustle of those who had a task and work that could not wait.
Unaccustomed to being a watcher, and on the side-lines.
Arie Benitz was steeped in the history of the State of Israel. He was committed to the defence of its people, had experienced moments when protection came only from the hammering of his Uzi, and the cries of pain from his enemies. He was treated with respect in his own country, called by his given name when spoken to in conference by his Chief of Staff. And these people had declined his help, ignored him.
As he walked into the canteen he was thinking of the three young ones, frightened and alone, in the Ilyushin. And they had said on the telephone to him that they would be returned, that he would not be required by the British to help in surrender. Arie Benitz had to fight against the thought that came into his mind. Willing them, willing the children, to hit back, attack, show their defiance. Had to suppress it, because that was contrary to his country's interests, and he was a servant of his country.
The hard one, the one they called Isaac, the one who led them now, he was the material of Squad 101, he was fashioned for the Anti-terrorist Unit. Do not lose your courage, children, thought Arie Benitz. There can be no help, there can be no rescue, but do not lose your courage.