A buzz of talk filled the aircraft, a subdued drone, as the passengers with window seats told their neighbours that a man had come close to the Ilyushin. The news stifled thoughts of bulging bladders and empty stomachs, overcame the awareness of the smell of sweat. It was an event, and being the first of the day that offered the possibility of outside interference in their position it was welcome. The children talked more loudly than their elders, and pointed to the man and pushed those with the best view aside. The masters tried to quieten them but accepted they could not be successful.
Huge lenses mounted on cameras and tripods of weight and security had followed Charlie Webster's walk. The uniformed policemen were present to prevent any surge forward by cameramen, and journalists obligingly squatted on their haunches to avoid obstructing the view – the solitary figure barely visible to the naked eye at that range but greatly magnified by film. The static APCs and the resting soldiers had long been exhausted as a source of pictures, and this was recognized as something different. There were many suggestions as to the role of the man who had strode towards the aircraft. He was 'SAS', he was a 'doctor because some of the passengers were sick', he was 'the leading government negotiator', a 'police chief of rank'. There seemed endless scope for speculation.
'The bastard's going round the far side.'
'Same at Tunis with the BOAC VC10, never saw a damn thing.'
'Shut up. YouH wreck the bloody sound track.'
'Fat lot of sound you're getting at a thousand yards.'
'He's gone, the bastard. Lost him round the nose.'
The advance of Charlie Webster had promised much to the cameramen, and they had been cheated and were angry and bickered among themselves as the film they had taken was canned and labelled and handed to the waiting motorcyclists.
'Always the same, never let you see a damn thing.'
When Colonel Arie Benitz dialled the number he had been given the previous night the response in London was almost immediate: two rings and the connection. He was not told to whom he was speaking, nor did he introduce himself. The conversation was brief.
'We have tried to arrange a meeting this morning at the Foreign Office, and we were put off,' he was told. 'The British Foreign Secretary is in continuous session with his advisers, they say.
We are being shut out, and we need to take our own course."
The soldier of another army would have laughed derisively at that moment, questioning immediately what initiative was possible. But other armies did not fly two thousand miles across hostile airspace to land at Entebbe, or take their commando squads into territory as hostile as Beirut for the elimination of the men who fought against them, did not force down foreign airliners on scheduled routes because they were thought to be carrying the men who directed and controlled the war against Israel. If a suggestion were made there would be no ridicule at its feasibility from Colonel Arie Benitz. He would listen, evaluate and decide on the best plan available to ensure the possibility of success, however remote.
' Is there a chance that you might get to the plane and talk to those that hold it?'
' It would be difficult. They are suspicious of me, the British, as I was told they would be.'
'We would like a message passed to the plane, to the young people. But it is difficult if we work through the British. They are possessive of this matter
'
'They are possessive because they are nervous. It is to be expected. What is the message?'
' I used the wrong word. It is less a message, more a suggestion. Perhaps… if they were to offer to surrender now, no more killing, but conditional on their not being sent back?… They have asked in Jerusalem that I should say this to you, but it cannot be with the knowledge of the British. I ask again, is it possible for you to reach the plane?'
Patiently and without rancour, Benitz said into the phone,
'They have an army around the aircraft. I cannot just walk to it. .. you understand. And there is little time now. The children have set an ultimatum, you yourself told me that. And you must see that it is difficult for the British to bend at this moment, with the pilot dead, and when they are under duress from threats. If we do not have the co-operation of the security here then it would be difficult for me to reach the aircraft.' Not one to use the word 'impossible', but there was enough in his voice to suggest it. 'I will try, but you must send the reply to the Crisis Committee that I can offer little hope that I will be able to talk with our people.'
' It is understood, Colonel, it is understood what circumstances you find yourself in. Call us please should the position change, but I fear it will not. From London we are still trying for a meeting with the Foreign Secretary, but as I have told you they are not responsive.'
Arie Benitz hung the phone back on its hook, and cursed the noise from the juke box and the babble of conversation among the airport staff, revelling in their enforced idleness, who gathered for breakfast and cups of tea and chatter of shop prices and housekeeping purses.
He yearned to be back with his own, back with the squad, back at the training school, back near Ashdod. Skirting the tables and chairs he walked slowly towards the door, not caring to glance at the mass of cheerful, laughing, uncaring humanity around him. Dull, miserable little people, who understood nothing, and would be frightened when their livers or their kidneys failed them, and they were close to death. They understood nothing, or else they would be hushed and passive, and thinking of three children, and a plane full of people, and what might be their fate.
Out through the door and moving briskly towards his assigned room; where else to go? What would have triggered them, he thought? An incident, a single episode? Unlikely. It was never straight-forward, not with these people, never as simple as the outsider believed. Did not take a kicking, or a rape or injustice to fashion the guerrilla, just an accumulation of circumstances, a construction of despair, a fabrication of hatred. Not a sudden thing, a momentary decision, but a slow-burning, stoked loathing. And courage. Nothing without courage. Even the Palestinians…
He flopped down at the desk. Had any of those who passed his door stopped to look at the hunched figure they would have seen a sad and hurt man.
Seventy yards behind Charlie were the petrol tankers, their considerable forward and rear heavy-duty tyres providing cover for the SAS marksmen. Two of them handled the old Lee Enfield bolt action rifle mounted with the tubular telescopic sight now trained on the door of the Ilyushin. Another pair lay beside the standard NATO General Purpose Machine Gun, belt-fed. The rifles would provide accurate shot protection, the GPMG trained on the same target was the fall-back precaution, concentration of fire. Behind the central tanker were men with smoke canisters fitted to the barrel tip of FNs. He was unaware of all this and stood feeling a peculiar loneliness as he waved to the windows and door. Bloody stupid way to be carrying on, Charlie.
It seemed to take an age before the door began to move. A slight shuddering action at first, as if someone was operating the mechanism who had not handled it before. There was a stutter, then a sweeping movement, as the door came away on its arms from the fuselage and swung out before coming to rest. It took Charlie time to get his eyes tuned to the grey artificial light of the interior, and then the girl was standing there looking down on him, more with curiosity than anything else, her left hand on the edge of the door. Least of her problems, thought Charlie, falling out of the bloody thing. Pistol in her right hand; he prided himself that he knew most makes, but this wasn't one that he recognized, almost hidden amid the folds of her dress. He smiled at her, big and open and friendly, the smile that Parker Smith said would sell sand to the Saudis, ice to the Eskimos, the smile that his wife always giggled at.