Well, someone had fired shots inside the aircraft. And thee the plane had crashed. Why? Because of the shots? (Perhaps some vital piece of mechanism had been hit. Or had the pilots been killed?) Anyway, the drama had taken place prematurely, unexpectedly.
But what would have happened if no shots had been fired? Where would the plane have gone to? And, most important of all, where and how would the drama have ended?
As often happens when one dreams that one is flying, Gjergj’s imagination was drawn towards the earth.
Apparently the plan was that the matter should be settled on the ground — on foreign soil, evidently, to make people think Lin Biao had been trying to escape. Otherwise, there were plenty of deserts in China where he could have been eliminated without any difficulty.
So the intention was that Lie Biao should be found on foreign soil (Soviet soil, as it happened). Aboard the plane on which he’d fled. Dead.
The plan implicit in this hypothesis was clear. The plane was to land somewhere in Mongolia. Before the Soviet frontier guards arrived, the killers would have plenty of time to shoot the marshal, either inside the plane — they could pepper the body with impunity now it had landed — or outside, on the ground.
In the latter case the marshal and the people with him would have been made to disembark, and then shot beside the aircraft. When the Soviets came on the scene they’d have been told: “This is Lin Biao, our minister. We were his guards. He was trying to escape. We are loyal to Mao. So we shot him.”
But this fine plan had been foiled by Lie Biao himself, with his question about where they were going, the shots, etc. Unless what triggered things off was the guards’ attempt to disarm him (“As soon as you cross the frontier, take away his gee!”).
Gjergj shook his head. Was it likely the meticulous Chinese would embark on so crude a plan? The perfunctoriness of it was obvious, but quite apart from that it involved enormous risks. There were two groups of armed men aboard the plane, and Lin Biao’s escort was at least as likely as not to get the upper hand. Then he would have got clean away.
No! Gjergj told himself. It couldn’t have been like that. Such an unsound plan could only have been set up by someone certain that whatever happened inside the plane — even if Lin Biao did get temporary control — the end of the story would be the same. For the simple reason that both parties would be burned to ashes.
The plane would be shot down. Someone was sure of that.
Gjergj leaned his forehead against the window, bet the vibrating of the glass only made him more agitated than ever.
There were two groups on that plane, and each group thought it knew the truth. Lin Biao’s party thought he was being flown to Peking, His potential murderers knew they were going to murder him in Mongolia. But over and above all this there was someone else, not on the plane, far away even, who really knew what was what: who knew that the plane was doomed to be burned to ashes.
H’mm, thought Gjergj. So they planned to shoot the plane down. Easy to say, but not so easy to do. If the marshal had been summoned to Peking he would have travelled either on his own plane, or on a government aircraft, or on one belonging to the general staff, Whichever it was, all such aircraft were guarded day and night: it was unlikely anybody could plant a bomb aboard them or interfere with their landing gear. Even if that were possible, it would still be difficult for the killers to get themselves aboard. Lin Biao’s escort would challenge any unknown faces and order them to be thrown off the plane without more ado.
H’mm…Not really very plausible, Even if such a plan had gone smoothly to begin with, how could the bomb be timed to go off at a precise moment, after the plane had crossed the frontier? The marshal was the second most important man in China, and in charge of his own comings and goings. He could have delayed his flight by an hour, by two hours even, if he felt like it. No, it must have happened differently. Or perhaps all the theories rejected the facts in some way, only in a different order and in pursuit of a completely different purpose.
But what does it matter anyway? thought Gjergj to himself in a last effort to get the business off his mind. There was no point in cudgelling his brains over something that was bound to remain a mystery no matter how much one tried to puzzle it out. He was already depressed enough after spending all that time surrounded by mask-like faces inhabiting a seemingly lifeless world, He’d felt his own vitality draining away as the days went by. And now he was leaving it all behind he meant to forget those empty countenances and all the stress he’d endured. To hell with them and their mysteries! Aeyway, this might be his last trip there.
He tried to imagine himself back at home among his nearest and dearest, but some obstacle seemed to stand in the way. The entrance hall of the flat, the doors into the rooms looked different. There was something strange about the familiar sound of Suva’s footsteps going from their bedroom to the bathroom. There was even a mist over Suva’s and Brikena’s faces. What was going on? he thought worriedly. The spell of Asia seemed to envelop him still.
He beckoned to the stewardess who was patrolling the narrow passageway between the seats, and ordered a cup of coffee.
“Where are we?” he asked her when she brought it.
She gave the usual automatic smile and told him. But he didn’t hear: his mind had substituted the words, “Over Mongolia.”
“Where are we going?” Lin Biao had asked on the fatal plane, as it speeded towards an unknown destination. “Oh, hell!” cried Gjergj, realizing he couldn’t tear his thoughts away from that other aircraft. He’d heard so much about it during those dreary evenings in Peking — it was going to take time to get it out of his system.
So for the moment he gave up trying. He just tried as best he could to clarify his ideas on the subject, as if drawing up a report on a press conference. He hoped this might calm him down.
Clearly there had been no attempt at fleeing the country. Nor had the plane been piloted by Lin Biao’s son. Admittedly the marshal’s wife and son had been with him (perhaps all three had been invited to Peking together), but everything had been arranged so as to make the theory of escape seem plausible. And indeed everyone would have believed it had it not been for the shots. Who had fired them, and at whom? Had the son shot his father? Had they both fired at one another? Was it conceivable that the betrayal attributed to Lin Biao’s daughter had really been committed by his son?…Not very likely.
There must have been others on that plane. But who? They must have been hostile to Lin Biao, since, whoever fired first, shots were indeed fired. So that made two opposing groups aboard, though at least one of the two parties — the one charged with killing Lin Biao — knew the other wouldn’t emerge from the journey alive. The plane took off. One hour, two hours went by. Peking, whither Lin Biao was supposed to have been summoned urgently, was still not in sight. It was then that he asked: “Where are we going?”
Up till then everything was more or less clear, but after the fateful question all became obscure. Including the shots.
But you’ve just said it was practically impossible for the presumed murderers to get on board the plane, whether it was a private or a government aircraft! Gjergj reminded himself. This is torture! Then suddenly he realized who it was that might actually ask him these questions. He even knew where the interrogation would take place: in the Riviera Café, where Gjergj often went and sat with Skënder Bermema. That’s it! thought Gjergj — it’s because of him I keep turning these thoughts over and over in my head. He knew that as soon as he got back Bermema would bombard him with questions. In particular about the murder of the marshal The two of them had talked about it several times before, Bermema probably meant to write about it.