Gerald Seymour - The Glory Boys

Pointed at the ground and the sky.

Jimmy put his hand in his pocket, under the cover of the cloth, and when it emerged the PPK was there. He saw Famy begin to squirm away, trying to move, but pinioned by the damage to his legs and his hip. Whimpering, like a dog that expects a beating but is too trained to run from the threat.

'Don't make it difficult, boy. You knew what it was all about when you came on the joy-ride. And you did well, considering.'

Jimmy fired into the centre of the pale brown forehead, below the clear white rim of the turban. Even with a moving target he was usually accurate.

The noise of the shot was drowned by the four fan jet engines of the taxiing 747.

From beside the car, still stationary, still with the engine ticking quietly over and with the front and rear doors open, Jones had watched it all. There had been words that he'd tried to say, some sort of call, helpless and faint, for Jimmy to come back, but the roar of the engines prevented his being heard by any other than those immediately beside him.

He had seen the pistol in Jimmy's hand, small and blurred in the distance but silhouetted as a recognizable shape against the great emptiness of the tarmac. He hadn't looked after that. The plane was turning toward the runway, its power rising into deafening, ear-blasting crescendo as it eased its way clear of the group of men with their dark suits and hardened eyes.

'Bloody good job and all,' muttered the Branch man, whose eyes had never wavered from Jimmy and who now stared over Jones's shoulder.

Jones swung back. Jimmy walking toward him now, the one he knew just by the name of Famy abandoned and unmoving behind the erect and brisk figure that was soon close enough for him to see the almost boyish grin of satisfaction that wreathed the mouth. Cat with the cream, thought Jones, as if he's scored a bloody try at Twickenham.

'Bloody good job, the way it should be every time,' the Branch man said again, and Jones bit on his lip, unable to speak his mind, out of step with the mood.

Well, they'd had their money's worth out of Jimmy-boy this time. Earned his retainer, hadn't he? There'd be a mass of paperwork to be getting on with, the predictable escape mechanism, and Jones went in search of a car heading for Central London. Knifing through his mind the continuous thought… it was what they'd wanted, it was what they'd asked for, those bloody politicians with their directives from on high, and they'd been gratified.

In the first-class cabin, occupying two seats at the rear, were Sokarev and Elkin. The pilot had swung the plane hard round and lined himself on to the 36oo-metre-long Runway 5, given precedence over all other flights. Clearance from the control tower was immediate, and the aircraft hammered its way into the slight wind down 28L.

Just before the moment of lift-off Sokarev whispered, straining to Elkin's ear, that he felt sick.

'Don't worry,' Elkin said, it's all over. It's finished now.

We are going home. There is nothing more to fear.'

They were all going home. Mackowicz in the tin box on the freight deck beneath them, Elkin who had been his friend, Sokarev who had been his charge. The security man noted the pallor of the scientist, and the perspiration on his balding head and the way that he struggled to reach upward to direct the cold air nozzles toward his face.

When they were airborne it would be easier. He told himself that, and settled back, deep, into the comfort of his seat.

At first the pains were slight and concentrated in the centre of his chest, but the nausea and desire to vomit were uppermost. As Elkin slept beside him Sokarev was able to worm a path over the legs of his bodyguard and into the aisle towards the lavatories. He'd had little food and his retching was painful and hard. By the time they were flying over the Mediterranean the pain was spreading in area and intensity, and still Elkin's eyes were closed, insensible to the outer world. When at last a stewardess noticed Sokarev's distress he was doubled up in his seat, his hands across his body. Over the loudspeaker system of the aircraft the chief steward called for a doctor.

Elkin stood out in the aisle now, for once helpless, unable to offer aid to the man he had been ordered to protect. The doctor reached low over the heaving form of Sokarev, whom they had stretched across the two seats, centre arm rest pulled out.

When he stood up the doctor, young and in a T-shirt displaying the name of Hamburg where he had been holidaying before joining the flight, asked if anyone were accompanying the passenger. 'He is subject to severe coronary attack?'

Elkin nodded, unable to speak, stunned at the revelation.

Now of all moments…

'Has he been under strain?' The doctor's voice carried the hush of concern.

'He is David Sokarev.'

'I don't know the name, I have not been in Israel some weeks.'

'He is the one the Arabs tried to kill. At the airport and before that last night.'

'The reason for the troops? The passenger on the far side of the airfield?'

'Yes.'

'He has been under severe strain?'

'Total strain. They were trying to assassinate him.'

Enough of the talk. There must be action that can be taken.

'He needs morphine,' said the doctor.

'And… '

'And I do not have morphine. I do not carry it with me.'

Elkin looked away from the doctor, down to the pain on the professor's cheeks. 'Call the Captain,' he said. 'Get him off the deck and here.'

The pilot, mid-forties, shirt sleeves, grey hair, a decision-maker, offered no options. 'We go for Ben Gurion. Lebanon and Cyprus are nearer, but are out. Beirut, obviously, Larnaca is too short for the plane. Athens might save a few minutes, but it's marginal and the facilities at home are superior. We have a little less than an hour till we are down. The necessary people will be waiting.'

The doctor said aloud as he bent once again over Sokarev, 'He is an old man to have gone through all this.

Overweight, not equipped to take such turmoil. The bastards always hit when they are not expected.'

Elkin could not reason why he spoke. There was no need, no requirement, but he replied. 'We have known for some days that an attack was planned. The Professor has known too.'

'And you took him, and you exposed him? Knowingly you brought him to Europe? At his age, in his condition?'

'A decision had been taken.'

'There is no wound on him. Remember that. You and your people will have to make your own decision if he dies. You will have to know who killed him.'

There was darkness round the jet as it whispered on its way, ten miles every minute toward the coastline of Israel and the landfall.

On the intercom the Personal Assistant announced that the Prime Minister was calling from Downing Street. With resignation the Director General cleared the papers that obscured his note-pad, took in his hand a sharpened pencil, and raised the receiver of the telephone. He heard the Prime Minister being informed that the link was now through, that the other party was waiting. There was quiet in the room, fitting for the moment before the verbal assault that he had anticipated and predicted to himself. It was an understatement that the Prime Minister was furious. Voice raised. The head of the Security Services held the telephone a clear inch from his ear.

'It was turned into a clear fiasco by your man.' in what way, sir?' Don't give the blighters an inch, don't get into the apology situation, don't make it easy for the inquiry. in what way? Because of what your fellow did on the tarmac. Right out there in the middle, with half the bloody world looking on.'

'You'll have to explain, sir.' Stall the inevitable. Let the heat cool, then counter-attack.