Gerald Seymour - Kingfisher

" It's not true, simply not true.'

'Behind them they have a man shot in Kiev. The pilot of the aircraft is dead in the cockpit, a passenger is dead on the tarmac. More stand to die as the afternoon goes on. The truth of what Webster tells these people is frankly unimportant. They've forfeited the right to truth.' He saw the retreat, the change of tack, the Home Secretary backing away from confrontation. Stupid, bloody man, and what did he know of the scene anyway? Better off downstairs and out of the way.

' I hadn't thought it would cave in quite like this.' He had to assert himself in some way, had to say something Well, let bloody Clitheroe answer him.

'They end with a whimper, these things, that's my experience' – the psychiatrist had joined the group. 'On other occasions we've noted there's an intensification of demands in the final hours before surrender. These two people are undergoing severe nervous strain, loss of sleep, absence of food. They are in a hostile environment, isolated from communication. When they raised their demands it was because they acknowledged their earlier threats had failed. Mr Webster has now confronted them with the Israeli. They are bewildered at the moment and they will want to know what he has to say. The combination of persuasion by Mr Webster and Benitz should be too much for them. I would predict it will be all over today. Shorten that in fact to this afternoon.'

'Extraordinary behaviour of this fellow Webster.' The politician was still perturbed, recognizing his hand was far from the helm. Must going off, no instructions, no authorization, taking the Israeli…'

' It's quite simple. The last time Mr Webster was present we were engaged in the debrief of the Russian. We were preparing for an attack. Mr Webster was anxious to avoid such an assault.'

'So are we all,' the Home Secretary bridled. 'It's the last thing any of us want.'

' 'If the military assault the plane Mr Webster believes there would be an inherent risk to the children who are among the passengers, harm a large proportion of them. If I may be indiscreet I think he also believes that it is not necessary to kill the two young people. He would like them to survive. If he is to save them he will be all the better equipped to do so in the knowledge that they will serve a few years in a British gaol before release. He's a complex fellow, Mr Webster, his experiences are outside our own, and I think he's bored with ushering young people to their maker. The only relief I feel at the moment is that it will not be myself who disabuses him of the destination of the two Russians should he prove successful.'

Both in their shirt sleeves, Charlie encumbered only by his radio set, Benitz with the lightweight aluminium ladder that would reach to the bottom of the doorway. Around them a terrible, deafening stillness. Benitz steadied the ladder against the fuselage of the aircraft, noticed its age, the dents of unknown mechanics, the flashes of rust from the vents in the bodywork, the peeling of the weatherworn paint work of its livery. He put his foot on the bottom step to calm its vibrations.

Charlie began to climb towards the doorway.

Isaac was back again in his lair, hugging the drinks trolley, ignoring the sights that he had lived with, the coats and possessions stuffed into the racks, the printed flower patterns on the walls, the terse material covering of the seats, the bobbing heads. Rebecca sat huddled in the cockpit doorway, shunning the sight of the body of the captain, unmoving and whitened by the pallor of death. Both from their different positions could see the top of the ladder, saw it buckle and shake before there was Charlie's shoulder for them to fasten on, and his growing height as he climbed into view. He seemed to pause for a moment, to hesitate and look about him, nostrils dilating to the smell of the interior. His eyes roamed about him, and there was a smile of recognition on his face, hasty but still evident, when he saw the girl, followed by a slight inclination of his head and then at his mouth the faint twist of protest, unspoken, at the pistol levelled at his chest. He turned his head, back towards the world beyond the hatch and called in English so that only Rebecca understood him. 'It's fine, Arie. Come on up, the party's ready.'

Isaac, squinting down the length of the aisle, trying to penetrate the face, assess the man: the enemy or the ally? Isaac needing an answer. Didn't fit the image of the enemy. Too old, too care-worn, too gross about the waist. An ordinary man such as he would have seen in Kiev, who might work at the railway station or occupy an office in the Bureau of State Pensions. He moved with neither the suspicion nor the aggression of a man who would do them harm. But this was the one who had broken them, who was the spokesman for the great force on the outside, who had not conceded to their demand for fuel. And his weapon had been placid, unyielding reasonableness, the tap that dripped on and on, beating out messages of logic and persuasion in endless repetition. Rebecca had been beaten from the time they first heard his voice, David following her, and now he, Isaac, joining his colleagues in defeat. How many times had he said there would be no fuel before the message slowly and inexorably won through? Not an enemy, but not an ally, not this man with the dirt-stained shirt and the crumpled, rounded trousers. Nothing he had said had carried friendship, sympathy or understanding. He could not be an ally. A functionary, that was what the man Charlie was. The one who had been sent to do the work.

The man that followed him was different, sharper on his feet, quicker in his movements, harder eyes. Poised, intense. He was an opponent, to be watched. But this was the man sent by his own people, the one they had to hear before he took Rebecca past the trolley barricade to the place of privacy in the far end corridor, beside the back toilets, close to the rear door. Not now, Isaac, shut it out: the time comes fast enough.

Charlie began to walk down the aisle of the plane, slowly, gently, so that there could be no doubts about his intentions. Then he stopped where all could see him, reach into contact with him, his hand resting relaxed on a seat-back. Confident, friendly, assured.

The famous smile, winning friends, putting the fears at ease, the man who was in control, looking to the passengers as his priority, avoiding Isaac with his pinched and sprung intensity, and his submachine-gun. Not looking back at the drab girl with the pistol.

'Hello, my name is Charlie Webster. Just "Charlie", they generally call me. I'm with the British Foreign Office and I've come to take you off the plane. It won't be immediately, but it'll be very soon. You just have to be patient for a while longer. I know you've been that already – fantastic – but just a little bit longer while we sort some things out with the gentleman and the lady. Please stay in your seats, don't move at all, and remember that it won't be long now.'

There were some who found his Russian difficult to follow, so there was a chorus of explanation as the word was passed back among the rows of seats till all comprehended. The applause came suddenly and spontaneously, sixty men and women and children hammering their hands together and shouting their support. Charlie blushed and smiled again, and put up his hand without avail to halt the flood of gratitude sweeping down the cabin. He looked for someone to speak to, and was grateful for the presence of the girl pilot, still staring to the front, hands moving in rhythm with the others, tears on her cheeks, losing the fight with her emotions.

Charlie said, 'You are Miss Tashova. I want you to know that everyone in the control tower, all the authorities that are gathered there, have expressed their great admiration for your achievement last night. The landing was brilliant, absolutely bloody brilliant, if you'll excuse me.