Heathrow

Passengers passing through customs were directed to enter queues in relation to their status: “British Subjects,” “Commonwealth Subjects,” “Common Market Citizens,” and “Others.” Having traveled on his Costa Rican passport, Hel was clearly an “Other,” but he never had the opportunity to enter the designated line, for he was immediately approached by two smiling young men, their husky bodies distorting rather extreme Carnaby Street suits, their meaty faces expressionless behind their moustaches and sunglasses. As he always did when he met modern young men, Hel mentally shaved and crewcut them to see whom he was really dealing with.

“You will accompany us, Mr. Hel,” one said, as the other took the duffel from his hand. They pressed close to him on either side and escorted him toward a door without a doorknob at the end of the debarkation area.

Two knocks, and the door was opened from the other side by a uniformed officer, who stood aside as they passed through. They walked without a word to the end of a long windowless corridor of institutional green, where they knocked. The door was opened by a young man struck from the same mold as the guards, and from within came a familiar voice.

“Do come in, Nicholai. We’ve just time for a glass of something and a little chat before you catch your plane back to France. Leave the luggage, there’s a good fellow. And you three may wait outside.”

Hel took a chair beside the low coffee table and waved away the brandy bottle lifted in offer. “I thought you had finally been cashiered out, Fred.”

Sir Wilfred Pyles squirted a splash of soda into his brandy. “I had more or less the same idea about you. But here we are, two of yesterday’s bravos, sitting on opposite sides, just like the old days. You’re sure you won’t have one? No? Well, I imagine the sun’s over the yardarm somewhere around the world, so—cheers.”

“How’s your wife?”

“More pleasant than ever.”

“Give her my love when next you see her.”

“Let’s hope that’s not too soon. She died last year.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t be. Is that enough of the small talk?”

“I should think so.”

“Good. Well, they dragged me out of the mothballs to deal with you, when they got word from our petroleum masters that you might be on your way. I assume they thought I might be better able to handle you, seeing that we’ve played this game many times, you and I. I was directed to intercept you here, find out what I could about your business in our misty isle, then see you safely back on a plane to the place from whence you came.”

“They thought it would be as easy as that, did they?”

Sir Wilfred waved his glass. “Well, you know how these new lads are. All by the book and no complexities.”

“And what do you assume, Fred?”

“Oh, I assume it won’t be quite that easy. I assume you came with some sort of nasty leverage gained from your friend, the Gnome. Photocopies of it in your luggage, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Right on top. You’d better take a look.”

“I shall, if you don’t mind,” Sir Wilfred said, unzipping the bag and taking out a manila folder. “Nothing else in here I should know about, I trust? Drugs? Subversive or pornographic literature?”

Hel smiled.

“No? I feared as much.” He opened the folder and began to scan the information, sheet by sheet, his matted white eyebrows working up and down with each uncomfortable bit of information. “By the way,” he asked between pages, “what on earth did you do to Miss Browne?”

“Miss Browne? I don’t believe I know a—”

“Oh, come now. No coyness between old enemies. We got word that she is this moment sitting in a French detention center while those gentlemen of Froggish inclination comb and recomb her luggage. The report we received was quite thorough, including the amusing detail that the little boy who was her cover promptly soiled himself, and the consulate is out the cost of fresh garments.”

Hel couldn’t help laughing.

“Come. Between us. What on earth did you do?”

“Well, she came on with all the subtlety of a fart in a bathosphere, so I neutralized her. You don’t train them as you did in the old days. The stupid twit accepted a gift.”

“What sort of a gift?”

“Oh, just a cheap memento of Biarritz. It was wrapped up in tissue paper. But I had cut out a gun shape from metal foil paper and slipped it between the sheets of tissue.”

Sir Wilfred sputtered with laughter. “So, the X-ray scanner picked up a gun each time the package passed through, and the poor officials could find nothing! How delicious: I think I must drink to that.” He measured out the other half, then returned to the task of familiarizing himself with the leverage information, occasionally allowing himself such interjections as: “Is that so? Wouldn’t have thought it of him.” “Ah, we’ve known this for some time. Still, wouldn’t do to broadcast it around.” “Oh, my. That is a nasty bit. How on earth did he find that out?”

When he finished reading the material. Sir Wilfred carefully tapped the pages together to make the ends even, then replaced them in the folder. “No single thing here sufficient to force us very far.”

“I’m aware of that, Fred. But the mass? One piece released to the German press each day?”

“Hm-m. Quite. It would have a disastrous effect on confidence in the government just now, with elections on the horizon. I suppose the information is in ‘button-down’ mode?”

“Of course.”

“Feared as much.”

Holding the information in “button-down” mode involved arrangements to have it released to the press immediately, if a certain message was not received by noon of each day. Hel carried with him a list of thirteen addresses to which he was to send cables each morning. Twelve of these were dummies; one was an associate of Maurice de Lhandes who would, upon receipt of the message, telephone to another intermediary, who would telephone de Lhandes. The code between Hel and de Lhandes was a simple one based upon an obscure poem by Barro, but it would take much longer than twenty-four hours for the intelligence boys to locate the one letter in the one word of the message that was the active signal. The term “button-down” came from a kind of human bomb, rigged so that the device would not go off, so long as the man held a button down. But any attempt to struggle with him or to shoot him would result in his releasing the button.

Sir Wilfred considered his position for a moment. “It is true that this information of yours can be quite damaging. But we are under tight orders from the Mother Company to protect these Black September vermin, and we are no more eager to bring down upon our heads the ire of the Company than is any other industrial country. It appears that we shall have to choose between misfortunes.”

“So it appears.”

Sir Wilfred pushed out his lower lip and squinted at Hel in evaluation. “This is a very wide-open and dangerous thing you’re doing, Nicholai—walking right into our arms like this. It must have taken a great deal of money to draw you out of retirement.”

“Point of fact, I am not being paid for this.”

“Hm-m-m. That, of course, would have been my second guess.” He drew a long sigh. “Sentiment is a killer, Nicholai. But of course you know that. All right, tell you what. I shall carry your message to my masters. We’ll see what they have to say. Meanwhile, I suppose I shall have to hide you away somewhere. How would you like to spend a day or two in the country? I’ll make a telephone call or two to get the government lads thinking, then I’ll run you out in my banger.”

Middle Bumley

Sir Wilfred’s immaculate 1931 Rolls crunched over the gravel of a long private drive and came to a stop under the porte coch of a rambling house, most of the charm of which derived from the aesthetic disorder of its having grown without plan through many architectural impulses.

Crossing the lawn to greet them were a sinewy woman of uncertain years and two girls in their mid-twenties.

“I think you’ll find it amusing here, Nicholai,” Sir Wilfred said. “Our host is an ass, but he won’t be about. The wife is a bit dotty, but the daughters are uniquely obliging. Indeed, they have gained something of a reputation for that quality. What do you think of the house?”

“Considering your British penchant for braggadocio through meiosis—the kind of thing that makes you call your Rolls a banger—I’m surprised you didn’t describe the house as thirty-seven up, sixteen down.”

“Ah, Lady Jessica!” Sir Wilfred said to the older woman as she approached wearing a frilly summer frock of a vague color she would have called “ashes of roses.” “Here’s the guest I telephoned about. Nicholai Hel.”

She pressed a damp hand into his. “So pleased to have you. To meet you, that is. This is my daughter, Broderick.”

Hel shook hands with an overly slim girl whose eyes were huge in her emaciated face.

“I know it’s an uncommon name for a girl,” Lady Jessica continued, “but my husband had quite settled on having a boy—I mean he wanted to have a boy in the sense of fathering a son—not in the other sense—my goodness, what must you think of him? But he had Broderick instead—or rather, we did.”

“In the sense that you were her parents?” Hel sought to release the skinny girl’s hand.

“Broderick is a model,” the mother explained.

Hel had guessed as much. There was a vacuousness of expression, a certain limpness of posture and curvature of spine that marked the fashionable model of that moment.

“Nothing much really,” Broderick said, trying to blush under her troweled-on makeup. “Just the odd job for the occasional international magazine.”

The mother tapped the daughter’s arm. “Don’t say you do ‘odd jobs’! What will Mr. Hel think?”

A clearing of the throat by the second daughter impelled Lady Jessica to say, “Oh, yes. And here is Melpomene. It is conceivable she might act one day.”

Melpomene was a substantial girl, thick of bosom, ankle, and forearm, rosy of cheek, and clear of eye. She seemed somehow incomplete without her hockey stick. Her handshake was firm and brisk. “Just call me Pom. Everyone does.”

“Ah… if we could just freshen up?” Sir Wilfred suggested.

“Oh, of course! I’ll have the girls show you everything—I mean, of course, where your rooms are and all. What must you think?”

As Hel was laying out his things from the duffel bag, Sir Wilfred tapped on the door and came in. “Well, what do you think of the place? We should be cozy here for a couple of days, while the masters ponder the inevitable, eh? I’ve been on the line to them, and they say they’ll come up with a decision by morning.”

“Tell me, Fred. Have your lads been keeping a watch on the Septembrists?”

“On your targets? Of course.”

“Assuming that your government goes along with my proposal, I’ll want all the background material you have.”

“I expected no less. By the bye, I assured the masters that you could pull this off—should their decision go that way—with no hint of collusion or responsibility on our part. It is that way, isn’t it?”

“Not quite. But I can work it so that, whatever their suspicions, the Mother Company will not be able to prove collusion.”

“The next best thing, I suppose.”

“Fortunately, you picked me up before I went through passport check, so my arrival won’t be in your computers and therefore not in theirs.”

“Wouldn’t rely on that overly much. Mother Company has a million eyes and ears.”

“True. You’re absolutely sure this is a safe house?”

“Oh, yes! The ladies are not what you would call subtle, but they have another quality quite as good—they’re totally ignorant. They haven’t the slightest idea of what we’re doing here. Don’t even know what I do for a living. And the man of the house, if you can call him that, is no trouble at all. We seldom let him into the country, you see.”

Sir Wilfred went on to explain that Lord Biffen lived in the Dordogne, the social leader of a gaggle of geriatric tax avoiders who infested that section of France, to the disgust and discomfort of the local peasants. The Biffens were typical of their sort: Irish peerage that every other generation stiffened its sagging finances by introducing a shot of American hog-butcher blood. The gentleman had overstepped himself in his lust to avoid taxes and had got into a shady thing or two in free ports in the Bahamas. That had given the government a hold on him and on his British funds, so he was most cooperative, remaining in France when he was ordered to, where he exercised his version of the shrewd businessman by cheating local women out of antique furniture or automobiles, always being careful to intercept his wife’s mail to avoid her discovering his petty villainies. “Silly old fart, really. You know the type. Outlandish ties; walking shorts with street shoes and ankle stockings? But the wife and daughters, together with the establishment here, are of some occasional use to us. What do you think of the old girl?”

“A little obsessed.”

“Hm-m. Know what you mean. But if you’d gone twenty-five years getting only what the old fellow had to offer, I fancy you’d be a little sperm mad yourself. Well, shall we join them?”

After breakfast the next morning. Sir Wilfred sent the ladies away and sat back with his last cup of coffee. “I was on the line with the masters this morning. They’ve decided to go along with you—with a couple of provisos, of course.”

“They had better be minor.”

“First, they want assurance that this information will never be used against them again.”

“You should have been able to give them that assurance. You know that the man you call the Gnome always destroys the originals as soon as the deal is made. His reputation rests on that.”

“Yes, quite so. And I shall undertake to assure them on that account. Their second proviso is that I report to them, telling them that I have considered your plan carefully and believe it to be airtight and absolutely sure not to involve the government directly.”

“Nothing in this business is airtight.”

“All right. Airtight-ish, then. So I’m afraid that you will have to take me into your confidence—familiarize me with details of dastardly machinations, and all that.”

“Certain details I cannot give you until I have gone over your observation reports on the Septembrists. But I can sketch the bold outlines for you.”

Within an hour, they had agreed on Hel’s proposal, although Sir Wilfred had some reservations about the loss of the plane, as it was a Concorde, “…and we’ve had trouble enough trying to ram the damned thing down the world’s throat as it is.”

“It’s not my fault that the plane in question is that uneconomical, polluting monster.”

“Quite so. Quite so.”

“So there it is, Fred. If your people do your part well, the stunt should go off without the Mother Company’s having any proof of your complicity. It’s the best plan I could work up, considering that I’ve had only a couple of days to think about it. What do you say?”

“I don’t dare give my masters the details. They’re political men—the least reliable of all. But I shall report that I consider the plan worth cooperating with.”

“Good. When do I get the observation reports on the Septembrists?”

“They’ll be here by courier this afternoon. You know, something occurs to me, Nicholai. Considering the character of your plan, you really don’t have to involve yourself at all. We could dispose of the Arabs ourselves, and you could return to France immediately.”

Hel looked at Sir Wilfred flatly for fully ten seconds. Then they both laughed at once.

“Ah well,” Sir Wilfred said, waving a hand, “you can’t blame me for trying. Let’s take a little lunch. And perhaps there’s time for a nap before the reports come in.”

“I hardly dare go to my room.”

“Oh? Did they also visit you last night?”

“Oh, yes, and I chucked them out.”

“Waste not, want not, I always say.”

Sir Wilfred dozed in his chair, warmed by the setting sun beyond the terrace. On the other side of the white metal table, Hel was scanning the observation reports on the PLO actives.

“There it is,” he said finally.

“What? Hm-m? There what is?”

“I was looking for something in the list of contacts and acquaintances the Septembrists have made since their arrival.”

“And?”

“On two occasions, they spent time with this man you have identified as ‘Pilgrim Y’. He works in a food-preparation service for the airlines.”

“Is that so? I really don’t know the file. I was only dragged into this—unwillingly, I might mention—when you got involved. What’s all this about food preparation?”

“Well, obviously the Septembrists are not going to try to smuggle their guns through your detection devices. They don’t know that they have the passive cooperation of your government. So I had to know how they were going to get their weapons aboard. They’ve gone to a well-worn method. The weapons will come aboard with the prepared dinners. The food trucks are never searched more than desultorily. You can run anything through them.”

“So now you know where their weapons will be. So what?”

“I know where they will have to come to collect them. And that’s where I’ll be.”

“And what about you? How are you going to get arms aboard for yourself, without leaving trace of our complicity in this?”

“I’ll carry my weapons right through the checkpoint.”

“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten about that for a moment. Naked/Kill and all that. Stab a man with a drinking straw. What a nuisance that’s been to us over the years.”

Hel closed the report. “We have two days until the plane departs. How shall we fill our time?”

“Loll about here, I suppose. Keep you out of sight.”

“Are you going up to dress for dinner?”

“No, I think I’ll not take dinner tonight. I should have followed your example and forsaken my midday lie by. Had to contend with both of them. Probably walk with a limp the rest of my life.”

Heathrow

The plane was almost full of passengers, all adults, most of them the sort who could afford the surcharge for flying Concorde. Couples chatted; stewards and stewardesses leaned over seats making the cooing noises of experienced nannies; businessmen asked one another what they sold; unacquainted pairs said those inane things calculated to lead to assignations in Montreal; the conspicuously busy kept their noses in documents and reports or fiddled ostentatiously with pocket recorders; the frightened babbled about how much they loved flying, and tried to appear casual as they scanned the information card designating procedures and exits in case of emergency.

A muscular young Arab and a well-dressed Arab woman sat together near the back, a curtain separating them from the service area, where food and drinks were stored. Beside the curtain stood a flight attendant who smiled down at the Arab couple, his bottle-green eyes vacant.

Two young Arabs, looking like rich students, entered the plane and sat together about halfway down. Just before the doors were closed, a fifth Arab, dressed as a businessman, rushed down the mobile access truck and aboard the plane, babbling to the receiving steward something about just making it and being delayed by business until the last moment. He came to the back of the plane and took a seat opposite the Arab couple, to whom he nodded in a friendly way.

With an incredible roar, the engines tugged the plane from the loading ramp, and soon the bent-nosed pterodactyl was airborne.

When the seat-belt sign flashed off, the pretty Arab woman undid her belt and rose. “It is this way to the ladies’ room?” she asked the green-eyed attendant, smiling shyly.

He had one hand behind the curtain. As he smiled back at her, he pressed the button on which his finger rested, and two soft gongs echoed through the passenger area. At this sound, each of the 136 passengers, except the PLO Arabs, lowered his head and stared at the back of the seat before him.

“Any one of these, Madam,” Hel said, holding the curtain aside for her to pass through.

At that instant, the Arab businessman addressed a muffled question to Hel, meaning to attract his attention while the girl got the weapons from the food container.

“Certainly, sir,” Hel said, seeming not to understand the question. “I’ll get you one.”

He slipped a comb from his pocket as he turned and followed the girl, snapping shut the curtain behind him.

“But wait!” the Arab businessman said—but Hel was gone.

Three seconds later he returned, a magazine in his hand. “I’m sorry, sir, we don’t seem to have a copy of Paris Match. Will this do?”

“Stupid fool!” muttered the businessman, staring at the drawn curtain in confusion. Had this grinning idiot not seen the girl? Had she stepped into the rest room upon his approach? Where was she?

Fully a minute passed. The four Arabs aboard were so concerned with the girl’s failure to emerge through the curtain, an automatic weapon in her hands, they failed to notice that everyone else on the plane was sitting with his head down, staring at the seat back before him.

Unable to control themselves longer, the two Arab students who had sat together in the waist of the plane rose and started back down the aisle. As they approached the smiling, daydreaming steward with the green eyes, they exchanged worried glances with the older businessman and the muscular lad who was the woman’s companion. The older man gestured with his head for the two to pass on behind the curtain.

“May I help you?” Hel asked, rolling up the magazine into a tight cylinder.

“Bathroom,” one of them muttered, as the other said, “Drink of water.”

“I’ll bring it to you, sir,” Hel said. “Not the bathroom, of course,” he joked with the taller one.

They passed him, and he followed them behind the curtain.

Four seconds later, he emerged, a harried expression on his face. “Sir,” he said confidentially to the older businessman, “you’re not a doctor by any chance?”

“Doctor? No. Why?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. Not to worry. The gentleman’s had a little accident.”

“Accident?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get help from a member of the cabin crew. Nothing serious, I’m sure.” Hel had in his hand a plastic drinking cup, which he had crushed and creased down the center.

The businessman rose and stepped into the aisle.

“If you would just stay with him, sir, while I fetch someone,” Hel said, following the businessman into the service area.

Two seconds later, he was standing again at his station, looking over the passengers with that expression of vague compassion airline stewards affect. When his gaze fell on the worried muscular young man beside him, he winked and said, “It was nothing at all. Dizzy spell, I guess. First time in a supersonic plane, perhaps. The other gentleman is assisting him. I don’t speak Arabic, unfortunately.”

A minute passed. Another. The muscular young man’s tension grew, while this mindless steward standing before him hummed a popular tune and gazed vacantly around, fiddling with the small plastic name tag pinned to his lapel.

Another minute passed.

The muscular lad could not contain himself. He leaped up and snatched the curtain aside. On the floor, in the puppet-limbed sprawl of the dead, were his four companions. He never felt the edge of the card; he was nerve dead before his body reached the floor.

Other than the hissing roar of the plane’s motors, there was silence in the plane. All the passengers stared rigidly ahead. The flight crew stood facing the front of the plane, their eyes riveted on the decorated plastic panel before them.

Hel lifted the intercom phone from its cradle. His soft voice sounded metallic through the address system. “Relax. Don’t look back. We will land within fifteen minutes.” He replaced the phone and dialed the pilot’s cabin. “Send the message exactly as you have been instructed to. That done, open the envelope in your pocket and follow the landing instructions given.”

Its pterodactyl nose bent down again, the Concorde roared in for a landing at a temporarily evacuated military airfield in northern Scotland. When it stopped and its engines had whined down to silence, the secondary entrance portal opened, and Hel descended on mobile stairs that had been rolled up to the door. He stepped into the vintage 1931 Rolls that had chased the plane across the runway, and they drove away.

Just before turning off to a control building, Hel looked back and saw the passengers descending and lining themselves up in four-deep ranks beside the plane under the direction of a man who had posed as senior steward. Five military buses were already crossing the airstrip to pick them up.

Sir Wilfred sat at the scarred wooden desk of the control office, sipping a whiskey, while Hel was changing from the flight attendant’s uniform to his own clothes.

“Did the message sound all right?” Hel asked.

“Most dramatic. Most effective. The pilot radioed back that the plane was being skyjacked, and right in the middle of the message, he broke off, leaving nothing but dead air and the hiss of static.”

“And he was on clear channel, so there will be independent corroborations of your report?”

“He must have been heard by half a dozen radio operators all across the North Atlantic.”

“Good. Now, tomorrow your search planes will come back with reports of having found floating wreckage, right?”

“As rain.”

“The wreckage will be reported to have been picked up, and the news will be released over BBC World Service that there was evidence of an explosion, and that the current theory is that an explosive device in the possession of Arab skyjackers was detonated accidentally, destroying the plane.”

“Just so.”

“What are your plans for the plane, Fred? Surely the insurance companies will be curious.”

“Leave that to us. If nothing else remains of the Empire, we retain at least that penchant for duplicity that earned us the title Perfidious Albion.”

Hel laughed. “All right. It must have been quite a job to gather that many operatives from all over Europe and have them pose as passengers.”

“It was indeed. And the pilots and crew were RAF fellows who had really very little check-out time on a Concorde.”

“Now you tell me.”

“Wouldn’t have done to make you edgy, old man.”

“I regret your problem of having a hundred-fifty people in on the secret. It was the only way I could do it and still keep your government to the lee of the Mother Company’s revenge. And, after all, they are all your own people.”