strangledââ
Peter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. âProtest outside the lawââ
âLaws are made by man, almost always by the rich and the powerful â laws are changed by men, usually only after militant action. The womenâs suffragette movement, the civil rights campaign in this countryââ Parker broke off and chuckled. âIâm sorry, Peter. Sometimes I confuse myself. Itâs often more difficult to be a liberal than it is to be a tyrant. At least the tyrant seldom has doubts.â Parker lay back in his chair, a dismissive gesture. âI propose to leave you in peace for an hour or two now. You will want to develop your plans in line with the new developments. But I personally have no doubts now that we are dealing with politically motivated militants, and not merely a gang of old-fashioned kidnappers after a fast buck. Of one other thing I am certain: before we see this one through we will be forced to examine our own consciences very closely.â
âT ake the second right,â said Ingrid quietly, and the Boeing swung off the grass onto the taxiway. There seemed to be no damage to her landing gear, but now that she had left her natural element, the aircraft had lost grace and beauty and became lumbering and ungainly.
The girl had never been on the flight deck of a grounded Jumbo before, and the height was impressive. It gave her a feeling of detachment, of being invulnerable.
âNow left again,â she instructed, and the Boeing turned away from the main airport building towards the southern end of the runway. The observation deck of the airportâs flat roof was already lined with hundreds of curious spectators, but all activity on the apron was suspended. The waiting machines and tenders were deserted, not a single human figure on the tarmac.
âPark there.â She pointed ahead to an open area four hundred yards from the nearest building, midway between the terminal and the cluster of service hangars and the main fuel depot. âStop on the intersection.â
Grimly silent, Cyril Watkins did as he was ordered, and then turned in his seat.
âI must call an ambulance to get him off.â
The co-pilot and a stewardess had the flight engineer stretched out on the galley floor, just beyond the door to the flight deck. They were using linen table napkins to bind up the arm and try and staunch the bleeding. The stench of cordite still lingered and mingled with the taint of fresh blood.
âNobody leaves this aircraft.â The girl shook her head. âHe knows too much about us already.â
âMy God, woman. He needs medical attention.â
âThere are three hundred doctors aboardââ she pointed out indifferently. The best in the world. Two of them may come forward and attend to him.â
She perched sideways on the flight engineerâs bloodsplattered desk, and thumbed the internal microphone.
Cyril Watkins noticed even in his outrage that it needed only a single demonstration and Ingrid was able to work the complicated communications equipment. She was bright and very well trained.
âLadies and gentlemen, we have landed at Johannesburg Airport. We will be here for a long time â perhaps days, even weeks. All our patience will be tried, so I must warn you that any disobedience will be most severely dealt with. Already one attempt at resistance has been made â and in consequence a member of the crew has been shot and gravely wounded. He may die of this wound. We do not want a repetition of this incident. However, I must again warn you that my officers and I will not hesitate to shoot again, or even to detonate the explosives above your heads â if the need arises.â
She paused and. watched a moment as two selected doctors came forward and knelt on each side of the flight engineer. He was shaking like a fever victim with shock, his white shirt splashed and daubed with blood. Her