“It says here, ‘finish it’.” That is all. So that is what I propose to do, ladies and
gentlemen.” Dmitri beams, and tucks the telegram back into his pocket.
The temperature seems to have
risen by twenty degrees in the cabin, and it’s not only due to the afternoon
sun piercing through the porthole windows.
The air is rapidly becoming fetid; sweat and fear overpowering the aroma
of cigarette smoke.
At Dmitri’s signal, Johnson sits,
perched on the edge of his seat as if ready to bolt. I wonder where he thinks
he’s going to run to. We are like rats
in a trap in here.
The curtain at the front of the
cabin is pulled back and it takes me a moment to recognise Charlie Markman,
cool in a crisp white pilot’s shirt, complete with epaulettes and braid. I
stifle a smirk; this plane is an absolute crate. Charlie nods at the Creightons and I see James
bristle, his fingers gripping the arms of his seat. Charlie sees it too and grins, before
settling himself into the seat beside Johnson. He looks like he is enjoying
himself. Johnson does not. That twitch is back.
Megan Creighton glances across to
Vanderbilt, looking for what? Reassurance? A cue? His face is impassive, he
looks resolutely forward. She shifts in
her seat, fiddles with the strap of her clutch bag.
I can sense JJ behind me. I wish
he was in my eye-line. But he always
seemed to know what I was thinking; it’s been a while but I’m counting on that.
Behind us I can hear a murmur of
disquiet from the remaining passengers not party to this little stand-off. I
wonder what they are thinking.
“Drinks, I think!” announces
Dmitri, gesturing expansively as if he is a host at a cocktail party. Valerie hands me a gin and tonic, with ice.
Not a flicker of recognition.
Megan downs her champagne in one
and raises her glass for a refill. Dmitri laughs. “Absolutely, Mrs Creighton! Why not?”
Johnson shakes his head as
Valerie reaches his seat. He looks green.
“Are you not joining us, Mr
Johnson? Do you insult me?”
Johnson shakes his head, muttering,
but Dmitri laughs again.
Dmitri is enjoying this a little
too much. He was always something of a
ham at Cambridge, hanging around with the Footlights crowd. Perhaps our unexpected reunion has triggered
some nostalgic longing. His little performance in my hotel room, whether for
the benefit of Valerie or his charming side-kick, showed me he hasn’t lost any
of his taste for a scene.
I hope I can trust him. It was a
gamble to contact him after our first encounter, but I needed to know where
Valerie was and I guessed he could tell me.
He had recognised me too, but as I remarked on the phone, it didn’t stop
him roughing me up. “The role required it,” was all he said by way of
explanation.
So far Dmitri has been as good as
his word; Valerie is safe, and he got the visa for me. In return I hinted to
him that the plans may not be all they seem. I’m not sure he believed me .How
far can we stretch old loyalties? He’s
right of course, we all have our roles to play.
Either way, I wish he would get
to the point. The heat really is unbearable.
The Creightons are up to
something. Megan has rested her head on
James shoulder, as if for comfort. From my vantage point I can see her
muttering out of the side of her mouth, James is inclining his head slightly to
hear her. I glance towards Dmitri to see if he has noticed, but he is goading
Johnson into drinking vodka with him.
“Nobody move!” Megan shrieks;
she’s up on her feet and waving a pistol wildly. She shuffles down the aisle,
James behind her, and grabs Charlie Markman’s arm. She pushes the pistol into
his temple.
“Up!” She yanks him to his feet,
and starts to pull him towards the front of the plane. James pushes him from the rear, flicking
nervous glances over the rest of us. Charlie’s eyes are wide with a mix of shock
and disbelief, he gives a weak laugh of embarrassment. In the stifling silence I hear Dmitri put
down his glass.
“My dear Mrs Creighton, Mr
Creighton, please sit down.” His tone is calm, reassuring even, but the Makarov
pointing at the back of James’ head somewhat counters the effect. “Don’t tell me, you are planning to make Mr
Markman here fly us all to South Africa?
Surely you have understood by now that the game is over for you, and for
your Uncle George there. You are really only here to make up the numbers. Now
sit down!” He gestures with his gun and the Creightons slink back into their
seats, Megan sobbing softly. Charlie straightens his shirt and returns to his
seat. He gulps the remainder of Johnson’s vodka.
“So ladies and gentlemen,” says Dmitri,
toying with the Makarov. “Let us get down to business at last.” He pauses, and surveys his audience. “Let us be direct with one another, One, or
maybe more than one of you, has the plans for the successful Comet 4 test
flights. It would seem that all of us want them, but sadly that cannot be.” He
shakes his head, looking mournfully at Johnson, who is sweating profusely.
“So,” he continues, strolling up
and down the aisle as he speaks, “now we have all had time to contemplate our situation,
perhaps we can get to the bottom of this tricky case. And to focus our minds, I propose this: one
of you will die, every hour, until the plans - the complete plans - are handed
to me. Do you understand?”
He stops, by my seat. I look up
at him, as he presses the muzzle of the gun into my chest. “We have been here about an hour, already,
wouldn’t you say, Alan?”
Behind me, I can hear JJ is
holding his breath. Over Dmitri’s shoulder, Valerie is reaching into her
jacket. Is this part of Dmitri’s game too?
Just then the door at the front
of the plane swings open.
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