Consciousness was painful: the organism was being born again into the deafening storms of reality and in the confusion the forebrain was trying to function, desperate to get its messages through to the motor nerves.

  Please note that you are lying on the wheels and when the undercarriage goes down you will automatically drop into space.

  I didn’t register the significance of this because the euphoria was still fogging my head; but I realized that I was in the conscious state, with the beat rhythms taking over. There had been oxygen deprivation and this was the hangover and it was unpleasant: headache, nausea, shivering.

  Tried to stand up but of course no room so I grabbed at things to steady myself, physical orientation necessary, but watch it! Cables, don’t grab at the cables or you’ll crash the whole bloody bazaar.

  Something was trying to get through. Some kind of information.

  My head lolled and brushed the conduit and the ear-muffler went askew and the roaring came through my skull like a freight train and I pulled the thing back over my ears. My weight had shifted and I swung back on the wheels, hitting the firewall. The noise was worse here because the engine was on the other side, so I swung back to the rear end of the wheelbay and bruised my arm and felt the pain pushing consciousness into the open, as if I were coming out of a tunnel.

  Information: we were probably going down, and the oxygen was increasing; hence my return to consciousness. I couldn’t think why we were going down but I hoped we meant to do it and we weren’t doing it because I’d been hanging on to those flight-control cables.

  Discount unreasonable fears: it felt as though we were in stable flight conditions, inclined nose-down by ten or fifteen degrees. But something urgent was still trying to get through and I didn’t like the way my head was still fogging. My hands were cold but there was no icing anywhere: the metal conduits were perfectly dry. The air temperature at ten thousand feet above the Amazon in spring would be somewhere about 45 degrees and the heat of the radial engine would raise that considerably. After an hour’s night, the conditions Time, Check the time’

  07:20.

  This was the warning that had been trying to get through. It was a three-hour flight from Manaus to Belem near the Atlantic coast and we’d been flying for that period of time and the distinct nose-down attitude of the aircraft plus the return of oxygen availability meant that we were probably approaching Belem Airport.

  The final piece of information was very urgent indeed but I didn’t have time to look at it because something gave a metallic click below me and a rush of air screamed through the wheelbay doors as they started to open and the tyres began dropping away and I grabbed for the conduit, my fingers clawing and not finding it, clawing again and touching the skein of control cables - don I - as the mass of rubber began rolling forward and the air howled into the bay.

  I felt the conduit and pulled upwards, kicking my weight off the wheels as they went down. Daylight was flooding in and I caught a glimpse of water shining below as I found some kind of a purchase for the heels of my shoes, pulling hard on the conduit and feeling it buckle but hold. With the dazzling light after the hours of total darkness there came the heat of low altitude, and the faint brackish smell of the ocean as we swung in a wide circle, settling lower with the engines idling and the landing-gear down and locked.

  I looked for new handholds in case the buckled conduit tore the clips out of the panels under my weight: the wheels wouldn’t be coming up again into the bay and I didn’t have to mould my body into its roof. As the DC lowered from the sky there would be no abrupt shifts of mass but when the wheels hit the runway my weight would increase critically for a few seconds and I felt for handholds strong enough to take the strain. Then I looked down at the network of city streets and the estuary’s bright water, five or six hundred feet below.

  Pain was beginning in the ears and I pinched my nose and blew back. The heat was increasing and the sweat started coming to the skin. Onset of thirst.

  Final approach.

  I couldn’t see the runway because the forward bulkhead concealed it from sight; but the first of the approach lamps were sliding below, unlit but glinting in the morning sun. I was now straddled across the bay with one foot on each doorstay and my hands on the two lower conduits. The slipstream spilled inwards, tugging at my overalls.

  The dead weight of the aircraft lowered over the next thirty seconds and then the power came on for the touch-down and I saw concrete immediately below, its scarred sections becoming a blur as the distance closed. For a moment everything seemed held in suspension as the insubstantial air cradled the mass of the machine and supported it; then a shudder came as the main wheels hit the runway and the hydraulics took the shock. The conduit under my left hand buckled and tore away from the two nearest clips and I was swung sideways and hit the bulkhead with my shoulder as one foot lost its hold on the doorstay and I floundered, feeling the vibration as the main wheels bounced and touched down again and rolled, taking the weight of the machine as the nose-wheel made contact, forward of where I was clinging.

  I was swung off-balance again and felt the conduit pulling away before I got a new purchase with my feet across the doorstays. The concrete was a blur of colour immediately below me and I could hear the ‘heavy tramping of the tyres as their ribbed treads flexed under the weight of the aircraft. Dark ribbons began showing up in the blur as the speed came down, and the tarred expansion joints between the blocks sketched a slowing pattern of lines. Dust and stone fragments blew into the wheelbay, thrown up by the nose-wheel and caught by the turbulence of the propeller.

  I heard the rough hiss of the brake-shoes as they clamped into the drums and brought the speed down, sending my weight forward until I hit the bulkhead, burning my arm against the oil-drain pipe before I could steady myself. Under the heavy deceleration I could see the streaks of burnt rubber showing clearly now on the concrete, until the last of the blur was gone. The power came on again and I felt the machine swinging to the left, its weight flexing the oleo struts as it turned and gunned up slightly towards the parking bay.

  Ears very painful and I blew again with my nose blocked.

  The faint cry of a sea bird.

  Wheels rolling.

  The sound of the engines dying.

  Brakes again, pitching me forward.

  Rolling.

  Stop.

  I leaned there for a minute with my eyes shut. The early sunlight threw the shadow of the propeller across the tarmac beneath my feet, and when I opened my eyes I saw the blades become still. A service vehicle was on the move somewhere, and I could hear voices. I stayed where I was, waiting. In three or four minutes the fuel bowser swung towards the mainplane on my side and I heard the clang of the doors as they were thrown back from the pump unit, I dropped to the ground.

  Nearly fell: question of sea legs.

  There was a long screwdriver bolstered in the leg-pocket of the overalls and I pulled it out and checked a loose cowling button. If anyone had seen me drop from the wheelbay they would assume I had climbed into it a few minutes ago.

  ‘Who are you?’ Short fat mechanic, head on one side.

  ‘Douglas Aircraft inspector,’ I told him.

  ‘Nobody told me.’

  ‘Do they tell you everything?’

  I checked the oil-cooler frame and told him there was a buckled electrical conduit inside the wheelbay that needed looking at.

  ‘You’ll have to tell Carlos,’ he said, and began helping the refuelling crew at the bowser.

  I walked away from the aircraft, leaving the sunglasses and the ear-mufflers on my head. The leg muscles had been under strain since I’d regained consciousness and I felt none too steady. On my left, fifty yards or so away from where I walked, the passengers were being led towards the building. I turned my head only once to make sure the Kobra cell was among them, then kept on towards the maintenance sheds.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Belem Airport.’

  There’d been a twenty-five-minue delay and it’d got me sweating badly because there wasn’t a lot of time left to decide what I had to do.

  ‘How did you get there?’ Ferris asked me,

  ‘Wheelbay.’

  He paused again.

  ‘What’s your condition?’

  ‘Operational,’

  He didn’t ask me to repeat that If I were half dead he’d expect me to say so.

  The phone I was using was at the end of a maintenance hangar, and I was watching the TWA Boeing as, I talked. A few minutes ago another mobile television unit had gone across the tarmac from the main gates, with a cameraman already at work on the roof.

  ‘What’s your local time?’ Ferris wanted to know, ‘08:55.’

  It was an hour later here than at Manaus, ‘Are you still locked on?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  The sound of sirens was coming in again from the highway, and I could see the intermittent light of an emergency vehicle. Everyone seemed rather excited, but I would have thought the South American countries were pretty used to this sort of thing.

  ‘All right,’ Ferris said.

  He meant he wasn’t going to put any more specific questions because he’d got the basic data and now he wanted information.

  ‘They’ve struck some kind of problem,’ I told him. ‘From what I could put together in Lagofondo, I think they’re making for the States, but I shouldn’t mink they’ve got visas and they’ll need some pretty authentic medical certificates. The thing is they’ve seized a TWA Boeing and a couple of minutes ago they ordered two aircrew to go aboard: presumably pilot and navigator.’

  I stopped to let Ferris think about it for a while. It would also give me time to work something out if I could. I didn’t think there was anything I could work out The whole thing looked terribly shut-ended and I stood here baking in the direct heat of the sun with the sweat running down and a lot of slow-burn angst in my soul, because I’d followed those bastards all the way here and now they were taking off again and I couldn’t hope to pull the same trick again because I wouldn’t get through the police lines and even if they let me through I couldn’t get into a wheelbay unseen and even if I could get into a wheelbay I’d freeze to death at thirty thousand feet.

  Ferris was quiet.

  The whole of the Kobra cell is now on board,’ I said, ‘and they’ve got Pat Burdick with them. The police have got the aircraft cordoned off but they can’t actually do anything useful. That’s all I’ve got for you. Sorry there’s no jam on it,’

  In a couple of seconds he asked:

  ‘Do you think they’re going to take off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon.’

  He paused again.

  ‘All right. Details.’

  TWA Flight 378 normally scheduled Belem to Miami. Boeing 707. Normal departure was 08:45 and the ETA is 11:15 Belem time, 09:15 Miami time.’

  Ferris answered a little more quickly now. The aircraft is fuelled up and ready to leave, then?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘They didn’t flush you, of course.’

  ‘No.’

  He paused again.

  The siren was loud now and I saw the patrol car swing across the tarmac and pull up near the television unit. The man with the camera swung the thing half-circle to cover the people getting out of the patrol car in case they were official negotiators.

  ‘What do you intend doing?’ Ferris asked me.

  I suppose it was a compliment, really, for him to assume I had any kind of answer to this one. There was of course an answer but it wasn’t very subtle, and I didn’t feel like spelling it out for him because he might order me not to do it, ‘I think I’ll have to go aboard,’ I said.

  From this distance I could see three people standing at the top of the flight steps but couldn’t identify them for certain: the two outer figures were holding what looked like submachine-guns and the one in the middle would be Patricia Burdick. I didn’t think they could have got any weapons that size through Manaus Airport: they must have a contact in Belem and they’d phoned him before they left. These people were internationals and if they’d decided to move to the United States they wouldn’t have left anything to chance.

  Ferris had been thinking it over. Now he said:.

  ‘All right. I’ll.keep track of the plane.’

  ‘Do that.’

  He asked if there were anything else and I said no and we hung up and I stood there for a minute wiping die sweat off my face and feeling a bit queasy because this could get me killed.

  Then I took off the overalls and put them on a bench with the ear-mufflers and walked across the tarmac till I reached the police cordon. I now recognized Satynovich Zade and Carlos Ramirez at the top of the steps with the girl between them. Ramirez was shouting to the group of police negotiators in Portuguese, asking again for a doctor to go aboard and look after the hostage. He promised repeatedly that the doctor would be regarded as a ‘brave humanitarian’ and would come to no harm whatever happened.

  I saw a small man pushing his way through the crowd with a bag on his hand, and decided I ought to start parleying.

  I cupped my hands, ‘Satynovich!’

  I didn’t want to talk to Ramirez because he might be limited to Spanish and Portuguese and if the police understood what I was saying they might take me for a friend of the terrorists and arrest me and that’d be strictly no go.

  ‘Voce emedico?’

  He was a captain of police and his hand had gone to his gun. That’s right, I told him, I was a doctor.

  I cupped my hands again.

  ‘Satynovich! I want to talk to you!

  I used Polish and hoped none of the police understood.

  Zade had turned his head and was looking straight at me.

  He wouldn’t expect anyone to speak to him in Belem in his own language: their contact would be Spanish-or Portuguese-speaking and Ramirez would be the go-between. Zade was turning to him and Ramirez now looked across at me.

  In a moment he began calling to the police in Portuguese, ordering them to let me pass through the cordon.

  They didn’t want to. On principle they didn’t want to do anything the terrorists told them, which was natural enough. A lot of shouting went on and I looked around for the nearest press group. A European was hanging from the side of a television van, trying to angle up a shot with the police captain in the foreground and the group on the flight steps beyond. I called out to him.

  ‘Vous etes Francais ou quoi? Sprechen Sie Deutsch?

  He looked across at me.

  ‘Bit of both, actually.’

  ‘Listen, do you know who that girl is? The hostage?’

  ‘American, isn’t she?’

  ‘She’s the daughter of the US Secretary of Defense.’

  ‘Jesus Christ! So that’s -‘

  ‘Listen, get on a phone to Washington and tell him where she is and never mind about the bloody pictures.’

  He was coming down from the side of the van.

  ‘You’re so right,’ he said and got a quick shot of one in case he could use it later. ‘Which side are you on?’

  ‘Go and find a phone - you’ve got it exclusive.’

  I wanted James Burdick to know the score because if that Boeing came down anywhere in the United States he’d want to be there. Forty-five minutes ago the Kobra operation had been running as a fully secret hostage-and-demand action and Pat Burdick had been insect-hunting along the Amazon with a group of friends but the situation had now changed radically: the girl’s fever and Burdick’s reaction to the news of it had either driven or panicked Kobra into the open and in seizing the Boeing they’d gone public and from this point onwards they’d be making their stand against the combined strength of the FBI, the CIA and whatever law-enforcement, counter-espionage and anti-terrorist organizations could be brought into the field.

  That wouldn’t make it more difficult for Kobra, as long as they held Pat Burdick. But it would infinitely increase her danger.

  Ramirez was shouting again.

  In thirty seconds, he announced in Portuguese, he and his companion would open fire on the crowd unless that man there were allowed through the cordon.

  The police captain had been holding my arm. Now he released it.

  He didn’t believe I was a doctor.

  ‘Urn dia,’ he said, ‘voce pagava, voce e seus amigos?

  Then he gave an order and the cordon let me through and I walked across the tarmac under the hot sun, my right foot trying to buckle over because the heel of the shoe had been worn away by the tyre of the DC-6.

  Satynovich Zade hadn’t yet recognized me: he had known only that someone in the crowd not only spoke his tongue but knew his name and he wanted to find out who it was. He was still standing at the top of the flight steps as I climbed them, and when I was halfway up he stopped me with a jerk of the machine-gun. I took off the sunglasses and looked up at him.

  His own eyes were still concealed by the smoked lenses, so that I couldn’t see their expression; but I noticed his mouth give a slight jerk as he recognized me.

  ‘She didn’t succeed,’ I told him carefully in Polish.

  Then I caught movement and looked higher, beyond him, and saw Shadia staring down at me with her face dead white.

  Zade had been keeping the submachine-gun aimed steadily at my heart, and now I saw his finger go to the trigger.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ I said.

  The sun was reflected on his smoked glasses as he stood above me with his head perfectly still. It looked as if his eyes were blazing, but of course it was just the reflection.

  This was why Ferris had taken his time thinking about what I’d said, when I’d told him I was going aboard: it wasn’t a terribly good move and I’d probably get killed; but something had to be done and if I could do it and get it right it’d mean a lot to that bastard Egerton. There was of course the ghost of a chance that I’d get away with it, and that’s all we ask, when despite all we’ve done there’s nothing more we can do to save the mission, when the only choice is to abandon it and try to live with our pride or make the final throw and hope for the only thing that can get us through:, the ghost of a chance.