Kara’s Game. Gordon Stevens

next time the United Nations stands by and does nothing. She remembered why he had told her …

      ‘Contact London,’ she instructed Maeschler.

      ‘London. This is Lufthansa 3216. Approaching Refso.’

      Lufthansa 3216 approaching British air space, Strike was informed. About to leave Dutch air space. Now in British air space. Lufthansa 3216 now his problem, Finn thought.

      ‘Lufthansa 3216.’ They all heard the voice of the British controller. ‘Standard Lambourne Three Alpha arrival for landing runway Two Seven Left.’

      ‘What does that mean?’ Langdon demanded.

      Kilpatrick crossed to the telephones and asked the flight adviser to join them.

      Lambourne Three Alpha was the standard arrival route for aircraft coming in from Amsterdam, the adviser informed them. He was settled uncomfortably at the end of the table facing Langdon. Runway Two Seven Left was the standard runway at that time of day for aircraft coming in from Lambourne.

      ‘Which way do they come in from Lambourne?’ Langdon leaned forward.

      ‘You mean the route?’

      ‘Yes.’ Because Lambourne is to the east, Heathrow is to the west, and London is bang in the middle.

      ‘Up the Thames and over central London.’

      ‘Over the City? Directly over Westminster, Downing Street, and Parliament?’

      ‘Yes.’

      

      Lufthansa 3216 approaching the Essex coast, Strike was informed.

      ‘Lufthansa 3216. Descend when ready to flight level one five zero.’ Descend to fifteen thousand feet.

      The air traffic control room was rectangular; low lighting and quiet atmosphere, no smoking and not even soft drinks allowed. The watch supervisor’s desk was at the head of the room; along the left wall were four radar suites, each controlling a sector; another suite on the end wall farthest from the watch supervisor, and four more suites along the other long wall. At each suite were two radar controllers, headsets on and radar screens horizontal on the desk in front of them, the crew chief for the sector standing between them.

      The watch supervisor checked the time, left his desk and walked the twenty metres to the third suite on the left. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked the controller in the right-hand seat.

      ‘Fine,’ Simmons told him.

      ‘How long can we leave it before we stop everything else?’

      Because there are thirty-eight landings and thirty takeoffs every hour at Heathrow at this time of day. Of course we’ll clear a window for 3216, stop all landings and takeoffs. Do it too early, however, and we create chaos; too late and we risk adding to the problems.

      ‘Twenty minutes window,’ the crew chief told him. ‘As soon as she leaves Lambourne.’

      ‘Agreed.’

      ‘3216 over Essex coast,’ Simmons informed them. ‘Two minutes to Lambourne.’

      And at Lambourne he would direct 3216 left, so it would pick up the ILS, the Instrument Landing System, which would guide it on to runway Two Seven Left.

      

      ‘Lufthansa 3216 approaching the point at which they turn for the run-in to Heathrow,’ the intelligence major informed the Operations Room.

      The room was beginning to fill.

      So what are you thinking, Finn?

      I’m hoping that my assumptions are correct, that’s what I’m thinking. I’m hoping that the plans we laid this morning actually work. I’m hoping the preliminary diversion works, otherwise the press might see us approaching the aircraft and put it out on radio and television. And if they do, the hijackers will hear, and then they’ll be waiting for us.

      ‘3216 en route for Lambourne,’ the intelligence major updated the Operations Room. ‘Heathrow about to be closed down.’

      A Boeing 737 has six doors – that’s what I’m thinking, because that’s what I have to think about. Two at the front, two at the rear, and two emergency doors over the wings. All doors can be opened by handles on the outside. Three toilets where the hijackers might hide: one at front on left, assuming entry is through the front port door, and two at rear. And I’m thinking this, and nothing else, because from now on I can only think of what is relevant for when I go on to Lufthansa 3216 tonight. And I must assume that I’m going on, because otherwise I won’t be prepared. And if I’m not prepared, I’m dead.

      

      ‘Hold,’ the watch supervisor told the Clacton crew chief.

      ‘Hold,’ the crew chief told Simmons.

      The supervisor put the phone down, left his desk and hurried to them. ‘We need to re-route.’

      Getting tight to do it, they knew. Plus 3216 was running out of fuel.

      ‘3216 one minute from Lambourne.’ Simmons’s voice was almost mechanical.

      ‘Why re-route?’ the crew chief asked.

      ‘Orders.’ The reply was direct rather than blunt. ‘3216 can’t go over central London.’

      ‘Who says?’

      ‘Downing Street.’

      Oh shit, the crew chief thought. ‘Which rules out a landing from the east. Which means a landing from the west.’

      ‘That’s what they’ve told us to do.’

      ‘We can’t.’ Simmons’s eyes were riveted to the solid line against the black of the radar screen, the last details of Lufthansa 3216’s flight pattern trailing in a cone behind it.

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Tail wind from the west is eighteen knots.’ It was the crew chief. ‘Maximum tail wind for a 737 is ten.’

      ‘3216 thirty seconds from Lambourne.’

      The supervisor turned, ran to his desk, and punched the number. ‘This is the watch supervisor at West Drayton. We cannot divert 3216 from its planned course because that would involve a landing from the west, and the tail wind is too strong.’

      ‘How much too strong?’

      ‘The maximum permitted wind speed is ten knots and the actual wind speed at the moment is eighteen.’

      ‘The west approach,’ Langdon told him curtly. ‘Do it.’ Because there’s no way I’ll allow Lufthansa 3216 to fly over central London. No way I’ll allow the bloody hijacker to fly over Westminster when I’m sitting in the Cobra rooms below Downing Street.

      ‘3216 at Lambourne,’ Simmons said calmly.

      

      The layer of cloud was thin below them. It was time to turn left, she knew, time to angle towards London, pick up the ILS beam, then swing right and follow it up the Thames and into Heathrow. Because that was what Air Traffic Control had instructed the other flights from Amsterdam when she had sat listening to the airband at Heathrow four days before.

      ‘Lufthansa 3216.’ The voice of the controller sounded different. ‘Turn right on to two eight five for landing on Zero Nine Left.’

      Which is not what Control had told the other planes. Which was why she had made the Heathrow check. She sensed the way the first officer froze and Maeschler hesitated.

      ‘They’re re-routeing us.’ She was still calm, still controlled. The Zastava sub-machine gun was across her lap, the M70 was in the shoulder holster and the grenades were in her pocket. ‘We should be turning left, not right. Any course above two hundred and seventy means we’re going north of the runway.’

      ‘Correct,’ Maeschler told