Schmid escorted me aboard, took me to a seat in the tail, and handcuffed me to it. I'd asked him what-the-hell once or twice and he hadn't responded. Now I said it again and he still didn't respond. He merely slid into a seat on
the other side of the gangway, opened a copy of the Svenska Dagbladet and began to read. He glanced at his watch from time to time as though expecting somebody. Outside, ground crews and fuel trucks swarmed round the DC9 and I watched them without seeing. I was trying to work out several things. One was why I hadn't been searched when there was a gun weighing down my jacket and the thick wad of photocopies bulging in my inside pocket. The second was why Schmid was hustling me out of Sweden.
It must be, I thought, because I was just a damn' nuisance to him, getting in the way of his inquiries. But that seemed pretty thin. Schmid was a policeman, a policeman's job was to apprehend and bring charges against lawbreakers; I was a lawbreaker. So why this?
I found out at about a quarter to eight, when footsteps sounded on the boarding ladder outside and two men entered ' the aircraft. At the sight of them, Schmid folded his paper, gave me a hard glare, and rose.
The two men came towards me, squeezing past Schmid in the narrow gangway, and sat in my row. One I didn't know. But the other was Elliot.
CHAPTER TEN
Ten minutes later the rest of the passengers came aboard. We must have looked a bit odd, the three of us, sitting in silence, shoulder to shoulder in a single row of seats with the rest of the cabin empty. One or two people did give us the kind of mildly curious second glance reserved for privileged travellers who don't have to wait at gates. Elliot and his companion sat like statues, not talking either to me or to each other. I'd asked Schmid what was happening several times, and he hadn't told me, so I'd no reason to expect anything from these two. I'd save my breath.
Then the hostess came along the gangway, looking at seat
belts, and noticed mine. 'Fasten your seat belt, please, sir.' Ì can't,' I said, raising my wrist. 'I'm handcuffed to the seat.'
Her eyes widened briefly. 'I see, sir. Perhaps one of these gentlemen . . .?'
`Would you be so kind,' I murmured to the silent bloke next to me. 'Regulations do require it.'
He leaned over without a word, fastened the clip and jerked the strap brutally tight across my stomach.
Ì think they're here to guard me,' I said loudly, to the hostess and everybody in general, '
But I'm not certain and they won't tell me.'
She smiled uncertainly and went away. A few heads half-turned to look, but aircraft seats aren't designed to assist the curious. Soon the engines wound up for the taxiing and again for take-off.
I ate breakfast one-handed as the DC9 headed for London and tried to decide who Elliot'
s companion might be and why I'd been handed over. There was a powerful smell of official co-operation on a fairly high level, and that alone finally confirmed that Elliot wasn't a National Georgraphic writer. I'd been suspicious of his credentials anyway. And'
so, I realized, had Schmid. That thought made me blink for a moment, but the answer to the riddle must be simply that Elliot had had to declare himself to Schmid and Schmid had had to co-operate. Government stuff.
I looked hard at the man in the next seat. He was as' English as Elliot was American : a darkish suit of some tweedy mixture, Tattersall check shirt, club tie, brown, wellpolished Tricker shoes and that kind of fair tight-to-theskull curly hair that somehow always says army officer. Sometimes wrongly, but not often. Official circles ! I grinned'
mirthlessly to myself.
When the seat belts sign lit up again as the aircraft began its descent towards Heathrow, there was no need for further action; the belt had been left fastened and my guts felt badly constricted. But having sat quietly through the journey I felt entitled to one more try. I reached up and quickly
pushed the 'Call Hostess' button with my free hand. As she approached Elliot waved her away, but she looked at me inquiringly. I said, 'I am not certain that these men are properly authorized. I wish to surrender to the British police at Heathrow. Will you ask the captain to radio that message ahead, please. My name is John Sellers.'
Ì think, sir,' she began hesitantly, 'that . .
`Please give my message to the captain.'
She nodded, turned and walked away up the aisle. She didn't come back. It had been pretty feeble, anyway. Elliot and the other man continued to ignore me. A car was waiting at the airport and the passengers were kept in their seats while the three of us disembarked, my handcuffs having been unfastened by Elliot's still unidentified companion. Not much more than half an hour after landing, I was being hurried from the car across the pavement into a building in Northumberland Avenue. We entered a lift and went up two floors, along a corridor and into what looked like a company board room. There was a long, polished table, with seats round it, an Indian carpet on the floor, a couple of dark, old, unidentifiable and unlabelled portraits on the walls. Then the one with the wavy hair spoke for the first time. He said simply, 'Your clothes.'
`What about them?'
`Take them off.'
`Not until I know who you are and what all this is about,' I said. Tor all I know, you're just some sadistic poofter —'
`You can be held and stripped forcibly.'
Ì can be shot, too, I expect,' I said. 'But unless you do that, you're going to have to let me go, sooner or later, and when you do —'
À D-Notice will cover these matters,' he said, almost contemptuously. D-Notices are issued by the British Government to gag the press on matters of supposed national security. A while ago they slapped one on a railway magazine to stop it publishing a story about a proposed reduction in rail services.
`Not in America, Germany and a lot of other countries,' I said. His neck muscles tightened. 'I am an official of the Ministry of Defence. This is a matter of national security.'
I pointed to Elliot. 'But he's not. I want names and reasons and documentary proof.'
He stared at me grimly for a moment. I stared back, unimpressed. I've met them before once or twice. There's usually at least one in British embassies abroad, and they're characterized by their satisfaction at being in many respects, above and outside the law. The British like to think they haven't a secret police, and that there's protection for all under the law etc. etc. It's not wholly true. These people operate on terms and budgets not approved by or even submitted to Parliament, except as part of a lump estimate, and where the law is concerned, they're the ones who make sure the trial is in camera. That's if the matter comes to trial.
Elliot said, 'Can't you – ?'
`No, he can't,' I said. 'Not without asking his superiors. If he goes high enough, of course, these things can be fixed, but he's not high enough. You can tell by his suit.'
The man glowered at me for a moment, then went to the telephone and talked into it quietly. A few minutes passed silently, then another man came into the room. I recognized this one, which probably annoyed him. His name was Wemyss (pronounced Weems) and he'd conducted Ministry of Defence briefings for defence correspondents in his time.
I said, 'Good morning.'
He nodded. Black jacket and striped trousers, high level professional civil servant doing his three years in this rather distasteful organization before promotion to yet higher things. Ì understand you're being unco-operative, Mr Sellers,' he said, in a rather pained way.