Cannibals and Missionaries (18 page)

Eventually, Van Vliet supposed, they would think of conducting a passport check. But at present their attention was centered on the exaction of a getaway plane. Now he understood why he had been summoned: they were looking to him for counsel. “Have you told my government that you have a Dutch parliamentarian aboard?” To his amazement, they had not. “Tell them,” he advised, shortly. He knew his countrymen. The stubborn fellow at Defense would resign rather than give up a single training glider
so long as no Dutch interest was involved.
To be told that Prince Philip or the Pope of Rome was among the captives would not budge him. Henk, however, was another story. As it happened, he was a good friend of the Minister’s (during a late session they often lifted a glass in the parliamentary bar), but even a mortal enemy, if he sat in the Tweede Kamer, was a vital piece of Holland worth at least a Fokker Friendship to the old boy. “Say that you are holding a member of Her Majesty’s Parliament,” he had reiterated. Yet, watching the faces cloud over, he saw that he had failed to convince them.

He could not fathom their reluctance. How could it harm their cause to let it be known that a Dutch deputy was aboard? The psychology of terrorists was evidently a closed book to him. Did they fear that the police would storm the plane to free him? He could easily have shown them that the effect on his government would be quite the opposite—an increase in caution. But: “We have heard enough from you.” The discussion was over. It was as if an instinct, impervious to reason, warned them against revealing the smallest fact to the enemy, who might find a means to profit.

In a strange way, he was disappointed. Returned to his seat, he felt crestfallen. No doubt it irked him as a lawyer to give sound advice and perceive that it would not be followed: he had begun to look on these malefactors as his clients. Yet, beyond that, there was in him a persistent desire to be helpful, even when this helpfulness, if allowed to have its way, would further some project for which he had no great sympathy. In the present case, an antipathy: he had a distaste for hijackers and hijacking which the interview just terminated had done nothing to modify. Nevertheless, he had found himself “identifying” with these poor brutes—
kapers,
as his countrymen called them, from the old word for privateers—or, rather, with the problem they confronted: the procurement of an escape plane from his old friend and parliamentary colleague. Since he had at once seen the problem’s solution in the card at their disposal—himself—it had seemed urgent to get them to play it, and his failure at persuasion was somehow profoundly saddening.

He had a love of solutions and a sometimes fatal generosity in offering them. A footnote in his country’s annals might one day tell how in the year 1972, when parlous elections had left Holland without a majority, the radical deputy Van Vliet de Jonge had gone to the Queen with a truly beautiful formula of his own devising to allow Mr. Owl, his political opponent, to assume the reins of government. Like a proud child speeding to the sovereign with the year’s first
kievit
egg—a Dutch rite of spring. Juliana was still grateful to him; Beatrix too. He had declined his due guerdon—a post in the Cabinet. And he had no regrets:
“Paete, non dolet,”
as the Stoic’s wife said, passing him the sword she had plunged into her Roman heart.

He foresaw no regrets today were the hijackers, thanks to his coaching, to finally get their plane. True, he and his fellow-hostages would be winging off with them on the next leg of a journey which was not bright with promise. But his cerebral part would feel satisfied to have broken a deadlock by the simple application of reason. The alternative was sitting it out here in dreary confinement while each side sought by threats or deceitful promises to sap the other’s morale. Since immediate release seemed not to be in question, his preference, on balance, was for a change of scene.

In this, he knew, lay the best and the worst of him: disinterested, eager absorption in the thickening plot of his time and place that went with a certain lightness, not to say levity, of commitment. If he was not small-minded, neither was he—as the palace believed—“large-souled.” His attempt to be helpful to the
kapers
could hardly be laid to brotherly love. The feeling that moved him was more like the friendly impatience of a bystander watching a game of bowls. A prompting instinct, such as caused his eyes, during a debate in the House, to drop to his neighbor’s half-penciled-in crossword puzzle while the gallery waited for him to claim the floor. At the journalists’
Kring
in Amsterdam, he would stop in late at night, to sit behind the chess players, move on to the match at the billiard table, lend an argument to a literary dispute. Adversary situations drew him, but his interest span was short. Though his life might be at stake, his lively brain was unable to enlist in a heavy-breathing contest between hijackers and lawful authority; he was outside it, above the chessboard, looking down the bishop’s diagonal, swiftly noting openings and opportunities, foreseeing moves for either side. In short, like Senator Carey (or the reputation Carey bore), he was an intellectual and political dilettante, lacking the qualities of leadership.

Already wife and children, his dear vested interests, were becoming remote; they belonged to
out there,
beyond the portholes’ range of vision, like blips flitting across the radar screen. If Durgie was watching television—which often she did not—they must be anxious or envious. Were they ringing Air France to ask whether
pappie
was listed as a passenger on the big plane they could see on their set? There had been several flights yesterday from Paris to Teheran. And Air France’s line, it went without saying, would be busy or unresponsive. Yet from his perspective, as two-thirds of a ghost, his family and the little alarms he might be causing them seemed ghostly themselves, diminished in reality. He could not enter into their feelings, even by conjecture, and his greatest pang of remorse, on their account, came from the thought that he might have bought flight insurance at one of those vending machines at the airport. He had never been inclined to do that and always wondered at the provident souls who could—a safe landing must give rise to mixed emotions in the insured one—but the next time, he now vowed, he would: for ten francs, roughly eight guilders, Durgie might hit the jackpot. Catching himself, he laughed shortly. “The next time”! As a matter of fact, he did not recall seeing such an infernal machine at De Gaulle yesterday; perhaps they had gone out, like complimentary razor blades in the toilets, when the
kapers
came in.

Meanwhile the others had gathered some news of their own. During his absence, the talkative steward had come by; the crew had heard that the first-class passengers were about to be released. “Did those fellows tell you anything about that?” the Bishop called out. He was the only one of the group to seem spry this morning. In the toilets, the electricity was
kapot,
so that the water-closets would not flush and the outlets for electric razors were inoperative. But the Bishop had shaved, with an old-style razor evidently; Van Vliet noticed a curl of shaving cream near his capacious ear, the deafer one. On Carey’s chin, there was a dark stubble that matched his mercurial eyebrows. The pastor must have tried to use the Bishop’s blade, as some still bleeding cuts and white styptic-pencil marks bore witness. Charles had applied a thick dusting of powder. Victor was sleeping, finally, beneath his overcoat and a heap of blankets, his head burrowing in a pillow. The heating too had ceased to function, and it was cold in the cabin. But the Bishop, in his thick tweeds, was comfortably dressed for the occasion.

In answer to the old man’s question, Henk could only shout that negotiations were going on for a Dutch plane: no mention had been made of first-class passengers. But he could report that they were still there; in the “lounge,” he had seen them, being served Bloody Marys. A cry went up. Here in Economy, they had had nothing but some weak coffee the steward had brought. “Not even a Danish,” sighed Sophie. “Did they give them breakfast up there too?” Aileen demanded, giving his shoulder a peremptory tap. Van Vliet could not say; he had noticed what the Americans called “nibbles” on the service wagon as he edged past, but that information, he decided, was better kept to himself. Angry patches had appeared on Aileen’s sharp cheekbones; the little jaw had tightened. He was not especially hungry, and what was gnawing at this poor woman’s vitals, he surmised, was principally social envy. It would do none of them harm to miss a meal. Moreover, he would feel a little ashamed, as a well-nourished man, to mention a need of food to hijackers who represented, at least in their own minds, the famished of the earth. Yet if negotiations were going to drag on, the hijackers, he judged, would do well to ask for something to eat for the hostages—a compassionate service the Dutch would not refuse.

A few rows ahead, the young woman now stood on guard, her pistol stuck into the bosom of her blue embroidered blouse. It was up to him, probably, in the interests of general harmony, to voice the suggestion. He cleared his throat, preparing to raise his hand. It went up slowly. He found he had no appetite for making a plea on behalf of these, on the whole, too corpulent bellies. Sophie looked at him inquiringly. But the gunwoman’s eyes flicked past his feebly waving hand—she was not going to give him even the briefest attention—and he let it fall, like a flag of surrender. “She didn’t see you,” said Sophie. “No.” He was a craven and grateful to be spared.

Then, by good fortune, the Bishop remembered the cake. He lifted it out of its box, on its paper-lace doily, cut it with the Senator’s pocket knife, said grace, and distributed slices. They ate while the hijacker dourly watched, stroking her pistol. “Why, bless me,” said the old man. “She may be hungry too.” He wrapped a generous slice in his pocket handkerchief, and Sophie bore it forward. “What is this?” said the recipient in a loud, suspicious tone. “Well, it
was
a birthday cake,” said Sophie. “Would your friends like some? There’s plenty. We must just save a piece for
him.
” Her nod indicated Victor, supine under his coverings. “Get back to your seat,” replied the hijacker. Without further comment, she slowly ate the cake. The Bishop’s gesture had not had any noticeable softening effect.

Once the crumbs had been cleared away, time hung heavy. There was nothing to do but guess about what was happening, and Van Vliet was the best authority the group possessed. “Is your Cabinet meeting?” Sophie wondered. Not the full Cabinet, he thought, but an emergency task force: the Minister of Justice would have been the first to be alerted; he would have called the Prime Minister, the Minister of Defense, and the Minister of Foreign Affairs; they must have met last night and again this morning. “Where?” At the Ministry of Justice, probably, so as not to give the affair undue importance. He himself wondered about the Queen. Had she been told yet? And Bernhard? The consort, he explained, had a keen interest in planes and flying; in addition, he had the title of Inspector General of the Armed Forces. “Does that mean his ideas will be listened to, because he’s the Queen’s husband? I thought you had a constitutional monarchy.” Van Vliet was not prepared to dilate, just now, on the role of the monarchy in present-day Holland. “The Queen is listened to. Like her mother. She’s respected, as a person, and strains to be progressive.” But the consort, who had the outlook of a business man, was something else. His ideas, if he were to offer any, on what attitude should be taken toward the hijackers, would be conveyed to the Defense Minister and duly tabled, with thanks. “But why the Defense Minister? Why should the armed forces have a voice? When I picture Mr. Schlesinger and the Pentagon, it scares me silly.” The vision of his starchy and punctilious friend in the role of Dr. Strangelove was amusing, but Van Vliet saw he had to be patient with this bony, beautiful American who construed everything on the hated paradigm of her own government—“the military industrial complex.”

Because, he gently explained, an escape plane, if it were to be furnished, would have to come from the armed forces. “Not KLM?” Certainly not; the decision being weighed was a decision of state, to be implemented from national defense stocks, which could only be drawn on with the Defense Minister’s consent. “It touches his budget, you see.” A screech announced that Aileen had been listening. “You mean they’ll transfer us to a military plane?” “Affirmative,” said the Senator. She bridled. “Why, I never heard of such a thing!” Her head turned, looking to others to share her outrage. What did she expect—Prince Bernhard’s private plane?

He felt suddenly depressed. The boredom of confinement was beginning to tell. Hell, as Sartre said, was others. Outside, there were no signs of action. The big plane sat by itself, as if in quarantine, evidently because an explosion was feared. Somewhere there must be fire engines, police, ambulances, cameramen, but nothing was visible but the empty tarmac; he could not even make out in which direction the terminal lay. Yet from time to time he could hear other planes taking off; the ordinary course of life had not stopped in deference to the piteous exception.

“Mynheer Van Vliet!” Aileen again. She had been thinking about those art collectors up in first class. “Don’t you think you ought to
tell
these people who they are? It’s not fair—honestly, is it?—for them to be let go while we sit here with a price on our head because some of us, like the Senator, are celebrities. We have an important job to do, in Iran—doesn’t anybody remember?—and they’re just idle rich.” Carey’s pained glance met Van Vliet’s. “For Christ’s sake, Aileen, change the record.” “The Senator doesn’t agree,” she persisted. “But somebody ought to let them know, before it’s too late, that they have better fish to fry than us. It wouldn’t hurt those millionaires a bit to be held for ransom. They could hand over their Giorgiones and Titians and priceless hare’s fur cups—it’s all loot anyway.” “Damn it!” begged Sophie. “Keep your voice down.” Aileen surveyed the gunwoman. “She’s not listening. Besides, I don’t care if she does hear. As a revolutionary, she ought to realize the social implications of holding us prisoner while useless members of society go free. I mean, it isn’t as if they were invalids or children. I don’t see why they should be entitled to my compassion. There has to be some scale of values. We should tell these liberation fighters or whatever they call themselves that holding this committee as hostages is giving direct aid to the Shah of Iran.”