Wild Justice by Wilbur Smith Page B

then the head turned slightly and the lovely line of her lips moved as she spoke – it seemed like three words – before she turned back full face to the camera.
    â€˜Okay,’ Colin said. ‘Run it again – with neutral balance on the sound.’
    The entire loop reran, the cabin door opened, there were the three hostages, the fine golden head turned, and then the words ‘Let’s slide,’ from Ingrid, but there was background hiss and clutter.
    â€˜â€œLet’s slide”?’ Peter asked.
    â€˜Run it again with the bass density filter on the sound,’ Colin ordered.
    The same images on the screen, the golden head turning on the long neck.
    â€˜â€œIt’s slide.” ’ Peter could not quite catch it.
    â€˜Okay,’ Colin told the technician. ‘Now with full filter and resonance modulation.’
    The repetitive images, the girl’s head, the full lips parting, speaking to somebody out of sight in the body of the aircraft.
    Very clearly, unmistakably, she said, ‘It’s Stride.’ And Peter felt it jolt in his belly like a fist.
    â€˜She recognized you,’ said Colin. ‘No, hell, she was expecting you!’
    The two men stared at each other, Peter’s handsome craggy features heavy with foreboding. Atlas had one of the highest security classifications. Only twenty men outside the close ranks of Atlas itself were privy to its secrets. One of those was the President of the United States – another was the Prime Minister of Great Britain.
    Certainly only four or five men knew who commanded the Thor arm of Atlas – and yet there was no mistaking those words the girl had spoken.
    â€˜Run it again,’ Peter ordered brusquely.
    And they waited tensely for those two words, and when
they came they were in the clear lilt of that fresh young voice.
    â€˜It’s Stride,’ said Ingrid, and the screen went blank.
    Peter massaged his closed eyelids with thumb and forefinger. He realized with mild surprise that he had not slept for nearly forty-eight hours, but it was not physical weariness that assailed him now but the suddenly overwhelming knowledge of treason and betrayal and of undreamed-of evil.
    â€˜Somebody has blown Atlas,’ said Colin softly. ‘This is going to be a living and breathing bastard. They’ll be waiting for us at every turn of the track.’
    Peter dropped his hand and opened his eyes. ‘I must speak to Kingston Parker again,’ he said. And when Parker’s image reappeared on the main screen he was clearly agitated and angry.
    â€˜You have interrupted the President.’
    â€˜Doctor Parker—’ Peter spoke quickly. ‘– Circumstances have altered. In my opinion the chances of a successful Delta strike have dropped. We have no better than an even chance.’
    â€˜I see.’ Parker checked the anger. ‘That’s important. I will inform the President.’
    T he lavatories were all blocked by this time, the bowls almost filled, and the stench permeated all the cabins despite the air-conditioning.
    Under the strict rationing of food and water most of the passengers were suffering from the lethargy of hunger, and the children were petulant and weepy.
    The terrible strain was beginning to show on the hijackers themselves. They were standing a virtual non-stop watch, four hours of broken rest followed by four of ceaseless vigil and activity. The red cotton shirts were rumpled and
sweat-stained at the armpits, the sweat of nervous and physical strain, eyes bloodshot and tempers uncertain.
    Just before nightfall, the dark-haired girl, Karen, had lost her temper with an elderly passenger who had been slow to respond to her command to return to his seat after using the toilet. She had worked herself up into an hysterical shrieking rage, and repeatedly struck the old man in the face with the short barrel of her shot pistol, laying his cheek open to the bone. Only