The Munich Dilemma
by Sinbad

Chapter 16

Despite their kebab they'd worked up a reasonable appetite in the pool by the evening, and were dressed in their smart new clothes when Mr Farquharson knocked on their door to call them for their meal.

The restaurant was very hushed, and they found it daunting. The waiters looked disapproving and hovered, as though they were watching for them to do something wrong so they could pounce.

“Ignore them. It's their job!” Mr Farquharson whispered. And then went on, a little louder: “While you three were messing around in the pool, I was on the phone to Munich. It seems our Kamille or whatever he calls himself now is back there, and talking to the press. He is demanding two things. He wants free passage to Egypt, and he wants you two as hostages in exchange for Bettina. Now, don't worry, we're not about to agree to his demands, but it gives us useful information. Firstly, you're not, we think, in immediate danger here. If he's in Munich, and we don't think he has any accomplices left,they all died in the shoot-out on the military airstrip, he can't be nosing around in England looking for you. And we now know where he wants to get to. Now, between you and me, the Egyptians have repeated what they said earlier – they want nothing to do with it and won't take him. But we're not telling him that. Not yet, anyway, although it might come to that.”

Chris had gone pale. Ricky was thinking hard. It was Chris who spoke. “He wants to exchange Bettina for us?”

“Yes, but don't worry, we're not agreeing to that.”

“But you must. Mustn't he, Ricky. Bettina must go free and we will take her place. There will be two of us and maybe we can find a way to overpower him, he's only a little feller. But Bettina will be safe. We'll do it, won't we, Ricky?”

Lord Beaulieu looked stunned. “So that's how you feel. I'm sorry, I didn't realise, Chris. Well now, that puts a very different light on things. Let me think.”

“What do you think, Mr Scott?” Ricky turned to the younger of the two adults, who smiled a lopsided smile at the address.

“Thank you for asking, Ricky. I'm just a driver, really, and I'm sure Mr Farquharson will make good use of his enormous skill, intellect and experience, and I'm sure whatever the plan is will turn out for the best. But if you want to know what I think, I'll tell you that it is standard Foreign Office policy never to put underage children at risk, and generally to treat as priority the elimination of existing risk for any children. So you understand it would not be likely that Mr Farquharson would send you in to act as hostages. That would be deliberately putting you two in great danger.”

Chris interrupted. “But we're seventeen. We're old enough to have our wishes taken into consideration and to make decisions for ourselves about danger and stuff. And we want to do it. It's Bettina whose safety we have to be considering here, and this is the way to ensure it!”

It occurred to Ricky that Chris was sweeping him up in his scheme without checking that he was a willing partner in it. But on the whole he thought Chris was right, and he felt if he could protect someone else by going into danger himself, it seemed like the right thing to be doing.

Chris got his reply. “Yes, you are. But we still have to make the final decision. And because you are still underage for many things, we still have to take responsibility for your safety. So you will have to respect Lord Beaulieu's decision on the matter.

“Oh, and by the way, my name is Collins. Scott is my first name. There wasn't really time for formal introductions when you got in the car, was there! But you can call me Scott if you like, just don't call me Mr Scott, it makes you sound like Victorian servants!”

Chris smirked. “Scott, then. Thanks.”

Mr Farquharson came out of his reverie. “I think I can see the beginnings of a plan. It'll take me some time to find if it can work, so excuse me while I make some more phone calls. You enjoy your meal, I'll join you in a few minutes.”

So they did. They ordered three courses and ate them all with enthusiasm. Scott seemed to have as big an appetite as the boys. He was not that much older than them, really, perhaps twenty-five or a young-looking thirty. And he was clearly very fit judging by the way his clothes fitted.

“You're not just a driver, are you?” ventured Ricky.

Scott took a mouthful of his glass of wine before replying. “Well, I am a trained professional driver, with special emphasis on pursuit driving. But I know what you mean. No I'm an officer in the S.A.S., which means I'm a soldier, and it means I've had special training in one-to-one combat and anti-terrorism tactics. And the reason I'm here is to protect you boys and Mr Farquharson. I don't know if you know it but he's a very important person. He plays a large part in keeping this country safe. He's quite remarkable. I've worked with him before. How do you know him?”

“We've worked with him before, too.” said Ricky, enjoying being mysterious. Scott got the joke. “Touché!”

They were in fact just finishing their third course, a very alcoholic Tiramisu for the boys and an equally drunken trifle for Scott, when Mr Farquharson returned. He sat down, his chair held for him by a waiter who then took his order. He seemed to be planning on eating about twice as much as everyone else had ordered. After the waiter took the order he disappeared, a knack that Ricky marvelled at. He didn't seem to leave, just to be suddenly not there any more. Very impressive. Mr Farquharson took a sip of the wine the waiter had poured him and savoured it before sitting back in his chair, which creaked a little under his weight, and said: “well, it seems you may get your way. The boffins have come up with something they think may work. Something that will disarm our friend without putting you in further danger. Personally I'm not sure, but it seems to be the best chance we have. So I'm afraid tonight will be your only night in this hotel – there's a helicopter coming to pick us all up at seven tomorrow morning. You should get the best night's sleep you can manage, it might be your last,...” - and, seeing the horrified looks on the boys' faces, he continued: “.. for some time.” Sighs of relief all round.

“What are we to do, then?” asked Chris.

“There's a lot to finalise, I'm not sure of the details yet. So I'll tell you all about it on the journey. In the meantime don't worry, just get some sleep.”

They had been planning to order coffee, but they decided they would order something from room service instead. They left Mr Farquharson to finish his meal and went back up to their rooms. Scott said goodnight and disappeared into his, Ricky and Chris closed the door in theirs and flopped down onto their beds, face down. And stayed there for ages. Maybe ten seconds. They stood up together and launched themselves at the little table on which the room service menu stood. Ricky got to it first, grabbed it and returned to his bed with his prize. There were various coffees but he spotted chocolate and picked up the phone to order it while Chris took his turn with the menu. And when he spoke to the receptionist, he ordered two cups of chocolate in response to Chris's gesturing.

They woke together in the morning, because their shoulders were being shaken roughly. Blearily they looked up into the face of Scott, standing in the space between the two beds, already dressed and looking relieved.

“You're not easy to wake, are you!” he said, and stood back to let them sit up. “The hotel's laying on a special early breakfast for us, they're serving in ten minutes. Can you be down by then?”

The boys nodded, he left, they hurried into clothes and realised that for all the new things they'd bought the previous day they hadn't bought any kind of baggage, a suitcase or anything, to put them all in. They didn't want to leave their nice new clothes behind so that was a problem to be solved. Down in the restaurant there was no sign of people or food so they asked at reception and it turned out there was a separate breakfast restaurant, a sort of sun lounge jutting out into the lawn beside the swimming pool at the back of the building. And there they found Scott and food, but no sign yet of Mr Farquharson. “He won't be eating with us,” Scott told them in response to their question. “He has other things to do.” Ricky guessed it wouldn't matter – Lord Beaulieu had ordered enough the night before to feed a small army.

“Is the boutique open?” Chris asked.

“I think that's unlikely, why do you want to know? You want to buy more clothes at government expense?”

“No, we didn't buy a suitcase or anything. How are we going to take our clothes with us?”

“Aah. Okay, leave it to me, I'll see what I can do.” He left his meal half-finished and disappeared in the direction of reception, and came back just moments later with the duty manager in tow. He had 'Duty Manager' on a badge on his uniform.

“Quick, time is short, come with us. You can come back and finish your meal afterwards.”

They followed the manager to the boutique. He unlocked the glass doors and turned lights on. They found a couple of holdalls, like sports bags, and took those up to the manager. At the last moment Ricky looked at Chris, looked at the capacity of the bags and said: “We can share one. We don't need two!” and checked Chris's expression to be sure he was in agreement before taking the bag he was carrying back to the display they had taken it from.

The manager took a label off the remaining holdall and promised to deliver it to their room in time for their return their after breakfast. So they went back and finished their meal. The whole thing had taken less than five minutes and they found their fried eggs still edible.

Scott announced they had only ten minutes before the helicopter was due to arrive, so they wolfed the last mouthfuls of their meal and hurried back to their room, cleaned their teeth and packed their shared bag. It was big enough for all they had and there was some room to spare. A quick look around the room to check they hadn't left anything behind, and they left, pulled the door closed, pocketed the key and knocked on Scott's door. He opened and came straight out into the corridor carrying a bag that looked a lot like theirs. Seeing their expression he laughed. “No, I didn't get one too. This is the bag I keep with me, it was in the boot of the car and the helpful staff here got it for me last night. It has the stuff I often need at short notice. Toothbrush and change of underwear mostly. And a book to read.”

“Where's Mr Farquharson?”

“Uh, he's not coming. It's just you two and me. Is that okay?”

“I guess. Why isn't he coming?”

“He is needed here to co-ordinate from this end. I'm your field operative for this mission. And, between you and me, Mr Farquharson doesn't really do field work. Doesn't like running.”

They exchanged knowing smirks.

“Come on then. Have you ever been in a helicopter?”

Neither boy had, and they said so.

“Great. New experience for you then. You'll have seat belts. Be sure you put them on as soon as you're seated, and don't take them off till we're on the ground again. Okay?”

They nodded.

“Come on, then!”

At the end of the corridor there was a fire exit door. Scott pushed through it and they found themselves on the lawn between the verandah outside their rooms and the sun lounge where they'd just eaten. Scott led the way, marching briskly out onto the grass and along the side of the swimming pool. Beyond that there was a paddock with a wooden building at one side. Stables, Ricky thought. As they arrived and pushed open the gate into the paddock, they heard the thrum of rotor blades approaching. Over the brow of a hill came a military helicopter, a big one with a row of windows behind the pilot's cabin, like a small aeroplane. It settled to the ground close by and the rotors slowed. Ricky was expecting to be kept well away from it until the rotors had stopped but Scott motioned to them both to stoop low, put his arms through the handles of his holdall and swung it onto his back like a rucksack, and then, grabbing them each by the upper arm he pulled them with him, running in a crouch up to the helicopter. The wind buffeted them, the noise was deafening, it was quite disorientating and if Scott hadn't had them by the arm they wouldn't have known what to do. But he guided them firmly to a point about two thirds along the body of the helicopter, and let go of them for just a moment while he reached up and turned to recessed handles on the side of the aircraft. A panel popped outwards and then swung to the side, and he grabbed a handle which was now visible from behind the panel and pulled a flight of steps down. It locked into place and the boys climbed up into the big machine. Scott followed them and then kneeled on the floor to haul the steps back into their stowage channel below them. Then he reached across and pulled the door back into place and turned a single big handle on the inside through a wide arc which locked the door in place.

The cabin looked a lot like a miniature version of a commercial aeroplane. Single seats against the sides of the cabin one next to each of the four windows on each side, so a total of eight seats, and a central aisle up the middle, leading forwards to a door in a bulkhead that separated the passenger area from the pilot's cabin in front.

Ricky and Chris chose the front pair of seats, and Scott sat at the back nearest the door they had just come in through. Once the door was closed it was much quieter in the cabin, but still a good bit noisier than they were used to in aeroplanes.

“Seat belts on? Good lads. We're flying direct to Munich so it'll be about four hours. I should try to sleep if you can. From now on you'll be glad of any chance to sleep, I should think! There won't be any refreshments or an in-flight movie, so sleep is your best bet.”

Ricky couldn't imagine feeling sleepy during his first ever helicopter ride, especially with a window to look out of, and so early in the day, too.

“I didn't know helicopters could go so far without refuelling!”

“This one can. It has a range of about seven hundred and fifty miles. Our journey is less than six hundred. It's fast, too. Faster than most small aircraft. It's an American design, a Sikorsky. Very impressive.”

“Yes!” Ricky thought of his old friend Roly, the son of the British Ambassador in Jordan, in the days when they'd lived there. Roly was an aircraft enthusiast and knew a great deal about planes and other kinds of aircraft. He'd have loved this journey.

Chris was staring out of the window at the hotel when without warning the floor lurched. They were airborne and Chris' view of the back wall and windows of the hotel gradually gave way to a view of the roof of the hotel as they rose vertically in the air, and then began to move forward, the floor tilting a little as they did. They flew low, a lot lower than a conventional aircraft, so they were able to watch the patchwork of fields and occasional built up areas go by beneath them. But before long what was below them was sea, monotonous sea. And although this was the short hop across the English channel and therefore they would be back over land again in ten minutes, by the time they were over France both the boys were sleeping.

Scott Collins checked on them and smiled to himself. He couldn't allow himself to sleep. He was a soldier on duty, on a mission.

When, three and a half hours later, the big chopper settled onto the tarmac of a secluded helipad attached to Munich International Airport, the boys woke and looked about them. Scott was beckoning to them, and opening the door. Once he had the door opened, he began to climb down the steps but half way down he backed back up and into the cabin. And he was followed in by two men in dark pinstripe suits and bowler hats, one carrying a bulky package wrapped in brown paper. We're in Germany, thought Ricky, but these are never Germans. They have to be Mr Farquharson's men, looking like that.

And sure enough, they introduced themselves as Statsby and Fidder and Ricky memorised that Statsby was the one with the big handlebar moustache. Chris named them in his mind The Walrus and The Carpenter. Mr Statsby looked so much like a walrus with that moustaches.

Mr Fidder was holding the big package and began to unwrap it.

“Boys, we really appreciate what you're doing here, and we want you to know we appreciate it. There is an element of danger, it would be foolhardy to pretend otherwise, but we're trying to keep it to a minimum. We think Blumfeld is working alone, which means he doesn't have access to some of the gadgets he would normally be able to call on. And that gives us an opportunity to try using one of our own. Here it is!”

And triumphantly he pulled from the paper wrappings two down-filled body warmers, the kind that skiers use to keep themselves warm without impeding arm movements. Quilted jackets without sleeves, that make the wearer look a little like the Michelin man, made of thin fine weave nylon and the quilting filled with feathers to make a light but very warm jacket. These were black and had a neat logo on the breast and pockets low on the side seams. Neither Ricky or Chris could see what it was about these jackets that qualified them to be described as gadgets, though.

“It's not the jacket, it's what we've coated the jacket with!” said Mr Statsby.

The boys were none the wiser.

“It's a nerve agent. Attacks the central nervous system and knocks you out. You only have to inhale a tiny amount. It's brilliant. It does no permanent harm and lasts only about half an hour once it's dispersed. And the vapour in the atmosphere bio-degrades in about twelve hours. Our guys have been working on it for years. Couldn't get it right, but apparently the problems are ironed out now. You'll be the first to use it in the field.”

Ricky and Chris glanced at each other. “Why isn't it knocking us out, then?” asked Chris.

“Oh, didn't I explain? Sorry, silly me, yes, of course. It doesn't vaporize at normal temperatures, and it is harmless if you touch it in solid or liquid form. The vapour reacts with nitrogen in the air which activates it. These jackets have a kevlar lining so they'll stop a bullet from a handgun, and they're padded so the outer surface of the jacket will be insulated from your body heat. But the outer surface is matt black and coated with our new chemical, so strong sunlight will heat up the nylon and the coating will vaporize. If you don't let the sun get to them you'll be fine but as soon as the sun or another powerful heat source gets on them, anyone in the same air space will be unconscious in a matter of minutes – unless there's a strong wind blowing, in which case it probably won't work.”

“You want us to wear these? Won't we be the ones to be knocked out, then?”

“Well, yes, but so with other people in the vicinity. And once you're all unconscious, we can send in the anti-terrorist teams with protective masks on to bring you out and restrain the target.”

“The target?”

“Blumfeld. Whatever his name is.”

“What if the sun isn't shining? What then?”

“Well, he wants to get to Egypt so we're going to take him there. Actually, the Egyptians won't have him so we're taking him to Jordan. He won't immediately be able to tell the difference. And you know what Jordan's like – the sun's always shining except in the middle of winter. And it's high summer there now. Prince Hassan is preparing a suitable welcome for him as we speak. He'll have you two as his hostages, and as soon as you get out of the plane in Jordan your jackets will begin giving off the chemical vapour, and you'll collapse on the floor. I hope Blumfeld collapses with you, but if he doesn't, he'll come to investigate – and then he'll collapse.”

“Won't he have thought of something like this?”

It was Mr Fidder who replied to this. “Terrorists have sometimes protected themselves from this sort of thing by rigging themselves up with a belt loaded with explosives, and a 'dead man's handle' switch, the kind that turns on when you let go. If he has one of these things, he'll tell us about it, because if he doesn't it's not effective. If he has one we'll have to think again. But I don't think he will have one because there's no-one left who could have obtained one for him. And he hasn't had time, and I don't think he has contacts, who could have got him one without his team to rely on. We're banking on him being alone in this. Intelligence hasn't thrown up any hint that there's even one accomplice after the massacre at the airstrip.”