The Munich Dilemma
by Sinbad

Chapter 9

Mr Farquharson said there was nothing more for them to do, they had to wait to see what happened. Soon they heard that the terrorists were demanding safe passage to Egypt and were prepared to relinquish their hostages if they got it, and although Farquharson said the Egyptians wanted nothing to do with the crisis, the terrorists had been promised that they could have their way. Preparations were under way to get them to a nearby military airstrip where they were to be put on a plane for Egypt. But the Germans were planning a showdown at the airfield and had positioned a team of snipers around the runway area, and more armed men actually inside the aircraft.

They all sat around the television watching every news broadcast. Mr Farquharson spent a lot of time on the telephone. No-one asked who he spoke to, but each time he came off the telephone he told them new information that differed from what the newsreaders were broadcasting. At one point he explained that the German authorities had offered unlimited money, and even to replace the Israeli athletes one for one with high ranking German officials, but the terrorists had turned down all offers point blank. One athlete, an enormous wrestler weighing upwards of three hundred pounds, had been shot dead and his body thrown out of the front door of the apartment block. This wasn't known generally, and Farquharson told the group assembled in the living room that he was suspicious of some of the assumed facts.

“How many terrorists are there in there? Why do they think there are three? There have to be more than three. Think about it, to throw a three hundred pound corpse through a doorway. How many people does that take? I reckon at least four – one holding each limb. It wouldn't be possible to organise other hostages to do that for them, it would be too likely that they'd make a run for it, if they got so close to the door. So the terrorists did that themselves. And there must have been enough manpower to release four to do that while others were maintaining control upstairs with the hostages. So we're talking an absolute minimum of six, I reckon, probably eight or more. I hope the Germans know what they're doing. It'll be a bloodbath at the airfield if they've judged it wrong.”

The others pondered his words and had nothing to say.

The door bell chimed again, and Roger went to the door, and returned with a man in German police uniform, who went straight up to the armchair that just about contained the bulk of Mr Farquharson.

“Sir, you are needed at headquarters. Would you come with me, please?”

“So much for being present unofficially! Very well, then.” The big man had not risen, following his usual practice, but now he struggled out of the chair and waddled off, calling behind him as he went that he would keep the Taylors informed, and instructing his colleagues to stay put until they heard from him.

With Farquharson gone the rest of them re-arranged the furniture into a semi-circle around the television in the corner of the room and settled to watch, and wait. Sophie and Ricky between them ferried food and drink from the kitchen.

All the TV channels were now running constant news programmes, even though there was little new to report. So the output alternated between the studio newsreader re-iterating what he'd been saying all morning, and outside broadcasts from journalists on the ground, well back from the seige site behind police barriers, and desperately trying to find something to say each time they were put online to talk to the world. There was nothing to say. The journalists were not being given any information that could jeopardise the efforts of the counter-terrorist units, so they had to fill time as best they could.

Without the updates they'd been receiving through Mr Farquharson, the Taylor family and their guests were as much in the dark as the rest of the television audience. It was agonising.

Eventually it was reported that transport had been provided to take the terrorists to the airport. Nothing was said about the remaining hostages. A cameraman working from a helicopter tracked the bus through the Olympic village and out onto the Autobahn for the short trip to the military airstrip. Once the bus had left the village it was revealed that the hostages were in fact in the bus with the terrorists, but also that not all of the Israeli team had been taken hostage. The occupants of one of the rooms had escaped because the terrorists were told that they weren't part of the Israeli team, and in another room, one athlete had held the door closed against the terrorists long enough for the other two occupants of the room to break a window and escape through it. And the female team members were accommodated in a different building inaccessible to the terrorists, and some athletes were in a different facility altogether, for instance the sailing competitors who were five hundred kilometres away. So it appeared only eleven hostages had been taken, and one was now dead. So, ten hostages on the bus, and a number of terrorists – but how many?

They watched the television and saw the bus make its way onto the airfield but then unexpectedly the aerial view from the helicopter stopped. No explanation was given, but the programme returned to endless analysis in the studio. They realised that the public were not going to witness the eventual showdown.

The only piece of real news they heard was an announcement by the Israeli government spokesman, to the effect that there would be no compromise from the Israelis, no concessions. No political prisoners would be released. Ricky wondered whether that information had got through to the terrorists, and what they would make of it.

The phone rang and Roger went to answer it.

They all listened but Roger wasn't doing much talking, just listening. He put the phone down and returned to join the others.

“Mr Farquharson. He's at police HQ and he sounds worried. The police have told him there are eight terrorists, but the police marksmen were expecting there to be three. There are only five sharpshooters deployed around the airfield, and three more men on the plane. Mr Farquharson says it's standard practice to have at least twice as many snipers as you have targets, so that two aim at each target. He says it's going very wrong and he has a bad feeling about it.”

The others looked at each other. The doorbell rang again. This time Ricky went and it was Bettina and her father. They both came straight in to the living room and Herr Wollendorf began talking in an undertone to Roger. Bettina joined the boys on the big sofa.

“What has happened? Tell me about it please?”

So the boys took it in turns to tell her about Mr Farquharson and his worries about what was going to happen at the airfield.

Herr Wollendorf left, cautioning Bettina to behave herself. She pulled a face and the boys giggled because they hadn't understood the exchange between her and her father which was in German.

There was nothing they could do but wait and the wait seemed to be interminable. They didn't hear again from Mr Farquharson, there was nothing new reported on TV although the newsreaders continued manfully trying to find something to say even when they'd said it all three times in the previous hour.

The day wore on. Chris and Ricky even took a football out onto the parkland opposite and kicked it around for a bit, with Bettina looking on from a park bench. Once they had worked off some energy they gathered back at the bench and Chris began to smile broadly, which Ricky took to be a reaction to the proximity of a certain pretty girl, until Chris explained. “Who would have thought you and me would get a kick out of a game of football!” And Ricky laughed, both because neither of them were interested in sports and because he had had a pre-conception dispelled.

Roger came out to them with a message. “Mr Farquharson phoned. He's invited us all out to a meal. He says it's to show his gratitude for our hospitality but I think it's to ease the strain on Sophie, which is kind of him. Anyway apparently he's sending a car round to pick us up in an hour. You three will want to come in and get ready. You sweaty boys will need to shower and change.”

So, one hour later, the entire household were gathered in the living room ready to go and waiting for the car to arrive for them. Mr and Mrs Taylor, Ricky, Chris, Bettina, and Harris and his colleague from the Foreign Office whose name Ricky realised he still didn't know. The door bell rang, they all trooped along the short corridor and met the smartly uniformed chauffeur at the door. The vehicle he led them out to turned out not to be a car at all, but a minibus. Ricky had been wondering what sort of car would have seats sufficient for them all to get in, and now he had his explanation.

Nobody except the chauffeur knew where they were going so Roger was very impressed when the minibus drew up outside the doors of one of the smartest and most exclusive restaurants in Munich. He was grateful that they'd all decided to dress up for the event, realising that they could and probably would have been turned away at the door if they had been dressed casually.

Roger gave Mr Farquharson's name and they were ushered to a separate room where the big man was already seated in an enormous dining chair with arms, at one end of a very long table. He waved expansively, gesturing for them to take their seats around the table. Roger sat at the other end of the table with Sophie to his side on the right and Bettina to his side on the left. Chris sat next to Betting, Ricky sat next to Sophie, and the other two chairs, either side of Mr Farquharson, were taken by Harris and the other man. Harris sat next to Ricky and the other man sat next to Chris, so Ricky could look diagonally across the table at him. He took time to notice this man, who had said hardly anything at all. He wore the same sort of clothes as Harris, neat, conservative, formal office wear. Pinstripe suit, white shirt, old school tie of some sort, black brogue shoes. He had a slightly Mediterranean look about him. He could have been Italian, or Greek, or for that matter Jordanian Ricky realised with a start. He looked closely, curiously, at the man's features, his dark hair greying slightly at the temples, his olive skin and slightly stubbly chin, his long delicate fingers, the hairs on the back of his hands very black, not brown but black. He could have been Greek, but Ricky was sure he was Jordanian. Arabic, anyway. But he worked for the British Foreign Office? He turned his head just enough to make eye contact with Mr Farquharson who, it appeared, had been watching him for some time. Ricky blushed. Mr Farquharson's eyes bored into his, as if challenging him to speak or to keep quiet about the identity of the quiet man. He held his gaze until the waiters had finished serving them their food, and he didn't speak until the room was theirs and the last waiter had closed the door behind him.

“I have something to tell you all. First of all I want to thank you, all of you, for your invaluable help and assistance in this matter. Some of you I have thanked before, some of you this is my first opportunity. All of you, except Mrs Taylor, and, oh yes, young Bettina here, played some part in the events in Jordan five years ago when a terrorist plot directed against the King was foiled, with the help of Ricky and Chris after his Majesty chose to trust Ricky with a message for me. The operation was not an unqualified success, Kamille Blumfeld escaped, but that was not your fault, or the fault of anyone around this table.

“Now we are facing another terrorist action and it appears Blumfeld is involved again. We have another opportunity to take her, or him, out of circulation. Around this table we each of us may have a part to play in that. Certainly each of us have particular talents or experience which may prove key to success. We are, however, in a sense an unofficial group. Only three of us have any official position in the security services. I don't believe that will prove significant, though.

“Before I continue, I need to have the assurance of each of you that what I am about to tell you will remain utterly secret. The security of more than one sovereign nation will depend on that. I need to take all of you into my confidence, even you children. Sorry, young people. Is that better?”

And he twinkled at Bettina and the boys. Get on with it, thought Ricky.

“I'm sorry if this seems a little pedantic. I am not asking you to sign the official secrets act or antything as formal as that, I believe such a signature wouldn't hold up in a court of law in the case of the youngsters anyway. But I do need you to take this as seriously as if you were providing such a signature. So I would like to ask you to promise not to reveal to anyone outside this room, ever, the things that will be revealed to you tonight. One by one I would like you to respond. You first, Harris.”

The stocky young man smiled confidently. “I promise.”

“Richard?” “I promise.”

“Mrs Taylor?” “I promise.”

“Mr Taylor?” “I promise.”

“Christopher?” “I promise.”

“Bettina?” “I promise.”

“And finally Crown Prince El-Hassan of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan?” “I promise.”

All eyes widened, turned to the enigmatic man sitting demurely to the right of Mr Farquharson. And finally he spoke.

“Yes it is true. I am Hassan, the younger brother of the King. But I have not misled you. It is also true that I am an employee of the British Foreign Office. At least for the duration of this crisis. And so is my friend Harris here, who who has been assigned to me as bodyguard. My role in Jordan is the equivalent of Lord Beaulieu's role in your country. We have worked together before and perhaps will work together again. I trust him and I think I have earned his trust in return. I hope I can earn your trust also.”

The stunned silence was eventually broken, by Ricky, who ventured: “Sir, we... should we... how should we... what should we call you?”

The prince smiled benignly on Ricky, who was quaking. “Thank you, Ricky. You don't need to worry, though. This great gentleman at the head of the table has the right to be referred to as Lord Beaulieu and addressed as 'your lordship' or 'my lord'. However in his working life he eschews such titles, and asks to be known simply as Mr Farquharson. I would like you to accord me the same courtesy. Do not become hamstrung by the etiquette which demands that you address me as 'Your Royal Highness'. I would like to be known simply as Prince Hassan, or in familiar vein just Hassan. You might wish to refer to me when talking to others as 'the prince'. That will not offend me. The formal titles do very well in formal occasions, but they get in the way in everyday life, don't you think? I found your Prince of Wales holds the same view.”

He beamed a brilliant smile at Ricky, who flinched slightly, but beamed back. “Thank you, Prince Hassan. I don't mind saying that's a great relief!” - and a ripple of laughter went around the table, and conversation resumed.

At the end of the meal, Mr Farquharson tapped his knife against the edge of his wine glass a few times, making a bell-like ringing noise. The conversation died again, and all heads turned his way.

“Thank you. There are a few things I would like to say before we disperse. The major matter over which I required your agreement to secrecy was the identity of Prince Hassan. He is here incognito. The political situation in the Middle East continues to be unstable and delicate, and the assistance and support that King Hussein continues to give to peace initiatives is not appreciated everywhere. For that reason much of his involvement in international negotiations is done in secret. Prince Hassan is acting as the King's envoy and with the King's authority. We are most grateful to have him with us, I believe he will prove to be invaluable. I know you will all give him your wholehearted co-operation. And you have my thanks for that.

“As far as the hostage situation goes, we are still waiting to hear what is happening or has happened at the airfield. Personally I am not optimistic but I remain hopeful, if not confident. If the terrorists are taken captive and the hostages rescued, we will be assisting the local authorities in de-briefing and, in the case of the terrorists, interrogating. We need to discover where their power centre is, and where their financial support comes from.

“On the other hand if, as I fear, it all goes wrong, then we may be picking up the pieces and our role could turn out to be quite different. We must wait and see.”

He was interrupted by a knock on the door, which was followed a moment later by its opening and the manager of the restaurant came in, carrying a telephone on a long lead. “Mr Farquharson. My humblest apologies for interrupting your meal. There is a telephone call for you; I felt you would want to take it.”

Farquharson beckoned the man forward and he carefully fed the wire around the edge of the room and brought it up to the table beside the big man, who hadn't moved out of his seat. He picked the telephone receiver up and, while waving the restaurateur away he barked into the handset: “Farquharson!” in such a peremptory tone that Ricky wondered what people thought of him whose only contact with him was by telephone. What did they imagine him looking like? Surely far different than the kindly, almost cuddly man that Ricky knew.

Ricky looked around the table. Everyone seemed to be engaged in the same enterprise – listening in on Mr Farquharson's conversation, while at the same time feigning complete disinterest. Ricky himself would have liked to hear what was being discussed, but he couldn't hear a thing beyond a vague drone of voices.

He was some time listening on the phone, occasionally responding with a brief 'Yes' or 'No', and a few other clipped responses. When the call came to an end he looked up at his fellow diners, perhaps he realised that they were also his audience, and gave one of his benign smiles.

“If we watch the television, we will see what has happened, except some of the facts the journalists have are incorrect. Can we get a television in here?”

Roger Taylor, who spoke fluent German, having begun his career as a teacher of German in a Bristol secondary school, went off to ask for 'ein Fernsehapparat'. Shortly later he returned, followed closely by the manager again, pushing a trolley which contained a large television and a lot of cables. The manager pushed the cables into wall sockets in the corner of the room, orientated the television so that they could all see the screen, turned it on and left. It warmed up and showed he picture they needed to see – the news programme showing the hostage crisis. The image was of a military airfield. You saw an aeroplane, prepared for take-off, and with a passenger door open and steps dropped down. You saw a bus draw up, and initially two men alight. They walk briskly from the bus to the aeroplane. Moments later they are returning at a run. They've sensed something is up and are running back to the coach. The picture is washed out and bouncy, taken through an extremely long focal length lens. It's not easy to see what's happening, but one of the running men stumbles and the other helps him up and they both climb back into the bus. Once in the bus nothing useful can be seen. And then the screen goes blank, and the image is replaced by a talking head again as the programme returns to the studio.

Mr Farquharson turned the volume control to zero before he spoke. “I can explain some things about what you saw. I can also fill in some of what happened after the screen blanked. It was blanked because what happened next is too harrowing for public consumption. Would any of you prefer not to know about this?”

The general shaking of heads prompted him to continue. “It has been announced in the international media that all the terrorists have died and all the hostages have been rescued. The facts are different. The terrorists got wind of the ambush somehow in the plane. They rushed back to the bus but one of the snipers took a shot at one of the two who were out in the open, the ringleader we think. He missed, and hit the other man in the calf. Both made it back to the bus, but the terrorists then simply opened machine gun fire on the hostages. All but one were killed outright, the other was wounded badly by bullet wounds to his lower body. Then the terrorists ran from the bus, throwing a home-made grenade back in through the open door of the bus, turning it into a raging furnace and burning all the occupants to a cinder. It is believed that the one hostage who was still alive at that point died of smoke asphyxiation.

“The terrorists ran for cover in different directions, but the snipers picked them off one by one and all but one of them were killed. The last, possibly the ringleader that the sniper first tried to shoot and missed, is still on the loose, but we're hopeful we'll track him down soon. Now, Chris, we want you to go to the police morgue and take a look at the collection of dead terrorists there, and see if your man is there. If, as I suspect, he is on the loose and very dangerous. I don't think he'll want to stay in town, but I've been wrong about nearly everything so far in this case, so I don't trust my judgement. Can you do this, do you think?”

Chris was looking horrified but after a moment he stood up an flexed his shoulders as though he was sprouting wings, and said: “I can do it, I'm sure. It won't be pleasant but I'll do it.”

“Good boy. We need to know if the dead men are the men that you followed and watched. And if any of the men you followed are not among the dead.”

“Okay. How many dead terrorists are there?”

“They're being cagey about that, perhaps because they're not sure about the hostages. You just go and do your bit and that'll help them to be sure who they have.”

“Yes, sir. How do I get there?”

“The police are sending a car for you now. It'll be here shortly. Just be ready to go as soon as it arrives, okay?”

“Yes, sir.” Chris became preternaturally quiet, feeling the responsibility and the arduous nature of his assignment, but a small hand found his under the table and squeezed it, and he turned his head to Bettina who was looking up at him with pride, admiration, and the biggest smile, which he caught and mirrored, and began to feel better.

The police car arrived, the restaurant manager did his obsequious intrusion bit to inform them about it, and Chris left, walking very tall and straight. The others sat around the table and coffee was served but the conversation flagged; they were all anxious.

After they had dawdled over their coffee and nibbled on little mint chocolates for nearly an hour, and Chris had not returned, Mr Farquharson announced that they would all do better at home and to try to get a good night's sleep in case they were called upon the next day. Mr Harris left the private dining room to arrange transport, and returned only just before a chauffeur appeared ready to take them.

Ricky was a little reluctant to go, and asked Mr Farquharson if he could get a message to Chris to let him know they'd all gone home, but he just smiled and said it was all in hand. Ricky reminded himself that this was a man used to 'making arrangements'.

Not long after they arrived home, Chris turned up, explaining that he had identified the terrorists, and had then had to stay at the morgue and write a detailed report.

Mr Farquharson listened intently to Chris' account. “How many corpses were there, Chris?”

“Ah. Yes. I thought you would ask that. There were seven.”

“And how many men were in the group you followed around the grounds of the Olympic Village?”

“Eight.”

“Yes. Interesting. Very interesting. So which of the men you followed was missing from the men you saw in the morgue?”

“It was Kamille, or whatever his name is.”

“You're sure?”

“Absolutely. He was a good bit shorter than all the others. Almost as short as Ricky, I think. None of the dead men in the morgue are less than five foot eight. He's the one who's missing. I don't think there's any way he could disguise his height. You could wear funny shoes to make you look a bit taller but there's no way you can look shorter than you really are, without stooping, and he wasn't doing that. I'm sure, Mr Farquharson. As sure as I can be.”

“Thank you Chris. You've done very well. And good reasoning, too. I agree with you – Kamille is the one missing. We don't have any other name for him, so Kamille will have to do for the time being. I think we have to assume now that he's still alive and that he escaped the trap at the airfield. Where he has got to is another matter, but that's the job of the security services.”

He paused for a minute, perhaps gathering his thoughts.

“There may be some danger for you boys, so I think it would be best if you fly home to England as soon as possible. I'm sure your father, Ricky, will agree with me on that. We'll have to arrange some protection for Bettina, too. I'll talk to the German authorities about that.”

“Perhaps she could come on holiday to England? My parents might put her up?” Chris asked, hopefully. Ricky smirked. Chris scowled at him, knowing exactly why he scowled.

“Perhaps. That will depend on her parents, of course. And I won't be suggesting it without your parents' approval. What you could do, of course, is ring your parents, suggest it to them and if they are agreeable, get them to ring Bettina's parents. That might work, if you're set on the idea!” And he favoured Chris with one of his twinkles. Ricky, enjoying this immensely, feigned making himself sick, pushing two fingers down his throat. Chris saw and pulled a face.

Perhaps unaware of this exchange between the two boys, Mr Farquharson carried on regardless. “I must go now, I have a meeting to attend in town. My recommendation is to get a good night's sleep. Goodnight, boys, and I'll see you in the morning!” - and he was gone, showing remarkable speed for one normally so lethargic.