Rabies (4th part)

1./II
Waiting for the hands of his wrist watch to come together at Zero hour, the time fixed for the beginning of 'Operation Dioscuri', he sat down in a low armchair and began to read extracts from his diary in the notebook inside the cover of the breviary:

'…Castor was against the code name 'Dioscuri' for the operation at Heathrow, just as he had been against his underground name of Castor. It reminded him of castor oil which he had been made to drink as a child. (It must have been a bourgeois childhood since the poor were effectively protected against similar digestive problems by hunger). Pollux, the name I took for myself, seemed to him like a firm producing light bulbs. A bit like Osram. He gave in finally. They were just two dead names which we shall inspire with a new meaning. 'Dioscuri' was something different: it joined Castor and Pollux in an event which already had a definite sense. It was as if he were afraid lest by usurping the names we might not be heir to the fate of their original bearers in some mystical way, even though he didn't know anything about them, (nor about a lot of other things, incidentally).

He wanted to know: 'who exactly were they, those two guys?' He had no comment to make when he heard that Castor and Pollux were the sons of Zeus. I hadn't expected any. Revolutionaries are convinced that they have a direct relationship with the highest necessities which govern history. That they themselves are, as a natural incarnation of the cosmic laws of progress, in some way gods. Self-deification is a necessary pre-condition for the secret functioning of any revolutionary machinery. Without it, it would be quite impossible to undertake those exalted missions which in the language of ordinary mortals are called 'outrages'. I told him, too, that the Dioscuri are considered as the protectors of travelers, which, bearing in mind what we are preparing for the Russians at Heathrow, seemed to him to be 'a bloody good joke'. He was particularly happy to know that in reward for their virtues the brothers were given immortality and the privilege of shining in the heavens as stars. I don't know if his optimism would have survived the discovery that Castor, before his astronomical transfer, was obliged to die a somewhat uncomfortable death. In the meantime, the other members of the group were also given names. I chose them because of their mythological associations with the Dioscuri. The two men became Paris and Menelaus, and the three girls Helen, Leda and Clytaemnestra, shortened to Mnestra…'

'… The Anglo-Russian talks have been going on for three weeks and if most of the London papers weren't in the middle of one of their endemic strikes, Fleet Street would have designated them quite unambiguously as 'exceptionally fruitful' – 'certainly the most successful since Munich' would have added the few eccentrics, isolated in the swamp of trite pacifism into which British public opinion has sunk. For this special occasion, the BBC has abandoned its natural diplomatic double-talk, and, gallantly espousing Soviet pancosmic rhetoric, has called the talks 'historic'. For Castor they are 'the shameful coupling of exploitory capitalism and exploitory pseudo-socialism, just one more imperialistic grand plot calculating on deceiving the broad masses of the people'. The imperialists, however, are mistaken. It's they who will be deceived. An attack on the Soviet delegation will destroy the agreement even before a single paragraph can be violated in some other, more elegant fashion. Icy blasts will once again blow through international relations. Chaos will follow. And out of Chaos are born the stars…'

Beneath the extract he could see the plans he had sketched out on an earlier visit to the Airport. The first was a rough layout of the Central Terminal Area; the second represented the lower level of the Underground at Heathrow Central. There was no need to sketch the upper level. At the Information Desk he had picked up a brochure entitled 'Heathrow Airport Station and Pedestrian Subways with a pull-out plan of the Underground', published by the BAA, with the black silhouette of doves in flight across the yellow air of its paper cover. From this simple plan it was clear that the Station was built beneath the aerodrome's approach road network between Terminal 2, the Queen's Building and the Control Tower, and that mechanical walkways connected the tree separate corridors to the tree Passenger Terminals.

He read:

'… It is now 6.00 hours. In fifteen minutes I shall set off. I can feel nothing. Certainly none of the emotions usually attributed to terrorists. No excitement. No fear. But no joy either. Perhaps only relief. I feel like a writer on the last chapter of a book where the subject has at last worked out. If I've made a mistake somewhere, I can no longer put it right. Castor and the other Dioscuri are already on their way to Heathrow and there's no turning back. My clergyman's dress, for example, that was a mistake. At first sight, only a technical one, but actually a careless slip of imagination. I should have known that for somebody not used to it, it would make you incongruous in your own eyes. And self-ridicule is destructive. It undermines your determination. That in turn leads to a falling off of concentration and thence to failure. Since I am not taking part in the immediate action, the mistake is not fatal. I take note of it only to avoid repetition in the future.

At 07.15 I shall be in the Entrance Hall of Heathrow Central Station, at 07.45 in Terminal 2 where Helen will be waiting for me in the nun's habit with tickets for SAS Flight SK 514 to Oslo. The Russians are expected at about 09.00. The VIP Lounge is being redecorated so that the official leave-taking will take place in the Terminal Lounge of Terminal 2. Castor and his companions will already be in position. The operation will begin at 09.50. It will last 10 minutes. At 10.00 it will all be over. At 10.00 also, Helen and I will be airborne en route for Scandinavia. This phase of 'Dioscuri' has no code name. No one knows about it. Not even Helen. She thinks that it's our escape route and that Castor and his followers have theirs. There is no way out for them, Helen. Surely the myth is clear enough? In order to become immortal, Castor must die in battle. To become a star in heaven, one must first bite deeply into the earth. Am I at all sorry about Castor? Subjectively – a little. (But since for us 'subjectively' has no sort of meaning, only 'objectively' means anything at all, I have no pity for him, none).

There'll always be plenty of Castors to be found. Castors are expendable. It's Pollux's we're short of. Have you noticed, I'm already speaking of him in the past tense? So we'll let that go, he'll put it right when he dies, it'll be his epitaph. For he is going to die, Helen. He owes it to himself and to his code name. He won't risk losing his place in the heavens through a cowardly betrayal. As for me, I shan't go to heaven. I'll stay here on earth as long as I can. In a year or two I'll send some other Castor up the stairs. That one too will shine down on us with his eternal light. I shan't be jealous. I shan't be jealous of anybody. Somebody has to stay down here and clear up the mess…'

He closed his breviary. It might attract the attention of a member of the Airport Security, or of a passenger with a hysterical imagination. But despite the danger, he had not given up his diary. It helped him to understand his aims better. He looked at his watch – it was 07.35 – and lit a cigarette. At one time he had smoked expensive, aromatic St. Moritz. But since he had been with this present Castor, for he wasn't the first, nor would he be the last, he had been smoking 'Caporal' out of solidarity. He hadn't gone as far as rolling his own. There were, after all, limits to solidarity, However much a man loves his dog, he doesn't chew the same bone out of solidarity with him.

His nicotine-stained fingers were trembling as if charged with miniature electric shocks. His nerves had always played him up. They were evidently not strong enough for the imagination they had to sustain. Fortunately, they only bothered him when he was collecting information, putting together his plan. When he had defined the 'plot' and chosen the means of carrying it out, his anxiety disappeared. The morbid hesitation gave way to cold, clean-headed determination. Apparently it was like that with any talent, any skill.

In the initial phase of 'Operation Dioscuri', the interconnecting links between the Terminals would be an undoubted help to Castor. Afterwards, all the passages would be blocked. For ease of control the police would probably cordon off the Central Terminal Area into separate sections. To get through from one to another a special pass would be needed. But in the good old British way, preventive measures would only be taken after it was all over. While it was all happening panic would make any sensible organization impossible. Radio controlled explosives in the Entrance Hall of Terminal 2 would drive passengers out onto the plateau above ground or down into the Underground, where other bombs would await them. In the ensuing chaos in which no one would be able to establish any order, Castor would get through to the Russians. The rest would be part of a myth.

The yellow BAA brochure with its flight of doves on the cover had helpfully informed him that the walking distances along the three corridors were all different. A passenger leaving from Terminal 1 had to walk 205 yards along the subway from the upper level of the Underground; on arrival, however, he had only 188 yards to cover. For Terminal 2 on arrival and departure there were 167 yards; to the Departure Lounge of terminal 3 the passenger had to walk 252 yards, but back from the Arrival Hall the route was 410 yards long. Fortunately the figures could not be verified. If there was some room for criticism of the veracity of the Authorities in more serious matters, their statistical accuracy concerning such trivialities was beyond reproach.

But he had been obliged to work out the time to walk the distances for himself. In any case, the time in the brochure was the time of flights, of business trips, of tourist excursions and of honeymoons, the time of life. His and Castor's time was the time of dying. So he had needed to calculate how long it would take someone running. By then a frantic run would be the normal pace of movement at Heathrow Airport. The quiet walk, at the worst, civilized, carefully circumspect haste which had been normal up to just a little earlier, with the first second of 'Dioscuri' would become an unnatural risk which few would be prepared to have. Indeed, if everything went off as he had planned, quite a lot of things would not be exactly as they were shown in the picture which the Information Bulletin of the Public Relations Office of the BAA painted of everyday life at the 'world's greatest aerial crossroads'.

It's good, he thought, that the redecoration of the VIP Lounge has made it necessary for the Authorities to transfer the official leave-taking ceremony for the Russians to the Transit Lounge of Terminal 2. The time needed to get from the Terminal 2 Lobby to the Underground or to the plateau in front of the Terminal building was the shortest possible. There was the least likelihood of the police realizing what was going on before Castor had finished with the Russians. Most of all, Terminal 2 was international. A majority of foreigners always counted in learning English, if they needed to at all, once in London. The language problems would make it still more difficult to re-impose any kind of order, which would not have been the case if the Russians had been leaving from the Terminal for domestic flights.

He walked across the marble entrance of the Station from where, like some aerodynamic intestine, the passage to Terminal 2 led off. Before stepping onto the moving walkway, his eyes fell on the milky white glass with the illuminated advertisement for BA:
WE'LL TAKE GOOD CARE OF YOU!
It's quite true, he thought. Only it would be he who would take that care, at least for today, instead of BA. He stood on the walkway while the constantly changing silhouettes of a ceramic dove in flight slid noiselessly past his face. When he had stepped onto the walkway the dove had been 'taking off': it had 'flown' with wings spread wide while he moved along, to 'land' when he got off at the other end. Whenever he came to Terminal 2 he always looked at the bird's flight with indignation: whatever it meant in its free state, here, imprisoned in stone, it represented only dead and vanquished nature. But this time it didn't happen. He saw the dove 'take off' but then the bird suddenly disappeared in an evil phantasm which filled the tunnel with the images of a ghostly cataclysm. First he heard a hollow echo of the Airport's welcome, re-arranged in the ominous order of his own world game:
WELCOME! WELCOME WHERE THE FUTURE ENDS!
YOU'RE IN LINE FOR YOUE GRAVE!
I'LL TAKE GOOD CARE OF YOU!
Then the same echo was lost in an eruption of phantom silhouettes which in a massive rush peopled the corridor with a mute stampede.

In the distance where the sharp line of the subway was broken by the bend leading to the escalator, there was a dull rumbling and the flickering red glow of fire. Everything was wreathed in a sulphorous mist, in same dreamlike water in which movements were slow and soundless. In a sleep-walker's nightmare from which there was no escape, the shadows rushed towards him, yet remained rooted to the spot, struggling against the moving pathway which carried them implacably back towards the Terminal and death. He couldn't make out their faces; they still looked human but with something animal in the immeasurable, primordial fear in their expressions.

His vision had made him draw back, almost knocking over the passenger behind him. He swore loudly, as he moved aside, dropping his breviary as he caught the handrail.

The moving band crawled monotonously on towards the exit.

"Um Gottes Willen, was tuhen Sie – for God's sake, what are you doing?" The man with whom he had collided was in his early thirties. He had the smothered-down blond hair of a model, his clean-shaven, rather horse-like face was lightly tanned and his eyes were a watery blue beneath glasses in fine gilt frame. He had a square, black, overnight case in his hand. He was just about to continue his outburst but a glance at the clerical collar stopped him short. In a heavy German accent he asked:

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, of course" he mumbled impatiently, bending down to pick up the breviary which was lying accusingly beside his feet. The fair-haired stranger was quicker. He picked up the breviary and without closing it handed it to him. He had ugly finger nails bitten down.

"Thank you" said Pollux without further comment and stuffed the book into the outside pocket of the Pan-Am bag. He wondered if the bastard had seen its contents, and if so, what he would conclude from them. He looked like a commercial traveler whose livelihood depended upon his appearance. He probably even cleaned the underside of his shoes, but he wouldn't get far unless he stopped disfiguring his nails like that. He looked with revulsion towards the exit which was slowly coming closer. Ordinary-looking passengers were gliding towards him now. Between the moving bands several Indians in turbans were pushing trolleys loaded with luggage. Everything was back in place – routinely and recognizable.

It was 07.15 hours when the automatic double glass doors of Terminal 2 opened wide in front of him. At exactly the same moment, Enrico Marcone, the captain of Alitalia Boeing 747 AZ 320 on the route Rome – London – New York requested permission to make a high-priority landing 15 minutes before his scheduled arrival time because one of his passengers had suddenly taken ill. But of course Pollux had no inkling of this. The information belonged to the secret life of large international airports of which only a little becomes known occasionally from the newspapers while the dead are being counted and the cause of yet another airplane crash is being sought from the black box with its preserved voices of the dead crew. And even if he had known of it, it would not have concerned him. He, Pollux, alias Daniel Leverquin, alias Patrick Cornell, had more important things on his mind today. He had to keep an appointment with a myth.

He stopped as if he had little faith in the automatic doors; then disappeared in the bustle and throng before the BA's counter on the ground floor of Terminal 2.

Where, according to the Airport advertisements, for everyone the future was just beginning, but where, according to his scenario, for many it would in fact end.