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heavy features, the fleshiness of jowl and lips, that Peter had noticed so often in Belgian and Dutch peasants during his NATO tour in the Netherlands. A man of the earth, dour and conservative.
    â€˜Let me introduce Commandant Boonzaier.’ This was a military rank, equivalent to that of colonel, and he was a younger man, but with the same thick accent and his features cast in the same mould. A tall man, however, only an inch or so shorter than Peter – but both of the South Africans were suspicious and resentful, and the reason was immediately apparent.
    â€˜I have been instructed to take my orders from you, General,’ and there was a subtle shift of position, the two officers ranging themselves beside Peter, but facing each other, and he was aware instantly that not all the hostility was directed at him. There had been friction between police and military already – and the basic value of Atlas was underlined yet again.
    A single clean-cut line of command and of responsibility was absolutely essential – Peter’s mind flicked back to the shoot-out at Lamaca Airport between Egyptian commandos and Cypriot national guardsmen, from which the hijackers of the grounded jet emerged unscathed while the airfield was littered with the burning wreckage of the Egyptian transport aircraft and dozens of dead and dying Cypriots and Egyptians.
    The first principle of terrorist strategy was to strike at the point where national responsibilities were blurred. Atlas cut through that.
    â€˜Thank you.’ Peter accepted command without flaunting it. ‘My back-up team will land in just over three hours’ time. We will, of course, use force only as a last resort – but if it comes to that, I will use exclusively Atlas personnel in any counter-strike. I would like to make that quite clear immediately.’ And he saw the line of the soldier’s mouth harden with disappointment.

    â€˜My men are the élite—’
    â€˜It’s a British aircraft, most of the hostages are British or American nationals – it’s a political decision, Colonel. But I would value your help in other areas.’ Peter turned him aside tactfully.
    â€˜Firstly, I want you to suggest a position where I can place my surveillance equipment – and then we will go over the ground together.’
    P eter had no difficulty selecting his forward observation post. The service manager’s roomy, sparsely furnished office on the third floor of the terminal building overlooked the entire service area and the southern portion of the taxiway where the Boeing stood.
    The windows had been left open when the offices were evacuated, so there was no need to change the external appearance of the room.
    The overhang of the observation balcony on the floor above shaded the interior, and the office was deep enough to ensure that an observer out there in the bright glare of sunshine would not be able to see into the room, even with a powerful lens. The militants would expect surveillance from the glass control tower high above. – any deception, however trivial, was worth while.
    The surveillance equipment was lightweight and compact, the television cameras were neither of them bigger than a super 8-mm home movie camera and a man could carry in one hand both of the aluminium extension tripods. However, the cameras could zoom to 800-mm focal length, and they repeated on the screens of the command console in the cabin of the Hawker, while the image was simultaneously stored on videotape.
    The audio intensifier was more bulky, but no heavier. It had a four-foot dish antenna, with the sound collector in
the centre. The telescopic sight could aim the intensifier at a sound source with the accuracy of a sniper’s rifle – could focus on the lips of a human being at eight hundred yards’ distance and clearly record normal conversation at that range, passing sound directly to the command console and at the same