Chapter Nine


THE SOVIET AMBASSADOR to Washington was coldly angry when he faced David Lawrence at
the State Department on January 2.
The American Secretary of State was receiving him at the Soviet governments request, though
insistence would have been a better word.
The Ambassador read his formal protest in a flat monotone.
When he had finished, he laid the text
on the American
s desk. Lawrence, who had known exactly what it would be, had an answer ready,
prepared by his legal counselors, three of whom stood flanking him behind his chair.
He conceded that West Berlin was indeed not sovereign territory, but a city under Four Power
occupation. Nevertheless,
the Western Allies had long conceded that in matters of jurisprudence the
West Berlin authorities should handle all criminal and civil offenses other than those falling within
the ambit of the purely military laws of the Western Allies. The hijacking of the airliner, he
continued, while a terrible offense,
was not committed by U.S. citizens against U.S. citizens
or
within the U.S. air base ofTempelhof. It was therefore an affair within civil jurisprudence. In
consequence, the United States government maintained, it could not legally have held non−U.S.
nationals or non−U.S. material witnesses within the territory of West Berlin, even though the airliner
had come to rest on a USAF air base.
He had no recourse, therefore, but to reject the Soviet protest.
The Ambassador heard him out in stony silence. He rejoined
that he could not accept the American
explanation, and rejected it. He would report back to his government in that vein. On this note, he
left, to return to his embassy and report to Moscow.
In a small flat in Bayswater, London, three men sat that day and stared at the tangle of newspapers
strewn on the floor around them.
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A disaster, snapped Andrew Drake, a bloody disaster. By now they should have been in Israel.
Within a month theyd have been released and could have given their press conference. What the
hell did they have to shoot the captain for?
If he was landing atSchönefeld and refused to fly into West Berlin, they were finished, anyway,
observed AzamatKrim.
They could have clubbed him, snorted Drake.
Heat of the moment, said Kaminsky. What do we do now?
Can those handguns be traced? asked Drake ofKrim.
The small Tatar shook his head.
To the shop that sold them, perhaps, he said. Not to me. I didnt have to identify myself.
Drake paced the carpet, deep in thought.
I dont think theyll be extradited back, he said at length. The Soviets want them now for
hijacking, shooting Rudenko, hitting the KGB man on board, and of course the other one they took
the identity card from. But the killing of the captain is the serious offense. Still, I dont think a West
German government will send two Jews back for execution. On the other hand, theyll be tried and
convicted. Probably sentenced to life. Miroslav, will they open their mouths about Ivanenko?
The Ukrainian refugee shook his head.
Not if theyve got any sense, he said. Not in the heart of West Berlin. The Germans might have
to change their minds and send them back after all. If they believed them, which they wouldnt
because Moscow would deny Ivanenko is dead, and produce a look−alike as proof. But Moscow
would believe them, and have them liquidated. The Germans, not believing them, would offer no
special protection. They wouldnt stand a chance. Theyll keep silent.
Thats no use to us, pointed outKrim. The whole point of the exercise, of all weve gone
through, was to deal a single massive humiliating blow to the whole Soviet state apparatus.
We cant
give that press conference; we dont have the tiny details that will convince the world. Only Mishkin
and Lazareff can do that.
Then they have to be got out of there, said Drake with finality. We have to mount a second
operation to get them to Tel Aviv, with guarantees of their life and liberty. Otherwise
its all been
for nothing.
What happens now? repeated Kaminsky.
We think, said Drake. We work out a way, we plan it, and we execute it. They are not going to
sit and rot their lives away in Berlin, not with a secret like that in their heads. And we have little
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time; it wont take Moscow forever to put two and two together. They have their lead to follow now;
theyll know who did the Kiev job pretty soon. Then theyll begin to plan their revenge. We have to
beat them to it.
The chilly anger of the Soviet Ambassador to Washington paled into insignificance beside the
outrage of his colleague in Bonn as the Russian diplomat faced the West German Foreign
Minister
two days later. The refusal of the government of the Federal Republic of Germany to hand the two
criminals
and murderers over to either the Soviet or the East German
authorities was a flagrant
breach of their hitherto friendly relations and could be construed only as a hostile act, he insisted.
The West German Foreign Minister was deeply uncomfortable.
Privately he wished the Tupolev
had stayed on the runway
in East Germany. He refrained from pointing out that as the Russians had
always insisted West Berlin was not a part of West Germany, they ought to be addressing themselves
to the Senate in West Berlin.
The Ambassador repeated his case for the third time: the criminals were Soviet citizens; the victims
were Soviet citizens;
the airliner was Soviet territory; the outrage had taken place in Soviet airspace,
and the murder either on or a few feet above the runway of East Germanys principal airport. The
crime should therefore be tried under Soviet or at the very least under East German law.
The Foreign Minister pointed out as courteously as he could that all precedent indicated that
hijackers could be tried under the law of the land in which they arrived, if that country wished to
exercise the right. This was in no way an imputation of unfairness in the Soviet judicial procedure. ...
The hell it wasnt, he thought privately. No one in West Germany
from the government to the press
to the public had the slightest doubt that handing Mishkin and Lazareff back would mean KGB
interrogation, a kangaroo court, and the firing squad. And they were Jewishthat was another
problem.
The first few days of January are slack for the press, and the West German press was making a big
story out of this. The conservative and powerful Axel Springer newspapers were insisting that
whatever they had done, the two hijackers should receive a fair trial, and that could be guaranteed
only in West Germany. The Bavarian Christian Social Union(CSU) Party, on which the governing
coalition depended, was taking the same line. Certain quarters were giving the press a large amount
of precise information and lurid details about the latest KGB crackdown in the Lvov area from which
the hijackers came, suggesting that escape from the terror
was a justifiable reaction, albeit a
deplorable way of doing
it. And lastly the recent exposure of yet another Communist agent high in
the civil service would not increase the popularity of a government taking a conciliatory line toward
Moscow. And with the state elections pending ...
The Minister had his orders from the Chancellor. Mishkin and Lazareff, he told the Ambassador,
would go on trial in West Berlin as soon as possible, and ifor rather whenconvicted, would
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receive salutary sentences.
The Politburo meeting at the end of the week was stormy. Once again the tape recorders were off,
the stenographers absent.
This is an outrage, snapped Vishnayev. Yet another scandal that diminishes the Soviet Union in
the eyes of the world. It should never have happened.
He implied that it had happened only due to the ever−weakening leadership of Maxim Rudin.
It would not have happened, retorted Petrov, if the Comrade Marshals fighters had shot the
plane down over Poland,
according to custom.
There was a communications breakdown between ground control and the fighter leader, said
Kerensky. A chance in a thousand.
Fortuitous, though, observed Rykov coldly. Through his ambassadors he knew the Mishkin and
Lazareff trial would be public and would reveal exactly how the hijackers had first mugged a KGB
officer in a park for his identity papers, then used the papers to penetrate to the flight deck.
Is there any question, asked Petryanov, a supporter of Vishnayev, that these two men could be
the ones who killed Ivanenko?
The atmosphere was electric.
None at all, said Petrov firmly. We know those two come from Lvov, not Kiev. They were Jews
who had been refused permission to emigrate. We are investigating, of course, but so far there is no
connection.
Should such a connection emerge, we will of course be informed?
 asked Vishnayev.
That goes without saying, Comrade, growled Rudin.
The stenographers were recalled, and the meeting went on to discuss the progress at Castletown and
the purchase of ten million tons of feed grain. Vishnayev did not press the issue. Rykov was at pains
to show that the Soviet Union was gaining
the quantities of wheat she would need to survive the
winter and spring with minimal concessions of weapons levels,
a point Marshal Kerensky disputed.
But Komarov was forced to concede the imminent arrival of ten million tons of animal winter feed
would enable him to release the same tonnage from hoarded stocks immediately, and prevent
wholesale slaughter. The Maxim Rudin faction, with its hairbreadth
supremacy, stayed intact.
As the meeting dispersed, the old Soviet chief drew Vassili Petrov aside.
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Isthere any connection between the two Jews and the Ivanenko killing? he inquired.
There may be, conceded Petrov. We know they did the mugging in Ternopol, of course, so they
were evidently prepared to travel outside Lvov to prepare their escape. We have their fingerprints
from the aircraft, and they match those in their living quarters in Lvov. We have found no shoes that
match the prints at the Kiev murder site, but we are still searching for those shoes. One last thing.
We have an area of palmprint taken from the car that knocked down Ivanenkos mother. We are
trying to get a complete palmprint of both from inside Berlin. If they check ...
Prepare a plan, a contingency plan, a feasibility study, said Rudin. To have them liquidated
inside their jail in West Berlin. Just in case. And another thing. If their identity as the killers of
Ivanenko is proved, tell me, not the Politburo. We wipe them out first, then inform our comrades.
Petrov swallowed hard. Cheating the Politburo was playing for the highest stakes in Soviet Russia.
One slip and there would be no safety net. He recalled what Rudin had told him by the fire out at
Usovo a fortnight earlier. With the Politburo
tied six against six, Ivanenko dead, and two of their
own six about to change sides, there were no aces left.
Very well, he said.
West German Chancellor DietrichBusch received his Justice Minister in his private office in the
Chancellery Building next to the old PalaisSchaumberg just after the middle of the month. The
government chief of West Germany was standing at his modern picture window, gazing out at the
frozen snow. Inside the new, modern government headquarters overlooking Federal Chancellor
Square, the temperature was warm enough for shirt sleeves, and nothing of the raw, bitter January
of
the riverside town penetrated.
This Mishkin and Lazareff affair, how goes it? askedBusch.
Its strange, admitted his Justice Minister,Ludwig Fischer. They are being more cooperative
than one could hope for. They seem eager to achieve a quick trial with no delays.
Excellent, said the Chancellor. Thats exactly what we want. A quick affair. Lets get it over
with. In what way are they cooperating?
They were offered a star lawyer from the right wing, paid for by subscribed fundspossibly
German contributions, possibly
the Jewish Defense League from America. They turned him down.
He wanted to make a major spectacle out of the trial, plenty of detail about the KGB terror against
Jews in the Ukraine.
Aright−wing lawyer wanted that?
All grist to their mill. Bash the Russians, and so on, said Fischer. Anyway, Mishkin and Lazareff
want to go for an admission of guilt and plead mitigating circumstances. They insist on it If they do
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so, and claim the gun went off by accident
when the plane hit the runway atSchönefeld, they have a
partial defense. Their new lawyer is asking for murder to be reduced to culpable homicide if they
do.
I think we can grant them that, said the Chancellor. What would they get?
With the hijacking thrown in, fifteen to twenty years. Of course, they could be paroled after serving
a third of the sentence.
Theyre youngmid−twenties. They could be out by the time theyre
thirty.
Thats in five years, growledBusch. Im concerned about the next five months. Memories fade.
In five years theyll be in the archives.
Well, they admit everything, but they insist that the gun went off by accident. They claim they just
wanted to reach Israel the only way they knew how. Theyll plead guilty right down the lineto
culpable homicide.
Let them have it, said the Chancellor. The Russians wont like it, but its six of one, half a
dozen of the other. Theyd draw life for murder, but thats effectively twenty years nowadays.
Theres one other thing. They want to be transferred after the trial to a jail in West Germany.
Why?
They seem terrified of revenge by the KGB. They think theyll be safer in West Germany than in
West Berlin.
Rubbish, snortedBusch. Theyll be tried and jailed in West Berlin. The Russians would not
dream of trying to settle accounts inside a Berlin jail. They wouldnt dare. Still, we could do an
internal transfer in a year or so. But not yet. Go ahead,Ludwig. Make it quick and clean, if they wish
to cooperate.
But get the press off my back before the elections, and the Russian Ambassador as
well.
At Chita the morning sun glittered along the deck of theFreya, lying, as she had for two and a half
months, by the commissioning quay. In those seventy−five days she had been transformed. Day and
night she had lain docile while the tiny creatures who had made her swarmed into and out of every
part of her. Hundreds of miles of lines had been laid the length and breadth of herpipes, tubes, and
electric cables. Her labyrinthine electrical networks had been connected and tested, her incredibly
complex system of pumps installed and tried.
The computer−linked instruments that would fill her holds and empty them, thrust her forward or
shut her down, hold her to any point of the compass for weeks on end without a hand on her helm,
and observe the stars above her and the seabed below, had been set in their places.
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The food lockers and deepfreezes to sustain her crew for months were fully installed; so, too, the
furniture, doorknobs, lightbulbs, lavatories, galley stoves, central heating, air conditioning,
cinema,
sauna, three bars, two dining rooms, beds, bunks, carpets, and clothes hangers.
Her five−story superstructure had been converted from an empty shell into a luxury hotel; her bridge,
radio room, and computer room from empty, echoing galleries to a low−humming
complex of data
banks, calculators, and control systems. When the last of the workmen picked up their tools and left
her alone, she was the ultimate in size, power, capacity, luxury, and technical refinement that man
could ever have set to float on water.
The rest of her crew of thirty had arrived by air fourteen days earlier to familiarize themselves with
every inch of her. Besides her master, CaptainThor Larsen, they were made up of the first officer,
second mate, and third mate; the chief engineer,
first engineer, second engineer, and electrical
engineer (who ranked as a first); the radio officer and chief steward (also ranked as officers) ; and
twenty others, to comprise the full complement: the first cook, four stewards, three firemen, one
repairman, ten able seamen, and one pumpman.
Two weeks before she was due to sail, the tugs drew her away from the quay to the center of Ise Bay.
There her great twin propellers bit into the waters to bring her out to the western Pacific for sea
trials. For officers and crew, as well as for the dozen Japanese technicians who went with her, it
would mean two weeks of grueling hard work, testing every single system against every known or
possible contingency.
There was $170 million worth of her moving out to the mouth of the bay that morning, and the small
ships standing off Nagoya watched her pass with awe.
Twenty kilometers outside Moscow lies the tourist village and estate of Arkhangelskoye, complete
with museum and a restaurant noted for its genuine bear steaks. In the last week of that freezing
January, Adam Munro had reserved a table there for himself and a date from the secretarial pool at
the British Embassy.
He always varied his dinner companions so that no one girl should notice too much, and if the young
hopeful of the evening wondered why he chose to drive the distance he did over icy roads in
temperatures fifteen degrees below freezing, she made no comment on it.
The restaurant in any case was warm and snug, and when he excused himself to fetch extra cigarettes
from his car, she thought nothing of it. In the parking lot, he shivered as the icy blast hit him, and
hurried to where the twin headlights glowed briefly in the darkness.
He climbed into the car besideValentina, put an arm around her, drew her close and kissed her.
I hate the thought of you being in there with another woman, Adam, she whispered as she nuzzled
his throat.
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Its nothing, he said. Not important. An excuse for being able to drive out here to dine without
being suspected. I have news for you.
About us? she asked.
About us. I have asked my own people if they would help you to come out, and they have agreed.
There is a plan. Do you know the port ofConstanza on the Rumanian coast?
She shook her head.
I have heard of it, but never been there. I always holiday on the Soviet coast of the Black Sea.
Could you arrange to holiday there with Sasha?
I suppose so, she said. I can take my holidays virtually where I like. Rumania is within the
Socialist bloc. It should not raise eyebrows.
When does Sasha leave school for the spring holidays?
The last few days of March, I think. Is that important?
It has to be in mid−April, he told her. My people think you could be brought off the beach to a
freighter offshore. By speedboat. Can you make sure to arrange a spring holiday with Sasha
atConstanza or the nearbyMamaia Beach in April?
Ill try, she said. Ill try. April. Oh, Adam, it seems so close.
It is close, my love. Less than ninety days. Be patient a little longer, as I have been, and we will
make it. Well start a whole new life.
Five minutes later she had given him the transcription of the early January Politburo meeting and
driven off into the night. He stuffed the sheaf of papers inside his waistband beneath his shirt and
jacket, and returned to the warmth of the Arkhangelskoye Restaurant.
This time, he vowed, as he made polite conversation with the secretary, there would be no mistakes,
no drawing back, no letting her go, as there had been in 1961. This time it would be forever.
Edwin Campbell leaned back from the Georgian table in the Long Gallery at Castletown House and
looked across at Professor
Sokolov. The last point on the agenda had been covered,
the last
concession wrung. From the dining room below, a courier had reported that the secondary
conference had matched the concessions of the upper floor with trade bargains
from the United
States to the Soviet Union.
I think thats it, Ivan, my friend, said Campbell. I dont think we can do any more at this
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stage.
The Russian raised his eyes from the pages of Cyrillic handwriting in front of him, his own notes.
For over a hundred days he had fought tooth and claw to secure for his country the grain tonnages
that could save her from disaster and yet retain the maximum in weapons levels from inner space to
Eastern Europe. He knew he had had to make concessions that would have been unheard of four
years earlier
at Geneva, but he had done the best he could in the time scale allowed.
I think you are right, Edwin, he replied. Let us have the arms−reduction treaty prepared in draft
form for our respective
governments.
And the trade protocol, said Campbell. I imagine they will want that also.
Sokolov permitted himself a wry smile.
I am sure they will want it very much, he said.
For the next week the twin teams of interpreters and stenographers
prepared both the treaty and the
trade protocol. Occasionally
the two principal negotiators were needed to clarify a point at issue, but
for the most part, the transcription
and translation work was left to the aides. When the two bulky
documents, each in duplicate, were finally ready, the two chief negotiators departed to their separate
capitals to present them to their masters.
Andrew Drake threw down his magazine and leaned back.
I wonder, he said.
What? askedKrim as he entered the small sitting room with three mugs of coffee. Drake tossed
the magazine to the Tatar.
Read the first article, he said.Krim read in silence while Drake sipped his coffee. Kaminsky eyed
them both.
Youre crazy, saidKrim with finality.
No, said Drake. Without some audacity well be sitting here for the next ten years. It could
work. Look, Mishkin and Lazareff come up for trial in a fortnight The outcome is a foregone
conclusion. We might as well start planning now. We know were going to have to do it, anyway, if
they are ever to come out of that jail. So lets start planning. Azamat, you were in the paratroops in
Canada?
Sure, saidKrim. Five years.
Did you ever do an explosives course?
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Yep. Demolition and sabotage. I was assigned for training to the Engineers for three months.
And years ago I used to have a passion for electronics and radio, said Drake. Probably because
my dad had a radio
repair shop before he died. We could do it. Wed need help, but we could do
it.
How many more men? askedKrim.
Wed need one on the outside, just to recognize Mishkin and Lazareff on their release. That would
have to be Miroslav, here. For the job, us two, plus five to stand guard.
Such a thing has never been done before, observed the Tatar doubtfully.
All the more reason why it will be unexpected, therefore unprepared for.
Wed get caught at the end of it, saidKrim.
Not necessarily. Id cover the pullout if I had to. And anyway, the trial would be the sensation of
the decade. With Mishkin and Lazareff free in Israel, half the Western world would applaud. The
whole issue of a free Ukraine would be blazoned across every newspaper and magazine outside the
Soviet bloc.
Do you know five more who would come in on it?
"For years Ive been collecting names, said Drake. Men who are sick and tired of talking. If they
knew what wed done already, yes, I could get five before the end of the month.
 Allright, saidKrim, if were into this thing, lets do it. Where do you want me to go?
Belgium, said Drake. I want a large apartment in Brussels.Well bring the men there and make
the apartment the groups base.
On the other side of the world while Drake was talking, the sun rose over Chita and the
Ishikawajima−Harima shipyard. TheFreya lay alongside her commissioning quay, her engines
throbbing.
The previous evening had seen a lengthy conference in the office of the IHI chairman, attended by
both the yards and the companys chief superintendents, the accountants, Harry Wennerstrom,
andThor Larsen. The two technical experts had agreed that every one of the giant tankers systems
was in perfect working order. Wennerstrom had signed the final release document, conceding that
theFreya was all he had paid for.
In fact, he had paid five percent of her on the signature of the original contract to build her, five
percent at the keel−laying
ceremony, five percent when she rode water, and five percent
at official
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handover. The remaining eighty percent plus interest was payable over the succeeding eight years.
But to all intents and purposes, she was his. The yards company flag had been ceremoniously
hauled down, and the silver−on−blue winged Viking helmet emblem of the Nordia Line now
fluttered
in the dawn breeze.
High on the bridge, towering over the vast spread of her deck, Harry Wennerstrom drewThor Larsen
by the arm into the radio room and closed the door behind him. The room was completely
soundproof with the door closed.
Shes all yours,Thor, he said. By the way, theres been a slight change of plan regarding your
arrival in Europe. Im not lightening her offshore. Not for her maiden voyage. Just this once, youre
going to bring her into the Europoort at Rotterdam fully laden.
Larsen stared at his employer in disbelief. He knew as well as Wennerstrom that fully loaded ULCCs
never entered ports; they stood well offshore and lightened themselves by disgorging most of their
cargo into other, smaller tankers in order to reduce their draft for the shallow seas. Or they berthed at
sea islandsnetworks of pipes on stilts, well out to seafrom which their oil could be pumped
ashore. The idea of a girl in every port was a hollow joke for the crews of the supertankers; they
often did not berth anywhere near a city from years end to years end, but were flown off their
ships for periodic leave periods. That was why the crew quarters
had to be a real home away from
home.
The English Channel will never take her, said Larsen.
Youre not going up the Channel, said Wennerstrom. Youre going west of Ireland, west of the
Hebrides, north of the Pentland Firth, between the Orkneys and theShetlands, then south down the
North Sea, following the twenty−fathom line, to moor at the deep−water anchorage. From there the
pilots
will bring you down the main channel toward the Mass Estuary. The tugs will bring you in
from the Hook of Holland
to the Europoort.
The Inner Channel from K.I. Buoy to the Mass wont take her, fully laden, protested Larsen.
Yes, it will, said Wennerstrom calmly. They have dredged this channel to one hundred fifteen
feet over the past four years. Youll be drawing ninety−eight feet.Thor, if I were asked to name any
mariner in the world who could bring a million−tonner into the Europoort, it would be you. Itll be
tight as all hell, but let me have this one last triumph. I want the world to see her,Thor. MyFreya.
Ill have them all there waiting for her. The Dutch government, the worlds press. Theyll be my
guests, and theyll be dumbfounded. Otherwise,
no one will ever see her; shell spend her whole
life out of sight of land.
All right, said Larsen slowly. Just this once. Ill be ten years older when its over.
Wennerstrom grinned like a small boy.
Just wait till they see her, he said. The first of April. See you in Rotterdam,Thor Larsen.
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Ten minutes later he was gone. At noon, with the Japanese workers lining the quayside to cheer her
on her way, the mightyFreya eased away from the shore and headed for the mouth of the bay. At
twoP.M. on February 2, she came out again into the Pacific and swung her bow south toward the
Philippines, Borneo, and Sumatra at the start of her maiden voyage.
On February 10, the Politburo in Moscow met to consider, approve, or reject the draft treaty and
accompanying trade protocol negotiated at Castletown. Rudin and those who supported
him knew
that if they could carry the terms of the treaty at this meeting, then, barring accidents thereafter, it
could be ratified and signed. Yefrem Vishnayev and his faction of hawks were no less aware. The
meeting was lengthy and exceptionally hard fought.
It is often assumed that world statesmen, even in private conclave, use moderate language and
courteous address to their colleagues and advisers. This has not been true of several recent U.S.
presidents and is completely untrue of the Politburo in closed session. The Russian equivalent of
four−letter words flew thick and fast. Only the fastidious Vishnayev kept his language restrained,
though his tone was acid as he and his allies fought every concession, line by line.
It was the Foreign Minister, Dmitri Rykov, who carried the others in the moderate faction.
What we have gained, he said, is the assured sale to us, at last Julys reasonable prices, of
fifty−five million tons of grains. Without them we face disaster on a national scale. Besides, we have
nearly three billion dollars worth of the most modern technology, in consumer industries,
computers, and oil production. With these we can master the problems that have beset us for two
decades, and conquer them within five years.
Against this we have to offset certain minimal concessions in arms levels and states of
preparedness, which, I stress, will in no way at all hinder or retard our capacity to dominate the Third
World and its raw−material resources inside the same five years. From the disaster that faced us last
May, we have emerged triumphant, thanks to the inspired leadership of Comrade Maxim Rudin. To
reject this treaty now would bring us back to last May, but worse: the last of our 1982 harvest grains
will run out in sixty days.
When the meeting voted on the treaty terms, which was in fact a vote on the continuing leadership of
Maxim Rudin, the six−to−six tie remained intact.
Theres only one thing that can bring him down now, said Vishnayev with quiet finality to
Marshal Kerensky in the formers limousine as they drove home that evening. If something serious
happens to sway one or two of his faction before the treaty is ratified. If not, the Central Committee
will approve the treaty on the Politburos recommendation, and it will go through. If only it could be
proved that those two damned Jews in Berlin killed Ivanenko. ...
Kerensky was less than his blustering self. Privately he was beginning to wonder if he had chosen
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the wrong side. Three months ago it had looked so certain that Rudin would be pushed too far, too
fast, by the Americans and would lose his crucial support at the green baize table. But Kerensky was
committed to Vishnayev now; there would be no massive Soviet
maneuvers in East Germany in two
months, and he had to swallow that.
One other thing, said Vishnayev. If it had appeared six months ago, the power struggle would be
over by now. I heard news from a contact out at the Kuntsevo clinic. Maxim Rudin is dying.
Dying? repeated the Defense Minister. When?
Not soon enough, said the Party theoretician. Hell live to carry the day over this treaty, my
friend. Time is running out for us, and there is nothing we can do about it. Unless the Ivanenko affair
can yet blow up in his face.
As he was speaking, theFreya was steaming through the Sunda Strait. To her port side lay Java
Head, and far to starboard
the great mass of the volcano Krakatau reared toward the night sky. On
the darkened bridge a battery of dimly lit instruments toldThor Larsen, the senior officer of the
watch, and the junior officer all they needed to know. Three separate navigational systems correlated
their findings into the computer,
set in the small room aft of the bridge, and those findings
were
dead accurate. Constant compass readings, true to within half a second of a degree, cross−checked
themselves with the stars above, unchanging and unchangeable. Mans artificial stars, the
all−weather satellites, were also monitored and the resultant findings fed into the computer. Here the
memory banks had absorbed tide, wind, undercurrents, temperatures,
and humidity levels. From the
computer, endless messages were flashed automatically to the gigantic rudder, which, far below the
stern transom, flickered with the sensitivity
of a fishs tail.
High above the bridge, the two radar scanners whirled unceasingly,
picking up coasts and
mountains, ships and buoys, feeding them all into the computer, which processed this information,
too, ready to activate its hazard−alarm device at the first hint of danger. Beneath the water, the echo
sounders relayed a three−dimensional map of the seabed far below, while from the bulbous bow
section the forward sonar scanner
looked ahead and down into the black waters. For theFreya,
elapsed time from full−ahead to crash−stop would be thirty minutes, and she would cover three to
four kilometers. She was that big.
Before dawn she had cleared the narrows of Sunda and her computers had turned her northwest
along the hundred−fathom line to cut south of Sri Lanka for the Arabian Sea.
Two days later, on February 12, eight men grouped themselves
in the apartment AzamatKrim had
rented in a suburb of Brussels. The five newcomers had been summoned by Drake, who long ago
had noted them all, met and spoken with them long into the night, before deciding that they, too,
shared his dream of striking a blow against Moscow. Two of the five were German−born Ukrainians,
scions of the large Ukrainian community in the Federal Republic. One was an American from New
TheDevil'sAlternative
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York, also of a Ukrainian father, and the other two were Ukrainian−British.
When they heard what Mishkin and Lazareff had done to the head of the KGB, there was a babble of
excited comment
When Drake proposed that the operation could not be completed until the two
partisans were free and safe, no one dissented. They talked through the night, and by dawn they had
split into four teams of two.
Drake and Kaminsky would return to England to buy the necessary electronic equipment that Drake
estimated he required.
One of the Germans would partner one of the Englishmen
and return to
Germany to seek out the explosives they needed. The other German, who had contacts in Paris,
would take the other Englishman to find and buy, or steal, the weaponry. AzamatKrim took his
fellow North American
to seek a motor launch. The American, who had worked in a boatyard in
upper New York State, reckoned he knew what he wanted.
Eight days later in the tightly guarded courtroom attached to Moabit Prison in West Berlin, the trial
of Mishkin and Lazareff
started. Both men were silent and subdued in the dock as, within concentric
walls of security from the barbed−wire entanglements atop the perimeter walls to the armed guards
scattered all over the courtroom, they listened to the charges. The list took ten minutes to read. There
was an audible gasp from the packed press benches when both men pleaded guilty to all charges. The
state prosecutor rose to begin his narration of the events of New Years Eve to the panel of judges.
When he had finished, the judges adjourned to discuss the sentence.
TheFreya moved slowly and sedately through the Strait of Hormuz and into the Persian Gulf. The
breeze had freshened with the sunrise into the chilly shamal wind coming into her nose from the
northwest, sand−laden, causing the horizon to be hazy and vague. Her crew all knew this landscape
well enough, having passed many times on their way to collect crude oil from the Gulf. They were
all experienced tanker−men.
To one side of theFreya, barren, arid Qeshm Island slid by, barely two cables away; to the other, the
officers on the bridge could make out the bleak moonscape of Cape Musandam, with its sheer rocky
mountains. TheFreya was riding high, and the depth in the channel presented no problems. On the
return, when she was laden with crude oil, it would be different. She would be almost shut down,
moving slowly, watch officers eyes riveted on her depth sounder, watching the map of the seabed
pass barely a few feet beneath her keel, ninety−eight feet below the waterline.
She was still in ballast, as she had been all the way from Chita. She had sixty giant tanks or holds,
three abreast in lines of twenty, fore to aft. One of these was the slop tank, to be used for nothing else
but gathering the slops from her fifty crude−carrying cargo tanks. Nine were permanent ballast tanks,
to be used for nothing but pure seawater to give her stability when she was empty of cargo.
But her remaining fifty crude−oil tanks were sufficient. Each held 20,000 tons of crude oil. It was
with complete confidence
in the impossibility of her causing accidental oil pollution
that she
TheDevil'sAlternative
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steamed on to Abu Dhabi to load her first cargo.
There is a modest bar on the rue Miollin in Paris where the small fry of the world of mercenaries and
arms sellers are wont to forgather and take a drink together. It was here the German−Ukrainian and
his English colleague were brought by the Germans French contact man.
There were several hours of low−voiced negotiation between
the Frenchman and another French
friend of his. Eventually the contact man came across to the two Ukrainians.
My friend says it is possible, he told the Ukrainian from Germany. Five hundred dollars each,
American dollars, cash. One magazine per unit included.
Well take it if hell throw in one handgun with full magazine,
 said the man from Germany.
Three hours later in the garage of a private house near Neuilly, six submachine carbines and one
MAB automatic nine−millimeter handgun were wrapped in blankets and stowed in the trunk of the
Ukrainians car. The money changed hands. In twelve hours, just before midnight of February
24,
the two men arrived at their apartment in Brussels and stored their equipment at the back of a closet.
As the sun rose on February 25, theFreya eased her way back through the Strait of Hormuz, and on
the bridge there was a sigh of relief as the officers gazing at the depth sounder saw the seabed drop
away from in front of their eyes to the deep of the ocean. On the digital display, the figures ran
rapidly
from twenty to one hundred fathoms. TheFreya moved steadily back to her full−load service
speed of fifteen knots as she went southeast back down the Gulf of Oman.
She was heavy−laden now, doing what she had been designed and built forcarrying a million tons
of crude oil to the thirsty refineries of Europe and the millions of family cars that would drink it. Her
draft was now at her designed ninety−eight feet, and her hazard−alarm devices had ingested the
knowledge and knew what to do if the seabed ever approached
too close.
Her nine ballast tanks were now empty, acting as buoyancy
tanks. Far away in the forepart, the first
row of three tanks contained a full crude tank on port and starboard, with the single slop tank in the
center. One row back were the first three empty ballast tanks. The second row of three was
amidships,
and the third row of three was at the foot of the superstructure,
on the fifth floor of
which CaptainThor Larsen handed theFreya to the senior officer of the watch and went down to his
handsome day cabin for breakfast and a short sleep.
On the morning of February 26, after an adjournment of several days, the presiding judge in the
Moabit courtroom in West Berlin began to read the judgment of himself and his two colleagues. It
took several hours.
TheDevil'sAlternative
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In their walled dock, Mishkin and Lazareff listened impassively.
From time to time each sipped
water from the glasses placed on the tables in front of them. From the packed booths reserved for the
international press they were under scrutiny, as were the figures of the judges, while the findings
were read. But one magazine journalist representing a leftist German monthly magazine seemed
more interested in the glasses they drank from than in the prisoners themselves.
The court adjourned for lunch, and when it resumed, the journalist was missing from his seat. He
was phoning from one of the kiosks outside the hearing room. Shortly after three, the judge reached
his conclusion. Both men were required
to rise, to hear themselves sentenced to fifteen years
imprisonment.
They were led away to begin their sentences at TegelJail in the northern part of the city, and within
minutes the courtroom
had emptied. The cleaners took over, removing the brimming wastepaper
baskets, carafes, and glasses. One of the middle−aged ladies occupied herself with cleaning the
interior of the dock. Unobserved by her colleagues, she quietly picked up the prisoners two
drinking glasses, wrapped each in a dustcloth, and placed them in her shopping bag beneath the
empty wrappers of her sandwiches. No one noticed, and no one cared.
On the last day of the month, Vassili Petrov sought and received
a private audience with Maxim
Rudin in the latters Kremlin suite.
Mishkin andLazarett, he said without preamble.
What about them? They got fifteen years. It should have been the firing squad.
One of our people in West Berlin abstracted the glasses they used for water during the trial. The
palmprint on one matches that from the car used in the hit−and−run affair in Kiev in October.
So it was them, said Rudin grimly. Damn them to hell! Vassili, wipe them out. Liquidate them
as fast as you can. Give it to Wet Affairs. 
The KGB, vast and complex in its scope and organization, consists basically of four chief
directorates, seven independent directorates, and six independent departments.
But the four chief directorates comprise the bulk of the KGB. One of these, the First, concerns itself
exclusively with clandestine activities outside the USSR.
Deep within the heart of it is a section known simply as Department V (as in Victor), or the
Executive Action Department.
This is the one the KGB would most like to keep hidden from the
rest of the world, inside and outside the USSR. For its tasks include sabotage, extortion, kidnapping,
and assassination. Within the jargon of the KGB itself, it usually
has yet another name: the
department ofmokrte dyela, or Wet Affairs, so called because its operations not infrequently
involve someones getting wet with blood. It was to this Department V of the First Chief Directorate
of the KGB that Maxim Rudin ordered Petrov to hand the elimination of Mishkin and Lazareff.
TheDevil'sAlternative
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I have already done as much, said Petrov. I thought of giving the affair to Colonel Kukushkin,
Ivanenkos head of security. He has a personal reason to wish to succeedto save his own skin,
apart from avenging Ivanenko and his own humiliation. Hes already served his time in Wet
Affairsten years ago. Inevitably he is already aware of the secret of what happened in Rosa
Luxemburg Streethe was there. And he speaks German. He would report back only to General
Abrassov or to me.
Rudin nodded grimly.
All right, let him have the job. He can pick his own team. Abrassov will give him everything he
needs. The apparent reason will be to avenge the death of Flight Captain Rudenko. And Vassili, he
had better succeed the first time. If he tries and fails, Mishkin and Lazareff could open their mouths.
After a failed attempt to kill them, someone might believe them. Certainly Vishnayev would, and
you know what that would mean.
I know, said Petrov quietly. He will not fail. Hell do it himself.

Chapter Ten


ITS THE BEST we'll get, Mr. President, said Secretary of State David Lawrence. Personally,
I believe Edwin Campbell
has done us proud at Castletown.
Grouped before the Presidents desk in the Oval Office were the secretaries of State, Defense, and
the Treasury, withStanislaw Poklewski, and Robert Benson of the CIA. Beyond the French windows
the Rose Garden was whipped by a bitter
wind. The snows had gone, but March 1 was bleak and
uninviting.
President William Matthews laid his hand on the bulky folder in front of him, the draft agreement
wrung out of the Castletown talks.
A lot of it is too technical for me, he confessed, but the digest from the Defense Department
impresses me. The way I see it is this: if we reject the agreement now, after the Soviet Politburo has
accepted it, therell be no renegotiation, anyway.
The matter of grain deliveries will become
academic to Russia in three months in any case. By then theyll be starving
and Rudin will be gone.
Yefrem Vishnayev will get his war. Right?
That seems to be the unavoidable conclusion, said David Lawrence.
How about the other side of itthe concessions we have made? asked the President.
The secret trade protocol in the separate document, said the Secretary of the Treasury, requires
us to deliver fifty−five million tons of mixed grains at production costs and nearly three billion
dollars worth of oil, computer, and consumer industry technology, rather heavily subsidized. The
total cost to the United States runs to almost four billion dollars. On the other hand, the sweeping
arms reductions should enable us to claw back that much and more by reduced defense
expenditures.

TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER TEN 159
If the Soviets abide by their undertakings, said the Secretary
of Defense hastily.
But if they do, and we have to believe they will, countered
Lawrence, by our own experts
calculations they could not launch a successful conventional or tactical nuclear war across the face of
Europe for at least five years.
President Matthews knew that the presidential election of 1984 would not see his candidacy. But if
he could step down in January 1985, leaving behind him peace for even half a decade, with the
burdensome arms race of the seventies halted in its tracks, he would take his place among the great
U.S. presidents. He wanted that more than anything else this spring of 1983.
Gentlemen, he said, we have to approve this treaty as it stands, and for once Im confident the
Senate will see it the same way. David, inform Moscow we join them in agreeing to the terms, and
propose that our negotiators reconvene at Castletown to draw up the formal treaty ready for signing.
While this is going on, we will permit the loading of the grain ships, ready to sail on the day of
signature. That is all.
On March 3, AzamatKrim and his Ukrainian−American collaborator
clinched the deal that acquired
them a sturdy and powerful launch. She was the kind of craft much favored by enthusiastic sea
anglers on both the British and European coasts of the North Sea, steel−hulled, forty feet long, tough,
and secondhand. She had Belgian registration, and they had found her nearOstende.
Up front, she had a cabin whose roof extended the forward
third of her length. A companionway led
down to a cramped four−berth resting area, with a tiny toilet and galley. Aft of the rear bulkhead she
was open to the elements, and beneath the deck lay a powerful engine capable of taking her through
the wild North Sea to the fishing grounds and back.
Krimand his companion brought her fromOstende to Blankenberge, farther up the Belgian coast, and
when she was moored in the marina, she attracted no attention. Spring always
brings its crop of
hardy sea anglers to the coasts with their boats and tackle. The American chose to live on board and
work on the engine.Krim returned to Brussels to find that Andrew Drake had taken over the kitchen
table as a workbench and was deeply engrossed in preparations of his own.
For the third time on her maiden voyage, theFreya had crossed the Equator, and March 7 found her
entering the Mozambique Channel, heading south by southwest toward the Cape of Good Hope. She
was still following her hundred−fathom line, leaving six hundred feet of clear ocean beneath her
keel, a course that took her to seaward of the main shipping lanes. She had not seen land since
coming out of the Gulf of Oman, but on the afternoon of the seventh she passed through the Comoro
Islands at the north end of the Mozambique Channel. To starboard, her crew, taking advantage
of
the moderate winds and seas to stroll the quarter mile of forward deck or lounge beside the screened
swimming pool up on C deck, saw Great Comoro Island, the peak of its densely wooded mountain
hidden in clouds, the smoke from the burning undergrowth on its flanks drifting across the green
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER TEN 160
water. By nightfall the skies had overcast with gray cloud, the wind turned squally. Ahead lay the
heaving seas of the Cape and the final northward run to Europe and her welcome.
The following day, Moscow replied formally to the proposal of President Matthews, welcoming his
agreement, with the concurrence of the United States Senate, to the terms of the draft treaty and
agreeing that the chief negotiators of Castletown should reconvene jointly to draft the formal treaty
while remaining in constant contact with their respective governments.
The bulk of the Soviet merchant marine fleet, Sovfracht, along with the numerous other vessels
already chartered by the Soviet Union, had already sailed at the American government
s invitation
for the grain ports of North America. In Moscow the first reports were coming in of excessive
quantities
of meat appearing in the peasant markets, indicating livestock
slaughter was taking place
even on the state and collective farms, where it was forbidden. The last reserves of grain for animals
and humans alike were running out.
In a private message to President Matthews, Maxim Rudin regretted that for health reasons he would
not personally be able to sign the treaty on behalf of the Soviet Union unless the ceremony were held
in Moscow; he therefore proposed a formal signature by foreign ministers in Dublin on April 10.
The winds of the Cape were hellish; the South African summer
was over, and the autumn gales
thundered up from the Antarctic to batter Table Mountain. TheFreya by March 12 was in the heart of
the Agulhas Current, pushing westward through mountainous green seas, taking the gales from the
southwest on her port beam.
It was bitter cold out on deck, but no one was there. Behind
the double−glazing of the bridge,
CaptainThor Larsen and his two officers of the watch stood with the helmsman, radio officer, and
two others in shirt sleeves. Warm, safe, protected
by the aura of her invincible technology, they
gazed forward to where forty−foot waves impelled by the force 10 winds out of the southwest reared
above theFreyas port side, hovered for a moment, then crashed down to obscure her gigantic deck
and its myriad pipes and valves in a swirling maelstrom of white foam. While the waves burst, only
the focsle, far ahead, was discernible, like a separate entity. As the foam receded, defeated,
through the scuppers, theFreya shook herself and buried her bulk in another oncoming mountain. A
hundred feet beneath the men, ninety thousand shaft horsepower pushed a million tons of crude oil
another few yards toward Rotterdam. High above, the Cape albatrosses
wheeled and glided, their
lost cries unheard behind thePlexiglas. Coffee was served by one of the stewards.
Two days later, on Monday the fourteenth, Adam Munro drove out of the courtyard of the
Commercial Section of the British Embassy and turned sharp right into KutuzovskyProspekt toward
the city center. His destination was the main embassy building, where he had been summoned by the
head of Chancery. The telephone call, certainly tapped by the KGB, had referred to the clarification
TheDevil'sAlternative
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of minor details for a forthcoming trade delegation visit from London. In fact it meant that there was
a message awaiting him in the cipher room.
The cipher room in the embassy building on Maurice Thorez Embankment 5s in the basement, a
secure room regularly
checked by the sweepers, who are not looking for dust, but for listening
devices. The cipher clerks are diplomatic
personnel and security−checked to the highest level.
Nevertheless,
sometimes messages come in that bear a coding to indicate they will not and cannot
be decoded by the normal decoding machines. The tag on these messages will indicate that they have
to be passed to one particular cipher clerk, a man who has the right to know because he has a need to
know. Occasionally a message for Adam Munro bore such a coding, as today. The clerk in question
knew Munros real job because he needed toif for no other reason, to protect him from those who
did not.
Munro entered the cipher room, and the clerk spotted him. They withdrew to a small annex where
the clerk, a precise, methodical man with bifocal glasses, used a key from his waistband to unlock a
separate decoding machine. He passed the London message into it, and the machine spat out the
translation. The clerk took no notice, averting his gaze as Munro moved away.
Munro read the message and smiled. He memorized it within seconds and passed it straight into a
shredder, which reduced the thin paper to fragments hardly bigger than dust. He thanked the clerk
and left, with a song in his heart. Barry Ferndale had informed him that with the Russian−American
treaty on the threshold of signature, the Nightingale could be brought out, to a discreet but extremely
generous welcome, from the coast of Rumania nearConstanza, during the week of April 16−23.
There were further details for the exact pickup. He was asked to consult with the Nightingale and
confirm acceptance and agreement.
After receiving Maxim Rudins personal message, President Matthews had remarked to David
Lawrence:
Since this is more than a mere arms−limitation agreement, I suppose it really can be called a treaty.
And since it seems destined to be signed in Dublin, no doubt history will call it the Treaty of
Dublin.
Lawrence had consulted with the government of the Republic
of Ireland, whose officials had agreed
with barely hidden
delight that they would be pleased to host the formal signing ceremony between
David Lawrence for the United States and Dmitri Rykov for the USSR in St. Patricks Hall, Dublin
Castle, on April 10.
On March 16, therefore, President Matthews replied to Maxim Rudin, agreeing to the proposed place
and date.
There are two fairly large rock quarries in the mountains outside
Ingolstadt in Bavaria. During the
TheDevil'sAlternative
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night of March 18, the night watchman in one of these was attacked and tied up by two masked men,
at least one of them armed with a handgun, he later told police. The men, who seemed to know what
they were looking for, broke into the dynamite store, using the night watchmans keys, and stole 250
kilograms of rock−blasting explosives and a number of electric detonators. Long before morning
they were gone, and as the following day was Saturday the nineteenth, it was almost noon before the
trussed night watchman was rescued and the theft discovered.
Subsequent police investigations were
intensive, and in view of the apparent knowledge of the layout of the quarry by the robbers,
concentrated on the area of former employees.
But the search was for extreme left−wingers, and the
name Klimchuk, which belonged to a man who had been employed
three years earlier at the quarry,
attracted no particular
attention, being assumed to be of Polish extraction. Actually it is a Ukrainian
name. By that Saturday evening the two cars bearing the explosives had arrived back in Brussels,
penetrating the German−Belgian border on the Aachen−Liège motorway. They were not stopped,
weekend traffic being especially heavy.
By the evening of the twentieth theFreya was well past Senegal,
having made good time from the
Cape with the aid of the southeast trade winds and a helpful current. Though it was early in the year
for Northern Europe, there were vacationers
on the beaches of the Canary Islands.
TheFreya was far to the west of the islands, but just after dawn on the twenty−first her bridge
officers could make out the volcanic Picode Monte Teide onTenerife, their first landfall since they
had glimpsed the rugged coastline of Cape Province. As the mountains of the Canaries dropped
away, they knew that apart from the chance of seeing Madeiras summit they would next see the
lights warning them to stay clear of the wild coasts of Mayo and Donegal.
Adam Munro had waited impatiently for a week to see the woman he loved, but there was no way he
could get through to her before their prearranged meet on Monday the twenty−first For the site he
had returned to the Exhibition of Economic Achievements, whose 238 hectares of parks and grounds
merged with the main Botanical Gardens of the USSR Academy of Sciences. Here, in a sheltered
arboretum in the open air, he found her waiting just before noon. Because
of the chance of a casual
glance from a passerby, he could not take the risk of kissing her as he wanted to.
Instead he told her with controlled excitement of the news from London. She was overjoyed.
I have news for you, she told him. There will be a Central
Committee fraternal delegation to the
Rumanian Party Congress during the first half of April, and I have been asked to accompany it.
Sashas school breaks for vacation on March twenty−ninth, and we will leave for Bucharest on
April fifth. After ten days it will be perfectly normal for me to take a bored little boy to the resort
beaches for a week.
Then Ill fix it for the night of Monday, the eighteenth of April. That will give you several days
inConstanza to find your way around. You must hire or borrow a car, and acquire
a powerful torch.
Now,Valentina my love, these are the details. Memorize them, for there can be no mistakes:
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CHAPTER TEN 163
North ofConstanza lies the resort of Mamaia, where the western package tourists go. Drive north
fromConstanza through Mamaia on the evening of the eighteenth. Exactly six miles north of Mamaia
a track leads right from the coast highway to the beach. On the headland at the junction you will see
a short stone tower with its lower half painted white. It is a coast marker for fishermen. Leave the car
well off the road and descend the bluff to the beach. At twoA.M. you will see a light from the sea:
three long dashes and three short ones. Take your own torch with its beam cut down by a tube of
cardboard and point it straight at where the light came from. Flash back the reverse signal: three
shorts and three longs. A speedboat will come out of the sea for you and Sasha. There will be one
Russian−speaker and two Marines. Identify yourself with the phrase The Nightingale sings in
Berkeley Square. Have you got that?
Yes. Adam, where is Berkeley Square?
In London. It is very beautiful, like you. It has many trees.
And do nightingales sing there?
According to the words of the song, one used to. Darling, it seems so short. Four weeks today.
When we get to London Ill show you Berkeley Square.
Adam, tell me something. Have I betrayed my own peoplethe Russian people?
No, he said with finality, you have not. The leaders nearly did. If you had not done what you
did, Vishnayev and your uncle might have got their war. In it, Russia would have been destroyed,
most of America, my country, and Western Europe. You have not betrayed the people of your
country.
But they would never understand, never forgive me, she said. There was a hint of tears in her dark
eyes. They will call me a traitor. I shall be an exile.
One day, perhaps, this madness will end. One day, perhaps,
you can come back. Listen, my love,
we cannot stay longer. Its too risky. There is one last thing. I need your private
phone number. No,
I know we agreed that I would never ring. But I will not see you again until you are in the West in
safety. If there should by any remote chance be a change of plan or date, I may have to contact you
as a matter
of emergency. If I do, I will pretend to be a friend calledGregor, explaining that I cannot
attend your dinner party. If that happens, leave at once and meet me in the park of the Mojarsky
Hotel at the top of KutuzovskyProspekt. 
She nodded meekly and gave him her number. He kissed her on the cheek.
Ill see you in London, my darling, he told her, and was gone through the trees. Privately he
knew he would have to resign and take the icy anger of Sir Nigel Irvine when it became
plain the
Nightingale was not Anatoly Krivoi but a woman, and his wife−to−be. But by then it would be too
late for even the service to do anything about it.
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CHAPTER TEN 164
Ludwig Jahnstared at the two men who occupied the available
chairs of his tidy bachelor flat in
Wedding, the working−class district of West Berlin, with growing fear. They bore the stamp of men
he had seen once, long before, and whom he had hoped never to see again.
The one who was talking was undoubtedly German; Jahn had no doubt about that. What he did not
know was that the man was Major GerhardSchulz, of the East German secret police, the
dreadedStaatssicherheitsdienst , known simply as the SSD. He would never know the name, but he
could guess the occupation.
He could also guess that the SSD had copious files on every
East German who had ever quit to
come to the West, and that was his problem. Thirty years earlier, as an eighteen−year−old, Jahn had
taken part in the building workers riots in East Berlin that had become the East German uprising.
He had been lucky. Although he had been picked up in one of the sweeps by the Russian police and
their East German Communist acolytes, he had not been held. But he recalled the smell of the
detention cells, and the stamp of the men who ruled them. His visitors this March 22, three decades
later, bore the same stamp.
He had kept his head low for eight years after the 1953 riots;
men in 1961, before the Wall was
completed, he quietly walked into the West. For the past fifteen years he had had a good job with the
West Berlin civil service, starting as a guard in the prison service and rising to Oberwachmeister,
chief officer of Two Block, Tegel Jail.
The other man in his room that evening kept silent. Jahn would never know that he was a Soviet
colonel named Kukushkin, present on behalf of the Wet Affairs department
of the KGB.
Jahn stared in horror at the photographs the German eased from a large envelope and placed before
him slowly, one by one. They showed his widowed mother in a cell, terrified, aged nearly eighty,
staring at the camera obediently, hopeful of release. There were his two younger brothers, handcuffs
on wrists, in different cells, the masonry of the walls showing up clearly in the high−definition
prints.
Then there are your sisters−in−law and your three delightful
little nieces. Oh, yes, we know about
the Christmas presents. What is it they call you? UncleLudo? How very charming. Tell me, have you
ever seen places like these?
There were more photographspictures that made the comfortably plump Jahn close his eyes for
several seconds. Strange, zombielike figures, clad in rags, moved through the pictures, shaven,
skull−like faces peering dully at the camera. They huddled; they shuffled; they wrapped their
withered feet in rags to keep out the Arctic cold. They were stubbled, shriveled, subhuman. They
were some of the inhabitants of the slave labor camps of the Kolyma complex, far away at the
eastern end of Siberia, north of the Kamchatka Peninsula, where gold is mined deep in the Arctic
Circle.
Life sentences in these ... resorts ... are only for the worst enemies of the state,Herr Jahn. But my
colleague here can ensure such life sentences for all your familyyes, even your dear old
motherwith just one single telephone call. Now, tell me, do you want him to make that call?
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CHAPTER TEN 165
Jahn gazed across into the eyes of the man who had not spoken. The eyes were as bleak as the
Kolyma camps.
Nein,he whispered. No, please. What do you want?
It was the German who answered.
In Tegel Jail are two hijackers, Mishkin and Lazareff. Do you know them?
Jahn nodded dumbly.
Yes. They arrived four weeks ago. There was much publicity.

Where, exactly, are they?
Number Two Block. Top floor, east wing. Solitary confinement,
at their own request. They fear
the other prisoners. Or so they say. There is no reason. For child rapists there is a reason, but not for
these two. Yet they insist.
But you can visit them,Herr Jahn? You have access?
Jahn remained silent. He began to fear what the visitors wanted with the hijackers. They came from
the East; the hijackers
had escaped from there. It could not be to bring them birthday gifts.
Have another look at the pictures, Jahn. Have a good look before you think of obstructing us.
Yes, I can visit them. On my rounds. But only at night. During the day shift there are three guards
in that corridor. One or two would always accompany me if I wished to visit them. But in the day
shift there would be no reason for me to visit them. Only to check on them during the night shift.
Are you on the night shift at the moment?
No. Day shift.
What are the hours of the night shift?
Midnight to eightA.M. Lights are out at tenP.M. Shift changes at midnight. Relief is at eightA.M.
During the night shift I would patrol the block three times, accompanied by the duty officer of each
floor.
The unnamed German thought for a while.
My friend here wishes to visit them. When do you return to the night shift?
Monday, April fourth, said Jahn.
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Very well, said the East German. This is what you will do.
Jahn was instructed to acquire from the locker of a vacationing
colleague the necessary uniform and
pass card. At twoA.M. on the morning of Monday, April 4, he would descend to the ground floor and
admit the Russian by the staff entrance from the street. He would accompany him to the top floor and
hide him in the staff dayroom, to which he would acquire a duplicate key. He would cause the night
duty officer on the top floor to absent himself on an errand, and take over the watch from him while
he was away. During
the mans absence he would allow the Russian into the solitary−confinement
corridor, lending him his passkey to both cells. When the Russian had visited Mishkin and
Lazareff, the process would be reversed. The Russian would hide again until the duty officer
returned to his post. Then Jahn would escort the Russian back to the staff entrance and let him out.
It wont work, whispered Jahn, well aware that it probably
would.
The Russian spoke at last, in German.
It had better, he said. If it does not, I will personally ensure that your entire family begins a
regime in Kolyma that will make theextrastrict regime operating there seem like the honeymoon
suite at the Kempinski Hotel.
Jahn felt as if his bowels were being sprayed with liquid ice. None of the hard men in the special
wing could compare
with this man. He swallowed.
Ill do it, he whispered.
My friend will return here at six in the evening of Sunday,
April third, said the East German.
No reception committees
from the police, if you please. It will do no good. We both have
diplomatic passes in false names. We will deny everything
and walk away quite freely. Just have the
uniform and pass card awaiting him.
Two minutes later they were gone. They took their photos with them. There was no evidence left It
did not matter. Jahn could see every detail in his nightmares.
By March 23 over two hundred fifty ships, the first wave of the waiting merchant fleet, were docked
in the major grain ports from Lake Superior to the Gulf of Mexico. There was still ice in the St.
Lawrence, but it was shattered to mosaic by the icebreakers, aware of its defeat as the grain ships
moved through it to berth by the grain elevators.
A fair proportion of these ships were of the Russian Sovfracht fleet, but the next largest numbers
were flying the U.S. flag, for one of the conditions of the sale had been that American carriers take
the prime contracts to move the grain.
Within ten days they would begin moving east across the Atlantic, bound for Arkhangelsk and
Murmansk in the Soviet Arctic, Leningrad at the head of the Gulf of Finland, and the warm−water
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ports of Odessa, Sevastopol, and Novorossisk on the Black Sea. Flags of ten other nations mingled
with them to effect the biggest single dry−cargo movement since the Second
World War. Elevators
from Duluth to Houston spewed a golden tide of wheat, barley, oats, rye, and com into their bellies,
all destined within a month for the hungry millions of Russia.
On the twenty−sixth, Andrew Drake rose from his work at the kitchen table of an apartment in the
suburbs of Brussels and pronounced that he was ready.
The explosives had been packed into ten fiber suitcases, the submachine guns rolled in towels and
stuffed into haversacks. AzamatKrim kept the detonators bedded in cotton in a cigar box that never
left him. When darkness fell, the cargo was carried in relays down to the groups secondhand,
Belgian−registered panel van, and they set off for Blankenberge.
The little seaside resort facing the North Sea was quiet, the harbor virtually deserted, when they
transferred their equipment
under cover of darkness to the bilges of the fishing launch. It was a
Saturday, and though a man walking his dog along the quay noticed them at work, he thought no
more of it. Parties of sea anglers stocking up for a weekends fishing were common enough, even
though it was a mite early in the year and still chilly.
On Sunday the twenty−seventh, Miroslav Kaminsky bade them good−bye, took the van, and drove
back to Brussels. His job was to clean the Brussels flat from top to bottom and end to end, to
abandon it, and to drive the van to a prearranged rendezvous in the polders of Holland. There he
would leave it, with its ignition key in an agreed place, then take the ferry from the Hook back to
Harwich and London. He had his itinerary well rehearsed and was confident he could carry out his
part of the plan.
The remaining seven men left port and cruised sedately up the coast to lose themselves in the islands
of Walcheren and North Beveland, just across the border with Holland. There, with their fishing rods
much in evidence, they hove to and waited. On a powerful radio down in the cabin, Andrew Drake
sat hunched, listening to the wavelength ofMaas Estuary
Control and the endless calls of the ships
headinginto or out of the Europoort and Rotterdam.
Colonel Kukushkin is going into Tegel Jail to do the job early in the morning of April fourth,
Vassili Petrov told Maxim Rudin in the Kremlin that same Sunday morning. There is a senior guard
who will let him in, bring him to the cells of Mishkin and Lazareff, and let him out of the jail by the
staff doorway when it is over.
The guard is reliable? One of our people? asked Rudin.
No, but he has family in East Germany. He has been persuaded
to do as he is told. Kukushkin
reports that he will not contact the police. He is too frightened.
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Then he knows already whom he is working for. Which means he knows too much.
Kukushkin will silence him also, just as he steps out of the doorway. There will be no trace, said
Petrov.
Eight days, grunted Rudin. He had better get it right.
He will, said Petrov. He, too, has a family. By a week from tomorrow Mishkin and Lazareff will
be dead, and their secret with them. Those who helped them will keep silent to save their own lives.
Even if they talk, it will be disbelieved. Mere hysterical allegations. No one will believe them.
When the sun rose on the morning of the twenty−ninth, its first rays picked up the mass of theFreya
twenty miles west of Ireland, cutting north by northeast through the eleven−degree longitude on a
course to skirt the Outer Hebrides.
Her powerful radar scanners had picked up the fishing fleet in the darkness an hour before, and her
officer of the watch noted them carefully. The nearest to her was well to the east, or landward side,
of the tanker.
The sun glittered over the rocks of Donegal, a thin line on the eastward horizon to the men on the
bridge with their advantage
of eighty feet of altitude. It caught the small fishing smacks of the men
from Killybegs, drifting out in the western seas for mackerel, herring, and whiting. And it caught the
bulk of theFreya herself, like a moving landmass, steaming out of the south past the drifters and their
gently bobbing nets.
Christy OByrne was in the tiny wheelhouse of the smack he and his brother owned, theBernadette.
He blinked several times, put down his cocoa mug, and stepped the three feet from the wheelhouse to
the rail. His vessel was the nearest to the passing tanker.
From behind him, when they saw theFreya, the fishermen tugged on the horn lanyards, and a chorus
of thin whoops disturbed the dawn. On the bridge of theFreya,Thor Larsen nodded to his junior
officer; seconds later the bellowing bull roar of theFreya answered the Killybegs fleet.
Christy OByrne leaned on the rail and watched theFreya fill the horizon, heard the throb of her
power beneath the sea, and felt theBernadette begin to roll in the widening wake of the tanker.
Holy Mary, he whispered, would you look at the size of her.
On the eastern shore of Ireland, compatriots of Christy OByrne were at work that morning in
Dublin Castle, for seven hundred years the seat of power of the British. As a tiny boy perched on his
fathers shoulder, Martin Donahue had watched from outside as the last British troops marched out
of the castle forever, following the signing of a peace treaty. Sixty−one years later, on the verge of
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retirement from government service, he was a cleaner, pushing a Hoover back and forth over the
electric−blue carpet of St Patricks Hall.
He had not been present when any of Irelands successive presidents had been inaugurated beneath
Vincent Waldrés magnificent 1778 painted ceiling, nor would he be present in twelve days when
two superpowers signed the Treaty of Dublin
below the motionless heraldic banners of the
long−gone Knights of St. Patrick. For forty years he had just kept it dusted for them.
Rotterdan, too, was preparing, but for a different ceremony. Harry Wennerstrom arrived on the
thirtieth and installed himself in the best suite at the Hilton Hotel.
He had come by his private executive jet, now parked at Schiedam municipal airport just outside the
city. Throughout the day four secretaries fussed around him, preparing for the Scandinavian and
Dutch dignitaries, the tycoons from the worlds of oil and shipping, and the scores of press people
who would attend his reception on the evening of April 1 for CaptainThor Larsen and his officers.
A select party of notables and members of the press would be his guests on the flat roof of the
modernMaas Control building, situated on the very tip of the sandy shore at the Hook of Holland.
Well protected against the stiff spring breeze, they would watch from the north shore of theMaas
Estuary as the six tugs pulled and pushed theFreya those last few kilometers from the estuary into
the Caland Kanaal, from there to the Beer Kanaal, and finally to rest by Clint Blakes new oil
refinery in the heart of the Europoort.
While theFreya closed down her systems during the afternoon,
the group would come back by
cavalcade of limousines to central Rotterdam, forty kilometers up the river, for an evening reception.
A press conference would precede this, during which Wennerstrom would presentThor Larsen to the
worlds press.
Already, he knew, newspapers and television had leased helicopters
to give the last few miles of
theFreya and her berthing
complete camera coverage.
Harry Wennerstrom was a contented old man.
By the early hours of March 30 theFreya was well through the channel between the Orkneys and
theShetlands. She had turned south, heading down the North Sea. As soon as she entered the
crowded lanes of the North Sea, theFreya had reported in, contacting the first of the shore−based
area traffic−
control officers at Wick on the coast of Caithness in the far north of Scotland.
Because of her size and draft, she was a hampered vessel. She had reduced speed to ten knots and
was following
the instructions fed to her from Wick by VHF radiotelephone.
All around her,
unseen, the various control centers had her marked on their high−definition radars, manned by
qualified pilot operators. These centers are equipped with computerized support systems capable of
TheDevil'sAlternative
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rapid assimilation of weather, tide, and traffic−density information.
Ahead of theFreya as she crawled down the southbound traffic lane, smaller ships were crisply
informed to get out of her way. At midnight she passed Flamborough Head on the coast of
Yorkshire, now moving farther east, away from the British coast and toward Holland. Throughout
her passage she had followed the deepwater channel, a minimum of twenty fathoms. On her bridge,
despite the constant instructions
from ashore, her officers watched the echo−sounder readings,
observing the banks and sandbars that make up the floor of the North Sea slide past on either side of
her.
Just before sundown of March 31, at a point exactly fifteen
sea miles due east of the Outer Gabbard
Light, now down to her bare steerage speed of five knots, the giant swung gently eastward and
moved to her overnight position, the deep−draft anchorage located at fifty−two degrees north. She
was twenty−seven sea miles due west of theMaas Estuary,
twenty−seven miles from home and
glory.
It was midnight in Moscow. Adam Munro had decided to walk home from the diplomatic reception
at the embassy. He had been driven there by the commercial counselor, so his own car was parked by
his flat off KutuzovskyProspekt.
Halfway over the Serafimov Bridge, he paused to gaze down at the Moscow River. To his right he
could see the illuminated
cream−and−white stucco facade of the embassy; to his left the dark red
walls of the Kremlin loomed above him, and above them the upper floor and dome of the Great
Kremlin Palace.
It had been roughly ten months since he had flown from London to take up his new appointment. In
that time he had pulled off the greatest espionage coup for decades, running the only spy the West
had ever operated inside the heart of the Kremlin. They would savage him for breaking training, for
not telling them all along who she was, but they could not diminish the value of what he had brought
out.
Three weeks more and she would be out of this place, safe In London. He would be out, too,
resigning from the service to start a new life somewhere else with the only person in the world he
loved, ever had loved, or ever would.
He would be glad to leave Moscow, with its secrecy, its endless furtiveness, its mind−numbing
drabness. In ten days the Americans would have their arms−reduction treaty, the Kremlin
its grain
and technology, the service its thanks and gratitude from Downing Street and the White House alike.
A week more and he would have his wife−to−be, and she her freedom. He shrugged deeper into his
thick, fur−collared coat and walked on across the bridge.
Midnight in Moscow is tenP.M. in the North Sea. By 2200 hours theFreya was motionless at last.
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She had steamed 7,085 miles from Chita to Abu Dhabi and a further 12,015 miles from there to
where she now lay. She lay motionless along the line of the tide; from her stem a single anchor chain
streamed out and down to the seabed, with five shackles on deck. Each link of the chain needed to
hold her was nearly a yard long, and the steel thicker than a mans thigh.
Because of her hampered state, Captain Larsen had brought her down from the Orkneys himself,
with two navigating
officers to assist him, as well as the helmsman. Even at the overnight anchorage
he left his first officer, Stig Lundquist, his third mate, Tom Keller (a Danish−American), and an able
seaman on the bridge through the night. The officers would maintain constant anchor watch; the
seaman would carry out periodic deck inspection.
Though theFreyas engines were closed down, her turbines and generators hummed rhythmically,
churning out the power to keep her systems functioning.
Among these were constant input of tide and weather, of which the latest reports were heartening.
He could have had March gales; instead, an unseasonal area of high pressure almost stationary over
the North Sea and the English Channel had brought a mild early spring to the coasts. The sea was
almost a flat calm; a one−knot tide ran northeastward from the vessel toward the West Frisians. The
sky had been a near−cloudless blue all day, and despite a touch of frost that night, bade fair to be so
again on the morrow.
Bidding his officers goodnight, Captain Larsen left the bridge and descended one floor toD deck.
Here, on the extreme
starboard side, he had his suite. The spacious and well−appointed day cabin
carried four windows looking forward
down the length of the vessel, and two looking out to
starboard. Aft of the day cabin were his bedroom and bathroom. The sleeping cabin also had two
windows, both to starboard. All the windows were sealed, save one in the day cabin that was closed
but with screw bolts that could be manually
undone.
Outside his sealed windows to forward, the facade of the superstructure fell sheer to the deck; to
starboard the windows
gave onto ten feet of steel landing, beyond which was the starboard rail, and
beyond it the sea. Five flights of steel ladders ran from the lowest A deck up five floors to the
bridge−wing above his head, each stage of the ladders debouching onto a steel landing. All these sets
of ladders and landings were open to the sky, exposed to the elements. They were seldom
used, for
the interior stairwells were heated and warm.
ThorLarsen lifted the napkin off the plate of chicken andsalad the chief steward had left him, looked
longingly at the bottle of Scotch in his liquor cabinet, and settled for coffee from the percolator.
After eating he decided to work the night away on a final run−through of the channel charts for the
mornings berthing. It was going to be tight, and he wanted to know that channel as well as the two
Dutch pilots who would arrive by helicopter from Amsterdams Schiphol Airport at seven−thirty to
take her over. Prior to that, he knew, a gang of ten men from ashore, the extra hands, called
riggers, who were needed for the berthing operation, would arrive by launch at 0700.
As midnight struck, he settled at the broad table in his day cabin, spread his charts, and began to
study.
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CHAPTER TEN 172
At ten minutes before three in the morning, it was frosty but clear outside. A half−moon caused the
rippling sea to glitter. Inside the bridge Stig Lundquist and Tom Keller shared a companionable mug
of coffee. The able seaman prowled the flowing screens along the bridge console.
Sir, he called, theres a launch approaching.
Tom Keller rose and crossed to where the seaman pointed at the radar screen. There were a score of
blipssome stationary,
some moving, but all well away from theFreya. One tiny blip seemed to be
approaching from the southeast.
Probably a fishing boat making sure of being ready on the fishing grounds by sunrise, said Keller.
Lundquist was looking over his shoulder. He flicked to a lower range.
Shes coming very close, he said.
Out at sea, the launch had to be aware of the mass of theFreya. The tanker carried anchor lights
above the focsle and at the stern. Besides, her deck was floodlit and her superstructure
was lit
like a Christmas tree by the lights in the accommodation.
The launch, instead of veering away,
began to curve in toward the stern of theFreya.
She looks as if shes going to come alongside, said Keller.
She cant be the berthing crew, said Lundquist. Theyre not due till seven.
Perhaps they couldnt sleep, wanted to be well on time, said Keller.
Go down to the head of the ladder, Lundquist told the seaman, and tell me what you see. Put on
the headset when you get there, and stay in touch.
The accommodation ladder on the ship was amidships. On a big vessel it is so heavy that steel cables
powered by an electric motor either lower it from the ships rail to the sea level or raise it to lie
parallel to the rail. On theFreya, even full−laden, the rail was nine meters above the sea, an
impossible
jump, and the ladder was fully raised.
Seconds later the two officers saw the seaman leave the superstructure
below them and begin to
stroll down the deck. When he reached the ladder head, he mounted a small platform
that jutted over
the sea, and looked down. As he did so, he took a headset from a weatherproof box and fitted the
earphones
over his head. From the bridge Lundquist pressed a switch and a powerful light came on,
illuminating the seaman far away along the deck as he peered down to the black sea. The launch had
vanished from the radar screen; she was too close to be observed.
What do you see? asked Lundquist into a stick microphone.
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CHAPTER TEN 173
The seamans voice came back into the bridge. Nothing, sir.
Meanwhile the launch had passed around the rear of theFreya, under the very overhang of her stern.
For seconds it was out of sight. At either side of the stern, the guardrail of A deck was at its nearest
point to the sea, just six meters above the water. The two men standing on the cabin roof of the
launch had reduced this to three meters. As the launch emerged from the transom shadow, both men
slung the three−point grapnels they held, the hooks sheathed in black rubber hose.
Each grapnel, trailing rope, rose twelve feet, dropped over the guardrail, and caught fast. As the
launch moved on, both men were swept off the cabin roof to hang by the ropes, ankles in the sea.
Then each began to climb rapidly, hand over hand, unheeding of the submachine carbines strapped to
their backs. In two seconds the launch emerged into the light and began to run down the side of
theFreya toward the courtesy ladder.
I can see it now, said the seaman high above. It looks like a fishing launch.
Keep the ladder up until they identify themselves, ordered
Lundquist from the bridge.
Far behind and below him the two boarders were over the rail. Each unhooked his grapnel and
heaved it into the sea, where it sank, trailing rope. The two men set off at a fast lope, around to the
starboard side and straight for the steel ladders. On soundless rubber−soled shoes they began to race
upward.
The launch came to rest beneath the ladder, eight meters above the cramped cabin. Inside, four men
crouched. At the wheel, the helmsman stared silently up at the seaman above him.
Who are you? called the seaman. Identify yourself.
There was no answer. Far below, in the glare of the spotlight,
the man in the black woolen helmet
just stared back.
He wont answer, said the seaman into his mouthpiece.
Keep the spotlight on them, ordered Lundquist. Im coming to have a look.
Throughout the interchange the attention of both Lundquist
and Keller had been to the port side and
forward of the bridge. On the starboard side the door leading from the bridgewing into the bridge
suddenly opened, bringing a gust of icy air. Both officers spun around. The door closed. Facing them
were two men in black balaclava helmets, black crew−neck sweaters, black track−suit trousers, and
rubber deck shoes. Each pointed a submachine carbine at the officers.
Order your seaman to lower the ladder, said one in English.
The two officers stared at them
unbelievingly. This was impossible. The gunman raised his weapon and squinted down the sight at
Keller.
Ill give you three seconds, he said to Lundquist. Then Im blowing the head off your
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CHAPTER TEN 174
colleague.
Brick−red with anger, Lundquist leaned to the stick mike.
Lower the ladder, he told the seaman.
The disembodied voice came back into the bridge. But sir ...
Its all right, lad, said Lundquist. Do as I say.
With a shrug the seaman pressed a button on the small console at the ladder head. There was a hum
of motors and the ladder slowly lowered to the sea. Two minutes later four other men, all in black,
were herding the seaman back along the deck to the superstructure while the fifth man made the
launch fast. Two more minutes and the six of them entered the bridge from the port side, the
seamans eyes wide with fright. When he entered the bridge he saw the other two gunmen
holding
his officers.
How on earth ...? asked the seaman.
Take it easy, ordered Lundquist. To the only gunman who had spoken so far, he asked in English,
What do you want?
We want to speak to your captain, said the man behind the mask. Where is he?
The door from the wheelhouse to the inner stairwell opened, andThor Larsen stepped onto the
bridge. His gaze took in his three crewmen with their hands behind their heads, and seven black−clad
terrorists. His eyes, when he turned to the man who had asked the question, were blue and friendly as
a cracking glacier.
I am CaptainThor Larsen, master of theFreya, he said slowly, and who the hell are you?
Never mind who we are, said the terrorist leader. We have just taken over your ship. Unless your
officers and men do as they are told, we shall start by making an example of your seaman. Which is
it to be?
Larsen looked slowly around him. Three of the submachine
guns were pointing straight at the
eighteen−year−old deckhand. He was white as chalk.
Mr. Lundquist, said Larsen formally, do as these men say. Turning back to the leader he asked,
What exactly is it you want with theFreya?
That is easy, said the terrorist without hesitation. We wish you no harm personally, but unless
our requirements are carried outto the letterwe shall not hesitate to do what we have to in order to
secure compliance.
And then? asked Larsen.
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CHAPTER TEN 175
Within thirty hours the West German government is going to release two of our friends from a
West Berlin jail and fly them to safety. If they do not, I am going to blast you, your crew, your ship,
and one million tons of crude oil all over the North Sea.

Chapter Eleven


0300 to 0900
THE LEADER of the seven masked terrorists set his men to work with a methodical precision that
he had evidently rehearsed
over many hours in his own mind. He issued a rapid stream of orders in
a language neither Captain Larsen nor his own officers and the young seaman could understand.
Five of the masked men herded the two officers and seaman to the rear of the bridge, well away from
the instrument
panels, and surrounded them. The leader jerked his handgun at Captain Larsen and
said in English:
Your cabin, if you please, Captain.
In single file, Larsen leading, the leader of the terrorists next, and one of his henchmen with a
submachine carbine bringing up the rear, the three men descended the stairs from the bridge toD
deck, one flight below. Halfway down the stairs, at the turn, Larsen turned to look back and up at his
two captors, measuring the distances, calculating whether he could overcome them both.
Dont even try it, said the voice behind the mask at his shoulder. No one in his right mind
argues with a submachine
gun at a range of ten feet.
Larsen led them onward down the stairs.D deck was the senior officers living quarters. The
captains suite was in the extreme starboard corner of the great sweep of superstructure.
Moving to
port, next came a small chart library, the door open to reveal locker after locker of high−quality sea
charts, enough to take him into any ocean, any bay, any suitable anchorage in the world. They were
all copies of originals made by the British Admiralty, and the best in the world.
Next was the conference suite, a spacious cabin where the captain or owner could, if he wished,
receive a sizable number
of visitors all at one time. Next to this were the owners staterooms,
closed and empty, reserved for the chairman, should he ever wish to sail with his ship. At the port
end was another suite of cabins identical but in reverse to the captain
s quarters. Here the chief
engineer lived.
Aft of the captains cabins was the smaller suite for the first officer, and aft of the chief engineer
dwelt the chief steward.
The whole complex formed a hollow square, whose center
was taken up
by the flight of stairs going around and around and downward to A deck, three levels below.
Thor Larsenled his captors to his own cabin and stepped into the dayroom. The terrorist leader
followed him in and quickly ran through the other rooms, bedroom and bathroom. There was no one
else present.
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CHAPTER ELEVEN 176
Sit down, Captain, he said, the voice slightly muffled by the mask. You will remain here until I
return. Please do not move. Place your hands on the table and keep them there, palms downward.
There was another stream of orders in a foreign language, and the machine gunner took up a position
with his back to the far bulkhead of the cabin, facingThor Larsen but twelve feet away, the barrel of
his gun pointing straight at the white crew−neck sweaterThor Larsen wore. The leader checked to
see that all the curtains were well drawn, then left, closing the door behind him. The other two
inhabitants of the deck were asleep in their respective cabins and heard nothing. Within minutes the
leader was back on the bridge.
Youhe pointed his gun at the boyish seamancome with me.
The lad looked imploringly at First Officer Stig Lundquist.
You harm that boy and I'll personally hang you out to dry, said Tom Keller in his American
accent. Two submachine−
gun barrels moved slightly in the hands of the ring of men around him.
Your chivalry is admirable, your sense of reality deplorable,
 said the voice behind the leaders
mask. No one gets hurt unless you try something stupid. Then therell be a bloodbath, and youll
be right under the taps.
Lundquist nodded to the seaman.
Go with him, he said. Do what he wants.
The seaman was escorted back down the stairs. At theD deck level, the terrorist stopped him.
Apart from the captain, who lives on this deck? he asked.
The chief engineer, over there, said the seaman. The first officer, over there, but hes up on the
bridge now. And the chief steward, there.
There was no sign of life behind any of the doors.
The paint locker, where is it? asked the terrorist. Without a word the seaman turned and headed
down the stairs. They went through C deck andB deck. Once a murmur of voices came to them, from
behind the door of the seamens messroom, where four men who could not sleep were apparently
playing cards over coffee.
At A deck they had reached the level of the base of the superstructure.
The seaman opened an
exterior door and stepped outside. The terrorist followed nun. The cold night air made them both
shiver after the warmth of the interior. They found themselves aft of the superstructure on the poop.
To one side of the door from which they emerged, the bulk of the funnel towered a hundred feet up
toward the stars.
The seaman led the way across the poop to where a small steel structure stood. It was six feet by six
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and about the same in height. In one side of it there was a steel door, closed by two great screw bolts
with butterfly nuts on the outside.
Down there, said the seaman.
Go on down, said the terrorist. The boy spun the twin butterfly handles, unscrewing the cleats,
and pulled them back. Seizing the door handle, he swung it open. There was a light inside, showing a
tiny platform and a steel stairway running
down to the bowels of theFreya. At a jerk from the gun,
the seaman stepped inside and began to head downward, the terrorist behind him.
Over seventy feet of the stairs led down, past several galleries
from which steel doors led off. When
they reached the bottom they were well below waterline, only the keel beneath the deck plating
under their feet. They were in an enclosure with four steel doors. The terrorist nodded to the one
facing aft.
Whats that lead to?
Steering−gear housing.
Letshave a look.
When the door was open, it showed a great vaulted hall all in metal and painted pale green. It was
well lit. Most of the center of the deck space was taken up by a mountain of encased
machinery the
device which, receiving its orders from the computers of the bridge, would move the rudder. The
walls of the cavity were curved to the nethermost part of the ships hull. Aft of the chamber, beyond
the steel, thegreat rudder of theFreya would be hanging inert in the black waters of the North Sea.
The terrorist ordered the door closed again and bolted shut.
Port and starboard of the steering−gear chamber were, respectively,
a chemical store and a paint
store. The chemical store the terrorist ignored; he was not going to make men prisoners where there
was acid to play with. The paint store was better. It was quite large, airy, well ventilated, and its
outer wall was the hull of the ship.
Whats the fourth door? asked the terrorist. The fourth was the only door with no handles.
It leads to the rear of the engine room, said the seaman. It is bolted on the other side.
The terrorist pushed against the steel door. It was rock−solid. He seemed satisfied.
How many men on this ship? he asked. Or women. No tricks. If there is one more than the figure
you give, well shoot them.
The boy ran his tongue over dry lips.
There are no women, he said. There might be wives next trip, but not on the maiden voyage.
There are thirty men, including Captain Larsen.
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CHAPTER ELEVEN 178
Knowing what he needed to know, the terrorist pushed the frightened young man into the paint
locker, swung the door closed, and threw one of the twin bolts into its socket. Then he returned back
up the ladder.
Emerging on the poop deck, he avoided the interior stairs and raced back up the outside ladders to
the bridge, stepping in from outside where they reached the bridgewing.
He nodded to his five companions, who still held the two officers at gunpoint, and issued a stream of
further orders. Minutes later the two bridge officers, joined by the chief steward
and chief engineer,
roused from their beds onD deck below
the bridge, were marched down to the paint locker. Most of
the crew were asleep onB deck, where the bulk of the cabins were situated, much smaller than the
officers accommodations
above their heads, on C and D.
There were protests, exclamations, bitter language, as they were herded out and down. But at every
stage the leader of the terrorists, the only one who spoke at all, informed them in English that their
captain was held in his own cabin and would die in the event of any resistance. The officers and men
obeyed their orders.
Down in the paint locker the crew was finally counted: twenty−nine. The first cook and two of the
four stewards were allowed to return to the galley on A deck and ferry down to the paint store trays
of buns and rolls, along with crates of bottled lemonade and canned beer. Two buckets were
provided
for toilets.
Make yourselves comfortable, the terrorist leader told the twenty−nine angry men who stared
back at him from inside
the paint locker. You wont be here long. Thirty hours at most. One last
thing. Your captain wants the pumpman. Who is he?
A Swede called Martinsson stepped forward.
Im the pumpman, he said.
Come with me. It was four−thirty.
A deck, the ground floor of the superstructure, was entirely devoted to the rooms containing the
services of the marine giant. Located there were the main galley, deepfreeze chamber,
cool room,
other assorted food stores, liquor store, soiled−linen store, automatic laundry, cargo−control room,
including
the inert−gas control, and the firefighting−control room, also called the foam room.
Above it wasB deck, with all nonofficer accommodations,
cinema, library, four recreation rooms,
and three bars.
C deck held the officer cabins apart from the four on the level above, plus the officers dining salon
and smoking room, and the crews club, with swimming pool, sauna, and gymnasium.
It was the cargo−control room on A deck that interested the terrorist, and he ordered the pumpman to
bring him to it. There were no windows; it was centrally heated, air−conditioned,
silent, and well lit.
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CHAPTER ELEVEN 179
Behind his mask the eyes of the terrorist chief flickered over the banks of switches and settled on the
rear bulkhead. Here behind the control console where the pumpman now sat, a visual display board,
nine feet wide and four feet tall, occupied the wall. It showed in map form the crude−tank layout of
theFreyas cargo capacity.
If you try to trick me, he told the pumpman, it may cost me the life of one of my men, but I shall
surely find out If I do, I shall not shoot you, my friend, I shall shoot your Captain Larsen. Now, point
out to me where the ballast holds are, and where the cargo holds.
Martinsson was not going to argue, with his captains life at stake. He was in his mid−twenties,
andThor Larsen was a generation older. He had sailed with Larsen twice before, including
his
first−ever voyage as pumpman, and like all the crew he had enormous respect and liking for the
towering Norwegian, who had a reputation for unflagging consideration
for his crew and for being
the best mariner in the Nordia fleet. He pointed at the diagram in front of him.
The sixty holds were laid out in sets of three across the beam of theFreya; twenty such sets.
Up here in the forepart, said Martinsson, the port and starboard tanks are full of crude. The
center is the slop tank, empty now, like a buoyancy tank, because we are on our maiden voyage and
have not discharged cargo yet. So there has been no need to scour the cargo tanks and pump the
slops in here. One row back, all three are ballast tanks. They were full of seawater from Japan to the
Gulf; now they are full of air.
Open the valves, said the terrorist, between all three ballast tanks and the slop tank. Martinsson
hesitated. Go on, do it.
Martinsson pressed three square plastic controls on the console in front of him. There was a low
humming from behind
the console. A quarter of a mile in front of them, down below the steel deck,
great valves the size of normal garage doors swung open, forming a single, linked unit out of the four
tanks, each capable of holding twenty thousand tons of liquid. Not only air but any liquid now
entering one of the tanks would flow freely to the other three.
Where are the next ballast tanks? asked the terrorist. With his forefinger Martinsson pointed
halfway down the ship.
Here, amidships, there are three in a row, side by side, he said.
Leave them alone, said the terrorist Where are the others?
There are nine ballast tanks in all, said Martinsson. The last three are here, side by side as usual,
right up close to the superstructure.
Open the valves so they communicate with each other.
Martinsson did as he was bid.
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER ELEVEN 180
Good, said the terrorist. Now, can the ballast tanks be linked straight through to the cargo
tanks?
No, said Martinsson, its not possible. The ballast tanks are permanent for ballastthat is,
seawater or airbut never oil. The cargo tanks are the reverse. The two systems do not interconnect.
Fine, said the masked man. We can change all that. One last thing. Open all thevalves between
all the cargo tanks, laterally and longitudinally, so that all fifty communicate with each other.
It took fifteen seconds for all the necessary control buttons to be pushed. Far down in the treacly
blackness of the crude oil, scores of gigantic valves swung open, forming one enormous,
single tank
containing a million tons of crude. Martins−son stared at his handiwork in horror.
If she sinks with one tank ruptured, he whispered, the whole million tons will flow out.
Then the authorities had better make sure she doesnt sink, said the terrorist. Where is the
master power source from this control panel to the hydraulic pumps that control the valves?
Martinsson gestured to an electrical junction box on the wall near the ceiling. The terrorist reached
up, opened the box, and pulled the contact breaker downward. With the box dead, he removed the
ten fuses and pocketed them. The pumpman looked on with fear in his eyes. The valve−opening
process had become irreversible. There were spare fuses, and he knew where they were stored. But
he would be in the paint locker. No stranger entering his sanctum could find them in time to close
those vital valves.
Bengt Martinsson knew, because it was his job to know, that a tanker cannot simply be loaded or
unloaded haphazardly.
If all the starboard cargo tanks are filled on their own, with the others left
empty, the ship will roll over and sink. If the port tanks are filled alone, she will roll the other way. If
the forward tanks are filled but not balanced at the stern, she will dive by the nose, her stern high in
the air; and the reverse
if the stern half is full of liquid and the forard empty.
But if the stem and stern ballast tanks are allowed to flood with water while the center section is
buoyant with air, she will arch like an acrobat doinga backspring. Tankers are not designed for such
strains; theFreyas massive spine would break at the midsection.
One last thing, said the terrorist. What would happen if we opened all the fifty inspection
hatches to the cargo tanks?
Martinsson was tempted, sorely tempted, to let them try it. He thought of Captain Larsen sitting high
above him, facing a submachine carbine. He swallowed.
Youd die, he said, unless you had breathing apparatus.
He explained to the masked man beside him that when a tankers holds are full, the liquid crude is
never quite up to the ceilings of the holds. In the gap between the slopping surface
of the oil and the
ceiling of the hold, gases form, given off by the crude oil. They are volatile gases, highly explosive.
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER ELEVEN 181
If they were not bled off, they would turn the ship into a bomb.
Years earlier, the system for bleeding them off was by way of gas lines fitted with pressure valves so
that the gases could escape to the atmosphere above deck, where, being very light, they would go
straight upward. More recently, a far safer system
had been devised: inert gases from the main
engine exhaust
flue were fed into the holds to expel oxygen and seal the surface of the crude oil;
carbon monoxide was the principal
constituent of these inert gases.
Because the inert gases created a completely oxygen−free atmosphere, fire or spark, which requires
oxygen, was banished.
But every tank had a one−meter circular inspection hatch let into the main
deck; if a hatch were opened by an incautious visitor, he would immediately be enveloped in a carpet
of inert gas reaching to above his head. He would die choking, asphyxiated in an atmosphere
containing no oxygen.
Thank you, said the terrorist. Who handles the breathing
apparatus?
The first officer is in charge of it, said Martinsson. But we are all trained to use it.
Two minutes later he was back in the paint store with the rest of the crew. It was five oclock.
While the leader of the masked men had been in the cargo−control room with Martinsson, and
another heldThor Larsen prisoner in his own cabin, the remaining five had unloaded
their launch.
The ten suitcases of explosive stood on the deck amidships at the top of the courtesy ladder, awaiting
the leaders instructions for placing. These orders he gave with crisp precision. Far away on the
foredeck the inspection hatches of the port and starboard ballast tanks were unscrewed
and
removed, revealing the single steel ladder descending
eighty feet into the black depths of musty air.
AzamatKrim took off his mask, stuffed it in his pocket, took his flashlight, and descended into the
first. Two suitcases were lowered after him on long cords. Working in the base of the hold by
lamplight, he placed one entire suitcase against the outer hull of theFreya and lashed it to one of the
vertical
ribs with cord. He opened the other case and extracted its contents in two halves. One half
went against the forward bulkhead, beyond which lay twenty thousand tons of oil; the other half
went against the aft bulkhead, behind which was another twenty thousand tons of crude. Sandbags,
also brought from the launch, were packed around the charges to concentrate the blast When he was
satisfied that the detonators
were in place and linked to the triggering device, he came back to the
starlight on deck.
The same process was repeated on the other side of theFreya, and then twice again in the port and
starboard ballast tanks close up to the superstructure. He had used eight of his suitcases in four
ballast holds. The ninth he placed in the center ballast tank amidships, not to blast a hole for the
waiting
sea, but to help crack the spine.
The tenth was brought down to the engine room. Here in the curvature of the Freyas hull, close up
against the bulkhead
to the paint locker, strong enough to break both open simultaneously, it was
laid and primed. If it went off, those men in the paint locker a half−inch of steel away who survived
the blast would drown when the sea, under immense pressure at eighty feet below the waves, came
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER ELEVEN 182
pounding through. It was six−fifteen and dawn was breaking over theFreyas silent decks when he
reported to Andrew Drake.
The charges are laid and primed, Andriy, he said. I pray to God we never set them off.
We wont have to, said Drake. But I have to convince Captain Larsen. Only when he has seen
and believed, will he convince the authorities. Then theyll have to do as we want. Theyll have no
alternative.
Two of the crew were brought from the paint locker, made to don protective clothing, face masks,
and oxygen bottles, and proceed down the deck from the focsle to the housing, opening every one
of the fifty inspection hatches to the oil−cargo tanks. When the job was done, the men were returned
to the paint locker. The steel door was closed and the two bolts screwed shut on the outside, not to be
opened again until
two prisoners were safe in Israel.
At six−thirty, Andrew Drake, still masked, returned to the captains day cabin. Wearily he sat down,
facingThor Larsen,
and told him from start to finish what had been done. The Norwegian stared
back at him impassively, held in check by the submachine gun pointing at him from the corner of the
room.
When he had finished, Drake held up a black plastic instrument
and showed it to Larsen. It was no
larger than two king−size cigarette packs bound together; there was a single red button on the face of
it, and a four−inch steel aerial sticking
from the top.
Do you know what this is, Captain? asked the masked Drake. Larsen shrugged. He knew enough
about radio to recognize a small transistorized transmitter.
Its an oscillator, said Drake. If that red button is pressed, it will emit a single VHF note, rising
steadily in tone and pitch to a scream that our ears could not begin to listen to. But attached to every
single charge on this ship is a receiver
that can and will listen. As the tonal pitch rises, a dial on the
receivers will show the pitch, the needles moving around the dials until they can go no further. When
that happens,
the devices will blow their fuses and a current will be cut. The cutting of that current
in each receiver will convey its message to the detonators, which will then operate. You know what
that would mean?
ThorLarsen stared back at the masked face across the table from him. His ship, his belovedFreya,
was being raped, and there was nothing he could do about it. His crew was crowded into a steel
coffin inches away through a steel bulkhead
from a charge that would crush them all, and cover
them in seconds with freezing seawater.
His minds eye conjured a picture of hell. If the charges blew, great holes would be torn in the port
and starboard sides of four of his ballast tanks. Roaring mountains of sea would rush in, filling both
the outer and the center ballast tanks in minutes. Being heavier than the crude oil, the sea−water
would have the greater pressure; it would push through the other gaping holes inside the tanks to the
neighboring cargo holds, spewing the crude oil upward through the inspection
hatches, so that six
more holds would fill with water. This would happen right up in the forepeak, and right aft, beneath
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER ELEVEN 183
his feet. In minutes the engine room would be flooded with tens of thousands of tons of green water.
The stern and the bow would drop at least ten feet, but the buoyant
midsection would ride high, its
ballast tanks untouched. TheFreya, most beautiful of all the Norse goddesses, would arch her back
once, in pain, and split in two. Both sections would drop straight, without rolling, twenty−five feet to
the seabed beneath, to sit there with fifty inspection hatches open and facing upward. A million tons
of crude would gurgle out to the surface of the North Sea.
It might take an hour for the mighty goddess to sink completely,
but the process would be
irreversible. In such shallow water, part of her bridge might still be above the tide, but she could
never be refloated. It might take three days for the last of her cargo to reach the surface, but no diver
could work among fifty columns of vertically rising crude oil. No one would close the hatches again.
The escape of the oil, like the destruction of his ship, would be irreversible.
He stared back at the masked face but made no reply. There was a deep, seething anger inside him,
growing with each passing minute, but he gave no sign of it.
What do you want? he growled. The terrorist glanced at the digital display clock on the wall. It
read a quarter to seven.
Were going to the radio room, he said. We talk to Rotterdam.
Or rather, you talk to
Rotterdam.
Twenty−seven miles to the east, the rising sun had dimmed the great yellow flames that spout day
and night from the oil refineries of the Europoort. Through the night, from the bridge of theFreya, it
had been possible to see these flames in the dark sky above Chevron, Shell, British Petroleum, and
even, far beyond them, the cool blue glow of Rotterdams streetlighting.
The refineries and the labyrinthine complexity of the Europoort,
the greatest oil terminal in the
world, lie on the south shore of theMaas Estuary. On the north shore in the Hook of Holland, with its
ferry terminal and theMaas Control building, squatting beneath its whirling radar antennae.
Here at six−forty−five on the morning of April 1, duty officerBernhard
Dijkstra yawned and
stretched. He would be going home in fifteen minutes for a well−earned breakfast. Later, after a
sleep, he would motor back from his home at Gravenzande in his spare time to see the new
supergiant tanker pass through the estuary. It should be quite a day. As if to answer his thoughts, the
speaker in front of him came to life.
PilotMaas, Pilot Mass, this is theFreya.
The supertanker was on Channel 20, the usual channel for a tanker out at sea to call up Mass Control
by radiotelephone.
Dijkstra leaned forward and flicked a switch.
Freya,this is PilotMaas. Go ahead.
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CHAPTER ELEVEN 184
PilotMaas, this is theFreya. CaptainThor Larsen speaking.
Where is the launch with my berthing
crew?
Dijkstra consulted a clipboard to the left of his console.
Freya,this is PilotMaas. They left the Hook over an hour ago. They should be with you in twenty
minutes.
What followed caused Dijkstra to shoot bolt−upright in his chair.
FreyatoPilotMaas. Contact the launch immediately and tell them to return to port. We cannot
accept them on board. Inform theMaas pilots not to takeoff repeat, not to take off. We cannot
accept them on board. We have an emergencyI repeat, we have an emergency.
Dijkstra covered the speaker with his hand and yelled to his fellow duty officer to throw the switch
on the tape recorder.
When it was spinning to record the conversation, Dijkstra removed his hand
and said carefully:
Freya,this is PilotMaas. Understand you do not wish the berthing crew to come alongside.
Understand you do not wish the pilots to take off. Please confirm.
PilotMaas, this isFreya. Confirm. Confirm.
Freya,please give details of your emergency.
There was silence for ten seconds, as if a consultation were taking place on theFreyas bridge far
out at sea. Then Larsens voice boomed out again in the control room.
PilotMaas,Freya.I cannot give the nature of the emergency. But if any attempt is made by anyone
to approach
theFreya, people will get killed. Please stay away. Do not make any further attempt to
contact theFreya by radio or telephone. Finally, theFreya will contact you again at oh−nine−hundred
hours exactly. Have the chairman of the Rotterdam
Port Authority present in the control room. That
is all.
The voice ended, and there was a loud click. Dijkstra tried to call back two or three times. Then he
looked across at his colleague.
What the hell did that mean?
OfficerWilhelm Schipper shrugged in perplexity. I didnt like the sound of it, he said. Captain
Larsen sounded as if he might be in danger.
He spoke of men getting killed, said Dijkstra. How killed? Whats he got, a mutiny? Someone
run amok?
Wed better do what he says until this is sorted out, saidSchipper.
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER ELEVEN 185
Right, said Dijkstra. You get on to the chairman. Ill contact the launch and the two pilots up at
Schiphol.
The launch bearing the berthing crew was chugging at a steady ten knots across the flat calm toward
theFreya, with three miles still to go. It was developing into a beautiful spring morning, warm for the
time of year. At three miles the bulk of the giant tanker was already looming large, and the ten
Dutchmen who would help her berth, but who had never seen her before, were craning their necks as
they came closer.
No one thought anything when the ship−to−shore radio by the helmsmans side crackled and
squawked. He took the handset off its cradle and held it to his ear. With a frown he cut the engine to
idling, and asked for a repeat. When he got it, he put the helm hard a−starboard and brought the
launch around in a semicircle.
Were going back, he told the men, who looked at him with puzzlement. Theres something
wrong. Captain Larsens not ready for you yet.
Behind them theFreya receded again toward the horizon as they headed back to the Hook.
Up at Schiphol Airport, south of Amsterdam, the two estuary pilots were walking toward the Port
Authority helicopter that would airlift them out to the deck of the tanker. It was routine procedure;
they always went out to waiting ships by whirlybird.
The senior pilot, a grizzled veteran with twenty years at sea, a masters ticket, and fifteen years asa
Maas Pilot, carried
his brown box, the instrument that would help him steer her to within a yard
of seawater if he wished to be so precise. With theFreya clearing twenty feet only from the shoals
and the Inner Channel barely fifty feet wider than theFreya herself, he would need it this morning.
As they ducked underneath the whirling blades, the helicopter
pilot leaned out and wagged a
warning finger at them.
Something seems to be wrong, he yelled above the roar of the engine. We have to wait. Im
closing her down.
The engine cut, the blades swished to a stop.
What the hells all that about? asked the second pilot.
The helicopter flier shrugged.
Dont ask me, he said. Just came through fromMaas Control. The ship isnt ready for you yet.
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER ELEVEN 186
At his handsome country house outside Vlaardingen, Dirk VanGelder, chairman of the Port
Authority, was at breakfast a few minutes before eight when the phone rang. His wife answered
it.
Its for you, she called, and went back to the kitchen, where the coffee was perking. VanGelder
rose from the breakfast table, dropped his newspaper on the chair, and shuffled in carpet slippers out
to the hallway.
VanGelder, he said into the telephone. As he listened, he stiffened, his brow furrowed.
What did he mean, killed? he asked.
There was another stream of words into his ear.
Right, said VanGelder. Stay there. Ill be with you in fifteen minutes.
He slammed the phone down, kicked off the slippers, and put on his shoes and jacket. Two minutes
later he was at his garage doors. As he climbed into his Mercedes and backed out to the gravel
driveway, he was fighting back thoughts of his personal and abiding nightmare.
Dear God, not a hijack. Please, not a hijack.
After replacing the VHF radiotelephone on the bridge of theFreya, CaptainThor Larsen had been
taken at gunpoint on a tour of his own ship, peering with flashlight into the forward ballast holds to
note the big packages strapped far down below
the waterline.
Returning down the deck, he had seen the launch with the berthing crew turn, three miles out, and
head back for the shore. To seaward a small freighter had passed, heading south, and had greeted the
leviathan at anchor with a cheery hoot. It was not returned.
He had seen the single charge in the center ballast tank amidships, and the further charges in the after
ballast tanks close by the superstructure. He did not need to see the paint locker. He knew where it
was, and could imagine how close the charges were placed.
At half past eight, while Dirk VanGelder was striding into theMaas Control Building to listen to the
tape recording,Thor Larsen was being escorted back to his day cabin. He had noted one of the
terrorists, muffled against the chill, perched right up in the focsle apron of theFreya, watching the
arc of the sea out in front of the vessel. Another was high on the top of the funnel casing, over a
hundred feet up, with a commanding view of the sea around him. A third was on the bridge,
patrolling the radar screens, able, thanks to theFreyasown technology, to see a circle of ocean with
a radius of forty−eight miles, and most of the sea beneath her.
Of the remaining four, two, the leader and another, were with him; the other two must be below
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER ELEVEN 187
decks somewhere.
The terrorist leader forced him to sit at his own table in his own cabin. The man tapped the oscillator,
which was clipped to his belt.
Captain, please dont force me to press this red button. And please dont think that I will
noteither if there is any attempt at heroics on this ship or if my demands are not met. Now, please
read this.
He handed Captain Larsen a sheaf of three sheets of foolscap
paper covered with typed writing in
English. Larsen went rapidly through it.
At nine oclock you are going to read that message over the ship−to−shore radio to the chairman of
the Port Authority of Rotterdam. No more, and no less. No breaking into Dutch or Norwegian. No
supplementary questions. Just the message. Understand?
Larsen nodded grimly. The door opened, and a masked terrorist came in. He had apparently been in
the galley. He bore a tray with fried eggs, butter, jam, and coffee, which he placed on the table
between them.
Breakfast, said the terrorist leader. He gestured toward Larsen. You might as well eat.
Larsen shook his head, but drank the coffee. He had been awake all night, and had risen from his bed
the previous morning at seven. Twenty−six hours awake, and many more to go. He needed to stay
alert, and guessed the black coffee might help. He calculated also that the terrorist across the table
from him had been awake the same amount of time.
The terrorist signaled the remaining gunman to leave. As the door closed they were alone, but the
broad expanse of table put the terrorist well out of Larsens reach. The gun lay within inches of the
mans right hand; the oscillator was at his waist.
I dont think we shall have to abuse your hospitality for more than thirty hours, maybe forty, said
the masked man. But if I wear this mask during that time, I shall suffocate. You have never seen
me before, and after tomorrow you will never see me again.
With his left hand, the man pulled the black balaclava helmet
from his head. Larsen found himself
staring at a man in his early thirties, with brown eyes and medium−brown hair. He puzzled Larsen.
The man spoke like an Englishman, behaved
like one. But Englishmen did not hijack tankers,
surely. Irish, perhaps? IRA? But he had referred to friends of his in prison in Germany. Arab,
perhaps? There were PLO terrorists
in prison in Germany. And he spoke a strange language to his
companions. Not Arabic by the sound of it, yet there were scores of different dialects in Arabic, and
Larsen knew only the Gulf Arabs. Again, Irish perhaps.
What do I call you? he asked the man whom he would never know as Andriy Drach or Andrew
Drake. The man thought for a moment as he ate.
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER ELEVEN 188
You can call me Svoboda,  he said at length. It is a common name in my language. But it is
also a word. It means freedom. 
Thats not Arabic, said Larsen.
The man smiled for the first time.
Certainly not. We are not Arabs. We are Ukrainian freedom fighters, and proud of it.
And you think the authorities will free your friends in prison? asked Larsen.
They will have to, said Drake confidently. They have no alternative. Come, it is almost nine
oclock.

Chapter Twelve


0900 to 1300
PILOTMAAS, PilotMaas, this is theFreya.
CaptainThor Larsens baritone voice echoed into the main control room at the squat building on the
tip of the Hook of Holland. In the first−floor office with its sweeping picture windows
gazing out
over the North Sea, now curtained against the bright morning sun to give clarity to the radar screens,
five men sat waiting.
Dijkstra andSchipper were still on duty, thoughts of breakfast forgotten. Dirk VanGelder stood
behind Dijkstra, ready to take over when the call came through. At another console, one of the
day−shift men was taking care of the rest of the estuary traffic, bringing ships in and out, but keeping
them away from theFreya, whose blip on the radar screen was at the limit of vision but still larger
than all the others. The senior maritime safety officer ofMaas Control was also present.
When the call came, Dijkstra slipped out of his chair before the speaker, and VanGelder sat down.
He gripped the stem of the table microphone, cleared his throat, and threw the transmit switch.
Freya,this is PilotMaas. Go ahead, please.
Beyond the confines of the building, which looked for all the world like a chopped−off air−traffic
control tower sitting on the sand, other ears were listening. During the earlier transmission, two other
ships had caught part of the conversation,
and there had been a bit of chitchat between ships radio
officers in the intervening two hours. Now a dozen were listening keenly.
On theFreya, Larsen knew he could switch to Channel 16, speak to Scheveningen Radio, and ask for
a patch−through toMaas Control for greater privacy, but the listeners would soon join him on that
channel. So he stayed with Channel 20.
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Freyato PilotMaas, I wish to speak personally to the chairman of the Port Authority.
This is PilotMaas. This is Dirk VanGelder speaking. I am the chairman of the Port Authority.
This is CaptainThor Larsen, master of theFreya.
Yes, Captain Larsen, your voice is recognized. What is your problem?
At the other end, on the bridge of theFreya, Drake gestured
with the tip of his gun to the written
statement in Larsens hand. Larsen nodded, flicked his transmit switch, and began to read into the
telephone.
I am reading a prepared statement. Please do not interrupt
and do not pose questions.
 At three oclock this morning, theFreya was taken over by armed men. I have already been
given ample reason to believe
they are in deadly earnest and prepared to carry out all their threats
unless their demands are met. 
In the control tower on the sand, there was a hiss of indrawn
breath from behind VanGelder. He
closed his eyes wearily. For years he had been urging that some security measures be taken to protect
these floating bombs from a hijacking.
He had been ignored, and now it had happened at last. The
voice from the speaker went on; the tape recorder revolved impassively.
 My entire crew is presently locked in the lowest portion of the ship, behind steel doors, and
cannot escape. So far, no harm has come to them. I myself am held at gunpoint on my own bridge.
 During the night, explosive charges have been placed at strategic positions at various points
inside theFreyas hull. I have examined these myself, and can corroborate that if exploded
they
would blast theFreya apart, kill her crew instantly,
and vent one million tons of crude oil into the
North Sea. 
Oh, my God, said a voice behind VanGelder. He waved an impatient hand for the speaker to shut
up.
 These are the immediate demands of the men who hold theFreya prisoner. One: all sea traffic is
to be cleared at once from the area inside the arc from a line forty−five degrees south of a bearing
due east of theFreya, and forty−five degrees north of the same bearingthat is, inside a
ninety−degree arc between theFreya and the Dutch coast. Two: no vessel, surface or submarine, is to
attempt to approach
theFreya on any other bearing to within five miles. Three: no aircraft is to pass
overhead theFreya within a circle of five miles radius of her, and below a height of ten thousand
feet. Is that clear? You may answer.
VanGelder gripped the microphone hard.
Freya,this is PilotMaas. Dirk VanGelder speaking. Yes, that is clear. I will have all surface traffic
cleared from the area enclosed by a ninety−degree arc between theFreya and the Dutch coast, and
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from an area five sea miles from theFreyaon all other sides. I will instruct Schiphol Airport traffic
control to ban all air movements within the five−mile−radius
area below ten thousand feet. Over.
There was a pause, and Larsens voice came back.
I am informed that if there is any attempt to breach these orders, there will be an immediate riposte
without further consultation. Either theFreya will vent twenty thousand tons of crude oil
immediately, or one of my seamen will be ... executed. Is that understood? You may answer.
Dirk VanGelder turned to his traffic officers.
Jesus, get the shipping out of that area, fast. Get on to Schiphol and tell them. No commercial
flights, no private aircraft,
no choppers taking picturesnothing. Now move.
To the microphone he said, Understood, Captain Larsen. Is there anything else?
Yes, said the disembodied voice. There will be no further radio contact with theFreya until
twelve hundred hours. At that time theFreya will call you again. I will wish to speak directly and
personally to the Prime Minister of the Netherlands and the West German Ambassador. Both must
be present. That is all.
The microphone went dead. On the bridge of theFreya, Drake removed the handset from Larsens
hand and replaced it. Then he gestured the Norwegian to return to the day cabin. When they were
seated with the seven−foot table between
them, Drake laid down his gun and leaned back. As his
sweater rode up, Larsen saw the lethal oscillator clipped at his waistband.
What do we do now? asked Larsen.
We wait, said Drake. While Europe goes quietly mad.
Theyll kill you, you know, said Larsen. Youve got on board, but youll never get off. They
may have to do what you say, but when they have done it, theyll be waiting for you.
I know, said Drake. But you see, I dont mind if I die. Ill fight to live, of course, but Ill die,
and Ill kill, before Ill see them kill off my project.
You want these two men in Germany free, that much? asked Larsen.
Yes, that much. I cant explain why, and if I did, you wouldnt understand. But for years my land,
my people, have been occupied, persecuted, imprisoned, killed. And no one cared a shit. Now I
threaten to kill one single man, or hit Western Europe in the pocket, and youll see what they do.
Suddenly its a disaster. But for me, the slavery of my land, that is the disaster.
This dream of yours, what is it, exactly? asked Larsen.
A free Ukraine, said Drake simply. Which cannot be achieved short of a popular uprising by
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millions of people.
In the Soviet Union? said Larsen. Thats impossible. That will never happen.
It could, countered Drake. It could. It happened in East Germany, in Hungary, in
Czechoslovakia. But first, the conviction
by those millions that they could never win, that their
oppressors are invincible, must be broken. If it once were, the floodgates could open wide.
No one will ever believe that, said Larsen.
Not in the West, no. But theres the strange thing. Here in the West, people would say I cannot be
right in that calculation.
But in the Kremlin they know I am.
And for this ... popular uprising, you are prepared to die? asked Larsen.
If I must. That is my dream. That land, that people, I love more than life itself. Thats my
advantage: within a hundred−mile radius of us here, there is no one else who loves something more
than his life.
A day earlierThor Larsen might have agreed with the fanatic.
But something was happening inside
the big, slow−moving
Norwegian that surprised him. For the first time in his life he hated a man
enough to kill him. Inside his head a private
voice said, I dont care about your Ukrainian dream,
Mr. Svoboda. You are not going to kill my crew and my ship.
At Felixstowe on the coast of Suffolk, the English Coastguard officer walked quickly away from his
coastal radio set and picked up the telephone.
Get me the Department of the Environment in London, he told the operator.
By God, those Dutchies have got themselves a problem this time, said his deputy, who had heard
the conversation between theFreya andMaas Control also.
Its not just the Dutch, said the senior coastguardsman. Look at the map.
On the wall was a map of the entire southern portion of the North Sea and the northern end of the
English Channel. It showed the coast of Suffolk right across to theMaas Estuary.
In chinagraph
pencil the coastguardsman had marked theFreya at her overnight position. It was a little more than
two−thirds of the way from England to Holland.
If she blows, lad, our coasts will also be under a foot of oil from Hull round to Southampton.
Minutes later he was talking to a civil servant in London, one of the men in the department of the
ministry specifically concerned with oil−slick hazards. What he said caused the mornings first cup
of tea in London to go quite cold.
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Dirk VanGelder managed to catch the Prime Minister at his residence, just about to leave for his
office. The urgency of the Port Authority chairman finally persuaded the young aide from the
Cabinet Office to pass the phone to the Premier.
Jan Grayling, he said into the speaker. As he listened to VanGelder his face tightened.
Who are they? he asked.
We dont know, said VanGelder. Captain Larsen was reading from a prepared statement. He
was not allowed to deviate from it, nor answer questions.
If he was under duress, perhaps he had no choice but to confirm the placing of the explosives.
Perhaps thats a bluff, said Grayling.
I dont think so, sir, said VanGelder. Would you like me to bring the tape to you?
Yes, at once, in your own car, said the Premier. Straight to the Cabinet Office.
He put the phone down and walked to his limousine, his mind racing. If what was threatened was
indeed true, the bright summer morning had brought the worst crisis of his term of office. As his car
left the curb, followed by the inevitable
police vehicle, he leaned back and tried to think out some of
the first priorities. An immediate emergency cabinet meeting, of course. The pressthey would not
be long. Many ears must have listened to the ship−to−shore conversation; someone would tell the
press before noon.
He would have to inform a variety of foreign governments through their embassies. And authorize
the setting up of an immediate crisis management committee of experts. Fortunately
he had access
to a number of such experts since the hijacks
by the South Moluccans several years earlier. As he
drew up in front of the prime ministerial office building, he glanced at his watch. It was half past
nine.
The phrase crisis management committee was already being thought, albeit as yet unspoken, in
London. Sir Rupert Moss−bank, Permanent Under Secretary to the Department of the Environment,
was on the phone to the Cabinet Secretary, Sir Julian Flannery.
Its early days yet, of course, said Sir Rupert. We dont know who they are, how many, if
theyre serious, or whether there are really any bombs on board. But if that amount of crude oil did
get spilt, it really would be rather messy.
Sir Julian thought for a moment, gazing out through his first−floor windows onto Whitehall.
Good of you to call so promptly, Rupert, he said. I think Id better inform the P.M. at once. In
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the meantime, just as a precaution, could you ask a couple of your best minds to put together a memo
on the prospective consequences
if she does blow up? Question of spillage, area of ocean covered,
tide flow, speed, area of our coastline likely to be affected. That sort of thing. Im pretty sure shell
ask for it.
I have it in hand all ready, old boy.
Good, said Sir Julian. Excellent. Fast as possible. I suspect
shell want to know. She always
does.
He had worked under three prime ministers, and the latest was far and away the toughest and most
decisive. For years it had been a standing joke that the government party was full of old women of
both sexes, but fortunately was led by a real man. The name of the latter was Joan Carpenter. The
Cabinet
Secretary had his appointment within minutes and walked through the bright morning
sunshine across the lawn to No. 10, with purpose but without hurry, as was his wont.
When he entered the Prime Ministers private office she was at her desk, where she had been since
eight oclock. A coffee set of bone china lay on a side table, and three red dispatch boxes lay open
on the floor. Sir Julian was admiring; the woman went through documentation like a paper shredder,
and the papers were already finished by tenA.M., either agreed to, rejected, or bearing a crisp request
for further
information, or a series of pertinent questions.
Good morning, Prime Minister.
Good morning, Sir Julian, a beautiful day.
Indeed, maam. Unfortunately it has brought a piece of unpleasantness with it.
He took a seat at her gesture and accurately sketched in the details of the affair in the North Sea, as
well as he knew them. She was alert, absorbed.
If it is true, then this ship, theFreya, could cause an environmental
disaster, she said flatly.
Indeed, though we do not know yet the exact feasibility of sinking such a gigantic vessel with what
are presumably industrial
explosives. There are men who would be able to give an assessment, of
course.
In the event that it is true, said the Prime Minister, I believe we should form a crisis management
committee to consider the implications. If it is not, then we have the opportunity
for a realistic
exercise.
Sir Julian raised an eyebrow. The idea of putting a thunderflash down the trousers of a dozen
ministerial departments as an exercise had not occurred to him. He supposed it had a certain charm.
For thirty minutes the Prime Minister and her Cabinet Secretary listed the areas in which they would
need professional
expertise if they were to be accurately informed of the options in a major tanker
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hijacking in the North Sea.
In the matter of the supertanker herself, she was insured by Lloyds, which would be in possession
of a complete plan of her layout. Concerning the structure of tankers, British Petroleum
s Marine
Division would have an expert in tanker construction who could study those plans and give a precise
judgment on feasibility.
In spillage control, they agreed to call on the senior research analyst at the Warren Springs
Laboratory at Stevenage, close to London, run jointly by the Department of Trade and Industry and
the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries, and Food.
The Ministry of Defense would be called on for a serving officer in the Royal Engineers, an expert in
explosives, to estimate
that side of things, and the Department of the Environment
itself had people
who could calculate the scope of the catastrophe to the ecology of the North Sea. Trinity House, head
authority of the pilotage services around Britains coasts, would be asked to inform on tide flows
and speeds. Relations and liaison with foreign governments would fall to the Foreign
Office, which
would send an observer. By ten−thirty the list seemed complete. Sir Julian prepared to leave.
Do you think the Dutch government will handle this affair?
 asked the Prime Minister.
Its early days to say, maam. At the moment the terrorists
wish to put their demands to Mr.
Grayling personally at noon, in ninety minutes. I have no doubt The Hague will feel able to handle
the matter. But if the demands cannot be met, or if the ship blows up anyway, then as a coastal nation
we are involved in any case.
Furthermore, our capacity to cope with oil spillage is the most advanced in Europe, so we may be
called on to help by our allies across the North Sea.
Then all the sooner we are ready, the better, said the Prime Minister. One last thing, Sir Julian. It
will probably never come to it, but if the demands cannot be met, the contingency
may have to be
considered of storming the vessel to liberate the crew and defuse the charges.
For the first time Sir Julian was not comfortable. He had been a professional civil servant all his life,
since leaving Oxford
with a Double First. He believed the word, written and spoken, could solve
most problems, given time. He abhorred violence.
Ah, yes, Prime Minister. That would of course be a last resort. I understand it is called the hard
option. 
The Israelis stormed the airliner at Entebbe, mused the Prime Minister. The Germans stormed
the one at Mogadisho. The Dutch stormed the train atAssen. When they were left with no alternative.
Supposing it were to happen again.
Well, maam, perhaps they would.
Could the Dutch Marines carry out such a mission?
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CHAPTER TWELVE 195
Sir Julian chose his words carefully. He had a vision of burly Marines clumping all over Whitehall.
Far better to keep those people playing their lethal games well out of the way on Exmoor.
If it came to storming a vessel at sea, he said, I believe a helicopter landing would not be
feasible. It would be spotted by the deck watch, and of course the ship has a radar scanner. Similarly,
an approach by surface vessel would also be observed. This is not an airliner on a concrete runway,
nor a stationary train, maam. This is a ship over twenty−five miles from land.
That, he hoped, would put a stop to it.
What about an approach by armed divers or frogmen? she asked.
Sir Julian closed his eyes. Armed frogmen indeed. He was convinced politicians read too many
novels for their own good.
Armed frogmen, Prime Minister? The blue eyes across the desk did not leave him.
I understand, she said clearly, that our capacity in this regard is among the most advanced in
Europe.
I believe it may well be so, maam.
And who are these underwater experts?
The Special Boat Service, Prime Minister.
Who, in Whitehall, liaises with our special services? she asked.
There is a Royal Marine colonel in Defense, he conceded, called Holmes.
It was going to be bad; he could see it coming. They had used the land−based counterpart of theSUS,
the better−known Special Air Service, orSAS, to help the Germans at Mogadisho, and in the
Balcombe Street siege. Harold Wilson had always wanted to hear all the details of the lethal games
these roughnecks played with their opponents. Now they were going
to start another James
Bond−style fantasy.
Ask Colonel Holmes to attend the crisis management committeein a consultative capacity only, of
course.
Of course, maam.
And prepare UNICORNE. I shall expect you to take the chair at noon, when the terrorists
demands are known.
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CHAPTER TWELVE 196
Three hundred miles across the North Sea, the activity in Holland was already, by midmorning,
becoming frenetic.
From his office in the seaside capital of The Hague, the Premier, Jan Grayling, and his staff were
putting together the same sort of crisis management committee that Mrs. Carpenter
inLondon had in
mind. The first requirement was to know the exact perspectives of any conceivable human or
environmental
tragedy stemming from the damage at sea to a ship like theFreya, and the various
options the Dutch government
faced.
To secure this information the same kinds of experts were being called upon for their specialized
knowledge: in shipping,
oil slicks, tides, speeds, directions, future weather prospects, and even the
military option.
Dirk VanGelder, having delivered the tape recordingof the nine oclock message from theFreya,
drove back toMaas Control on the instructions of Jan Grayling to sit by the VHF radiotelephone set
in case theFreya called up again before twelve noon.
It was he who at ten−thirty took the call from Harry Wennerstrom. Having finished breakfast in his
penthouse suite at the Rotterdam Hilton, the old shipping magnate was still in ignorance of the
disaster to his ship. Quite simply, no one had thought to call him.
Wennerstrom was calling to inquire about the progress of theFreya, which by this time, he thought,
would be well into the Outer Channel, moving slowly and carefully toward the Inner Channel,
several kilometers past Euro Buoy 1 and moving along a precise course of 080.5 degrees. He
expected to leave Rotterdam with his convoy of notables to witness theFreyas coming into sight
about lunchtime, as the ride rose to its peak.
VanGelder apologized for not having called him at the Hilton, and carefully explained what had
happened at 0645 and 0900 hours. There was silence from the Hilton end of the line. Wennerstroms
first reaction could have been to mention that there was $170 million worth of ship being held
prisoner out beyond the western horizon, carrying $140 million
worth of crude oil. It was a
reflection on the man that he said, at length:
There are thirty of my seamen out there, Mr. VanGelder. And starting right now, let me tell you
that if anything happens
to any one of them because the terrorists demands are not met, I shall hold
the Dutch authorities personally responsible.

Mr. Wennerstrom, said VanGelder, who had also commanded
a ship in his career, we are doing
everything we can. The requirements of the terrorists regarding the distance of clear water around
theFreya are being met, to the letter. Their primary demands have not yet been stated. The Prime
Minister is in his office now in The Hague doing what he can, and he will be here at noon for the
next message from theFreya.
Harry Wennerstrom replaced the receiver and stared through the picture windows of the sitting
roomin the sky toward the west, where his dream ship was lying at anchor on the open sea with
armed terrorists aboard her.
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CHAPTER TWELVE 197
Cancel the convoy toMaas Control, he said suddenly to one of his secretaries. Cancel the
champagne lunch. Cancel the reception this evening. Cancel the press conference. Im going.
Where, Mr. Wennerstrom? asked the amazed young woman.
ToMaas Control. Alone. Have my car waiting by the time I reach the garage.
With that, the old man stumped from the suite and headed for the elevator.
Around theFreya the sea was emptying. Working closely with their British colleagues at
Flamborough Head and Felixstowe, the Dutch marine−traffic−control officers diverted shipping into
fresh sea−lanes west of theFreya, the nearest being over five miles west of her.
Eastward of the stricken ship, coastal traffic was ordered to stop or turn back, and movements into
and out of the Europoort and Rotterdam were halted. Angry sea captains, whose voices poured
intoMaas Control demanding explanations
were told simply that an emergency had arisen and they
were to avoid at all costs the sea area whose coordinates were read out to them.
It was impossible to keep the press in the dark. A group of several−score journalists from technical
and marine publications,
as well as the shipping correspondents of the major daily papers from the
neighboring countries, were already in Rotterdam for the reception arranged for theFreya's
triumphal
entry that afternoon. By elevenA.M. their curiosity was aroused, partly by the
cancellation of the journey to the Hook to witness theFreya come over the horizon into the Inner
Channel, and partly by tips reaching their head offices from those numerous radio hams who like to
listen to maritime
radio talk.
Shortly after eleven, calls began to flood into the penthouse suite of their host, Harry Wennerstrom,
but he was not there and his secretaries knew nothing. Other calls came toMaas Control, and were
referred to The Hague. In the Dutch capital
the switchboard operators put the calls through to the
Prime Ministers private press secretary, on Graylings orders, and the harassed young man fended
them off as best he could.
The lack of information simply intrigued the press corps more than ever, so they reported to their
editors that something
serious was afoot with theFreya. The editors dispatched other reporters, who
forgathered through the morning outside theMaas Control Building at the Hook where they were
firmly kept outside the chain−link fence that surrounds the building. Others grouped in The Hague to
pester
the various ministries, but most of all the Prime Ministers office.
The editor ofDeTelegraaf received a tip from a radio ham that there were terrorists on board
theFreya and that they would issue their demands at noon. He at once ordered a radio monitor to be
placed on Channel 20 with a tape recorder
to catch the whole message.
Jan Grayling personally telephoned the West German Ambassador,
Konrad Voss, and told him in
confidence what had happened. Voss called Bonn at once, and within thirty minutes replied to the
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER TWELVE 198
Dutch Premier that he would of course accompany him to the Hook for the twelve oclock contact
as the terrorists had demanded. The government of the Federal Republic of Germany, he assured the
Dutchman, would do everything it could to help.
The Dutch Foreign Ministry as a matter of courtesy informed
the ambassadors of all the nations
concerned : Sweden, whose flag theFreya flew and whose seamen were on board; Norway, Finland,
and Denmark, which also had seamen on board; the United States, because four of those seamen
were Scandinavian−Americans with U.S. passports and dual nationality;
Britain, as a coastal nation
and whose institution, Lloyds, was insuring both ship and cargo; and Belgium and France as coastal
nations.
In nine European capitals the telephones rang between ministry and department, from call box to
editorial room, in insurance offices, shipping agencies, and private homes. For those in government,
banking, shipping, insurance, the armed forces, and the press, the prospect of a quiet weekend that
Friday morning receded into the flat blue ocean, where under a warm spring sun a million−ton bomb
called theFreya lay silent and still.
Harry Wennerstrom was halfway from Rotterdam to the Hook when an idea occurred to him. The
limousine was passing
out of Schiedam on the motorway toward Vlaardingen when he recalled that
his private jet was at Schiedam municipal
airport. He reached for the telephone and called his
principal
secretary, still trying to fend off calls from the press in his suite at the Hilton. When he got
through to her at the third attempt, he gave her a string of orders for his pilot.
One last thing, he said. I want the name and office phone number of the police chief of Ålesund.
Yes, Ålesund, in Norway. As soon as you have it, call him up and tell him to stay where he is and
await my call back to him.
Lloyds Intelligence Unit had been informed shortly after ten oclock. A British dry−cargo vessel
had been preparing to enter
theMaas Estuary for Rotterdam when the 0900 call was made from
theFreya toMaas Control. The radio officer had heard the whole conversation, noted it verbatim in
shorthand, and shown it to his captain. Minutes later, he was dictating it to the ships agent in
Rotterdam, who passed it to the head office in London. The office had called Colchester, Essex, and
repeated the news to Lloyds. One of the chairmen of twenty−five separate firms of underwriters
had been contacted and informed. The consortium that had put together the $170−million hull
insurance on theFreya had to be big; so also was the group of firms covering the million−ton cargo
for Clint Blake in his office in Texas. But despite the size of theFreya and her cargo, the biggest
single policy was the protection and indemnity insurance, for the persons of the crew and pollution
compensation. TheP and I policy would be the one to cost the biggest bundle of money if theFreya
were blown apart.
Shortly before noon, the chairman of Lloyds, in his office high above the City, stared at a few
calculations on his jotting pad.
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CHAPTER TWELVE 199
Were talking about a billion−dollar loss if worse comes to worst, he remarked to his personal
aide. Who the hellare these people?
The leader of these people sat at the epicenter of the growing storm and faced a bearded
Norwegian captain in the day cabin beneath the starboard wing of theFreyas bridge. The curtains
were drawn back, and the sun shone warmly. From the windows stretched a panoramic view of the
silent foredecks, running away a quarter of a mile to the tine focsle.
The miniature, shrouded figure of a man sat high on the bow apron above the stern, looking out from
his perch at the glittering blue sea. On either side of the vessel, the same blue water lay flat and calm,
a mild zephyr ruffling its surface. During the morning that breeze had gently blown away the
invisible clouds of poisonous inert gases that had welled out from the holds when the inspection
hatches were lifted; it was now safe to walk along the deck, or the man on the focsle would not
have been there.
The temperature in the cabin was still stabilized, the air conditioning having taken over from the
central heating when the sun became hotter through the double−glazed windows.
Thor Larsensat where he had sat all morning, at one end of his main table, with Andrew Drake at the
other.
Since the argument between the 0900 radio call and ten oclock, there had been mainly silence
between them. The tension of waiting was beginning to make itself felt. Each knew that across the
water in both directions franticpreparations would be taking place: firstly to try to estimate exactly
what had happened aboard theFreya during the night, and secondly to estimate what, if anything,
could be done about it.
Larson knew no one would do anything, take any initiative, until the noon broadcast of demands. In
that sense the intense
young man facing him was not stupid. He had elected to keep the authorities
guessing. By forcing Larsen to speak in his stead, he had given no clue to his identity or his origins.
Even his motivations were unknown outside the cabin in which they sat. And the authorities would
want to know more, to analyze the tapes of the broadcasts, identify the speech patterns and ethnic
origins of the speaker, before taking
action. The man who called himself Svoboda was denying
them that information, undermining the self−confidence of the men he had challenged to defy him.
He was also giving the press ample time to learn of the disaster, but not the terms; letting them
evaluate the scale of the catastrophe if theFreya blew up, so that their head of steam, their capacity to
pressure the authorities, would be well prepared ahead of the demands. When the demands came,
they would appear mild compared to the alternative, thus subjecting the authorities to press pressure
before they had considered the demands.
Larsen, who knew what the demands would be, could not see how the authorities would refuse. The
alternative was too terrible for all of them. If Svoboda had simply kidnapped an industrialist or a
politician, as the Baader−Meinhof people had kidnapped Hanns−Martin Schleyer, or the Red
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER TWELVE 200
BrigadesAldoMoro, he might have been refused his friends release. But he had elected to destroy
five national coastlines, one sea, thirty lives, and hundreds of millions of dollars in property.
Why are these two men so important to you? asked Larsen
suddenly.
The younger man stared back.
Theyre friends, he said.
No, said Larsen. I recall from last January reading that they were two Jews from Lvov who had
been refused permission
to emigrate, so they hijacked a Russian airliner and forced it to land in
West Berlin. How does that produce your popular uprising?
Never mind, said his captor. It is five to twelve. We return
to the bridge.
Nothing had changed on the bridge, except that there was an extra terrorist there, curled up asleep in
the corner, his gun still clutched in his hand. He was masked, like the one who patrolled the radar
and sonar screens. Svoboda asked the man something in the language Larsen now knew to be
Ukrainian. The man shook his head and replied in the same language. At a word from Svoboda the
masked man turned his gun on Larsen.
Svoboda walked over to the scanners and read them. There was a peripheral ring of clear water
around theFreya at least to five miles on the western, southern, and northern sides. To the east, the
sea was clear to the Dutch coast. He strode out through the door leading to the bridgewing, turned,
and called upward. From high above, Larsen heard the man atop the funnel assembly shout back.
Svoboda returned to the bridge.
Come, he said to the captain, your audience is waiting. One attempt at a trick, and I shoot one of
your seamen, as promised.
Larsen took the handset and pressed for transmit.
MaasControl,Maas Control, this is theFreya.
Though he could not know it, over fifty different offices received
that call. Five major intelligence
services were listening,
plucking Channel 20 out of the ether with their sophisticated listeners. The
words were heard simultaneously by the National Security Agency in Washington, by the British
SIS, the French SDECE, the West GermanBND, the Soviet KGB, and the various services of
Holland, Belgium, and Sweden. There were ships radio officers listening, radio hams and
journalists as well.
A voice came back from the Hook of Holland.
Freya,this isMaas Control. Go ahead, please.
ThorLarsen read from his sheet of paper.
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CHAPTER TWELVE 201
This is CaptainThor Larsen. I wish to speak personally to the Prime Minister of the Netherlands.
A new voice, speaking in English, came on the radio from the Hook.
Captain Larsen, this is Jan Grayling. I am the Prime Minister
of the Kingdom of the Netherlands.
Are you all right?
On theFreya, Svoboda clapped his hand over the mouthpiece
of the telephone.
No questions, he said to Larsen. Just ask if the West German Ambassador is present, and get his
name.
Please ask no questions, Prime Minister. I am not permitted
to answer them. Is the West German
Ambassador with you?
AtMaas Control, the microphone was passed to Konrad Voss.
On the bridge of theFreya, Svoboda nodded at Larsen.
Thats right, he said, go ahead and read it out.
The six men grouped around the console inMaas Control listened in silence. One premier, one
ambassador, one psychiatrist,
a radio engineer in case of a transmission breakdown, VanGelder of
the Port Authority, and the duty officer. All other shipping traffic had now been diverted to a spare
channel.
The two tape recorders whirled silently. Volume was switched high;Thor Larsens voice
echoed in the room.
 I repeat what I told you at nine this morning. TheFreya is in the hands of partisans. Explosive
devices have been placed that would, if detonated, blow her apart. These devices can be detonated at
the touch of a button. I repeat, at the touch of a button. No attempt whatever must be made to
approach her, board her, or attack her in any way. In such an event the detonator button will be
pressed instantly. The men concerned have convinced me they are prepared to die rather than give
in.
I continue. If any approach at all is made, by surface craft or light aircraft, one of my seamen will
be executed, or twenty thousand tons of crude oil vented, or both. Here are the demands of the
partisans:
 The two prisoners of conscience, DavidLazareff and Lev Mishkin, presently in jail at Tegel in
West Berlin, are to be liberated. They are to be flown by a West German civilian jet from West
Berlin to Israel. Prior to this, the Prime Minister of the State of Israel is to give a public guarantee
that they will be neither repatriated to the Soviet Union, nor extradited back to West Germany, nor
reimprisoned in Israel.
 Their liberation must take place at dawn tomorrow. The Israeli guarantee of safe conduct and
freedom must be given by midnight tonight. Failure to comply will place the entire responsibility for
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CHAPTER TWELVE 202
the outcome on the shoulders of West Germany
and Israel. That is all. There will be no more
contact until the demands have been met. 
The radiotelephone went dead with a click. The silence persisted inside the control building. Jan
Grayling looked at Konrad Voss. The West German envoy shrugged.
I must contact Bonn urgently, Voss said.
I can tell you that Captain Larsen is under some strain, said the psychiatrist.
Thank you very much, said Grayling. So am I. Gentlemen, what has just been said cannot fail to
be made public within the hour. I suggest we return to our offices. I shall prepare a statement for the
one oclock news. Mr. Ambassador,
I fear the pressure will now begin to swing toward Bonn.
Indeed it will, said Voss. I must be back inside the embassy
as soon as possible.
Then accompany me to The Hague, said Grayling. I have police outriders, and we can talk in the
car.
Aides brought the two tapes, and the group left for The Hague, fifteen minutes up the coast. When
they were gone, Dirk VanGelder walked up to the flat roof where Harry Wennerstrom would have
held his lunch with Van Gelders permission, the other guests looking eagerly to seaward, as they
supped on champagne and salmon sandwiches, to catch the first glimpse of the leviathan.
Now perhaps she would never come, thought VanGelder, staring out at the blue water. He, too, had
his masters ticket, having served as a Dutch merchant navy captain until he was offered the shore
job with the promise of a regular life with his wife and children. As a seaman he thought of
theFreyas crew, locked far beneath the waves, waiting helplessly for rescue
or death. But as a
seaman he would not be in charge of negotiations. It was out of his hands now. Smoother men,
calculating
in political rather than human terms, would take over. He thought of the towering
Norwegian skipper, whose picture
he had seen but whom he had never met, now facing madmen
armed with guns and dynamite, and wondered how he would have reacted had it ever happened to
him. He had warned that this could happen one day, that the supertankers were too unprotected and
highly dangerous. But money had spoken louder; the more powerful argument had been the extra
cost of installing the necessary devices to make tankers like banks and explosive stores, both of
which in a way they were. No one had listened, and no one ever would. People were concerned about
airliners because they could crash on houses, but not about tankers, which traveled out of sight of
land. So the politicians had not insisted, and the merchants had not volunteered. Now, because
supertankers could be taken as easily as piggy banks, a captain and his crew of twenty−nine might
die like rats in a swirl of oil and water.
He ground a cigarette under his heel into the tar of the roof, and looked again at the empty horizon.
You poor bastards, he said, you poor bloody bastards. If only theyd listened.

Chapter Thirteen


1300 to 1900
IF THE REACTION of the media to the 0900 transmission had been muted and speculative, due to
the uncertainty of the reliability of their informants, the reaction to the 1200 broadcast
was frantic.
From twelve oclock onward there was no doubt whatever what had happened to theFreya, or what
had been said by Captain Larsen on his radiotelephone toMaas Control. Too many people had been
listening.
Banner headlines that had been available for the noon editions
of the evening papers, prepared at
tenA.M., were swept away. Those that went to press at twelve−thirty were stronger in tone and size.
There were no more question marks at the ends of sentences. Editorial columns were hastily
prepared, specialist correspondents in matters of shipping and the environment
required to produce
instant assessments within the hour.
Radio and television programs were interrupted throughout Europes Friday lunch hour to beam the
news to listeners and viewers.
On the dot of five past twelve, a man in a motorcyclists helmet, with goggles and scarf drawn
around the lower part of the face, had walked calmly into the lobby of 85 Fleet Street and deposited
an envelope addressed to the news editor of the Press Association. No one later recalled the man;
dozens of such messengers walk into that lobby every day.
By twelve−fifteen the news editor was opening the envelope. It contained a transcript of the
statement read by Captain Larsen fifteen minutes earlier, though it must have been prepared well
before that. The news editor reported the delivery
to his editor in chief, who told the Metropolitan
Police. That did not stop the text from going straight onto the wires, both of the PA and their cousins
upstairs, Reuters, who put out the text across the world.
Leaving Fleet Street, Miroslav Kaminsky dumped his helmet,
goggles, and scarf in a garbage can,
took a taxi to Heathrow Airport, and boarded the two−fifteen plane for Tel Aviv.
By twoP.M. the editorial pressure on both the Dutch and West German governments was beginning
to build up. Neither
had had any time to consider in peace and quiet the reactions they should make
to the demands. Both governments
began to receive a flood of phone calls urging them to agree to
release Mishkin and Lazareff rather than face the disaster promised by the destruction of theFreya
off their coasts.
By one oclock the West German Ambassador to The Hague was speaking directly to his Foreign
Minister in Bonn, Klaus Hagowitz, who interrupted the Chancellor at his desk lunch. The text of the
1200 broadcast was already in Bonn, once from theBND intelligence service and once on the Reuters
teleprinter. Every newspaper office in Germany also had the text from Reuters, and the telephone
lines to the Chancellery Press Office were jammed with calls.
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN 204
At one−forty−five the Chancellery put out a statement to the effect that an emergency cabinet
meeting had been called for three oclock to consider the entire situation. Ministers canceled their
plans to leave Bonn for the weekend. Lunches were ill−digested.
The governor of Tegel Jail put down his telephone at two minutes past two with a certain deference.
It was not often the Federal Republics Justice Minister cut clean through the protocol of
communicating with the Governing Mayor of West Berlin and called him personally.
He picked up the internal phone and gave an order to his secretary. Doubtless the Berlin Senate
would be in contact in due course with the same request, but so long as the Governing
Mayor was
out of touch at lunch somewhere, he would not refuse the Minister from Bonn.
Three minutes later, one of his senior prison officers entered
the office.
Have you heard the two oclock news? asked the governor.
It was only five past two. The officer pointed out that he had been on his rounds when the Weeper in
his breast pocket buzzed, requiring him to go straight to a wall phone and check in. No, he had not
heard the news. The governor told him of the noon demand of the terrorists on board theFreya. The
officers jaw dropped open.
One for the book, isnt it? said the governor. It looks as if we shall be in the news within
minutes. So, batten down the hatches. Ivegiven orders to the main gate: no admissions by anyone
other than staff. All press inquiries to the authorities
at City Hall.
Now, as regards Mishkin and Lazareff. I want the guard on that floor, and particularly in that
corridor, trebled. Cancel free periods to raise enough staff. Transfer all other prisoners in that
corridor to other cells or other levels. Seal the place. A group of intelligence people are flying in
from Bonn to ask them who their friends in the North Sea are. Any questions?
The prison officer swallowed and shook his head.
Now, resumed the governor, we dont know how long this emergency will last. When were you
due off duty?
Six oclock tonight, sir.
Returning on Monday morning at eight?
No, sir. On Sunday night at midnight. I go on the night shift next week.
Ill have to ask you to work right on through, said the governor. Of course, well make up the
time to you later with a generous bonus. But Id like you right on top of the job from here on.
Agreed?
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN 205
Yes, sir. Whatever you say. Ill get on with it now.
The governor, who liked to adopt a comradely attitude with his staff, came around the desk and
clapped the man on the shoulder.
Youre a good fellow, Jahn. I dont know what wed do without you.
Squadron Leader Mark Latham stared down the runway, heard his takeoff clearance from the control
tower, and nodded to his copilot. The younger mans gloved hand eased the four throttles slowly
open; in the wing roots, four Rolls−Royce Spey engines rose in pitch to push out forty−five
thousand
pounds of thrust, and the Nimrod Mark 2 climbed away from the RAF station at Kinross
and turned southeast from Scotland toward the North Sea and the Channel.
What the thirty−one−year−old squadron leader of Coastal Command was flying he knew to be about
the best aircraft for submarine and shipping surveillance in the world. With its crew of twelve,
improved power plants, performance, and surveillance aids, the Nimrod could either skim the waves
at low level, slow and steady, listening on electronic ears to the sounds of underwater movement, or
cruise at altitude, hour after hour, two engines shut down for fuel economy, observing
an enormous
area of ocean beneath it.
Its radars would pick up the slightest movement of a metallic substance down there on the waters
surface; its cameras could photograph by day and night; it was unaffected
by storm or snow, hail or
sleet, fog or wind, light or dark. Its Data Link computers could process the received information,
identify what it saw for what it was, and transmit the whole picture, in visual or electronic terms,
back to base or to a Royal Navy vessel tapped into the Data Link.
His orders, that sunny spring Friday, were to take up station
fifteen thousand feet above theFreya
and keep circling until relieved.
Shes coming on screen, skipper, Lathams radar operator called on the intercom. Back in the
hull of the Nimrod, the operator was gazing at his scanner screen, picking out the area of traffic−free
water around theFreya on its northern side, watching the large blip move from the periphery toward
the center of the screen as they approached.
Cameras on, said Latham calmly. In the belly of the Nimrod thef/126 daytime camera swiveled
like a gun, spotted theFreya, and locked on. Automatically it adjusted range and focus for maximum
definition. Like moles in their blind hull, the crew behind him saw theFreya come onto their picture
screen. From now on, the aircraft could fly all over the sky, but the cameras would stay locked on
theFreya, adjusting for distance and light changes, swiveling in their housings to compensate for the
circling of the Nimrod. Even if theFreya began to move, they would still stay on her, like an
unblinking eye, until given fresh orders.
And transmit, said Latham.
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN 206
The Data Link began to send the pictures back to Britain, and thence to London. When the Nimrod
was over theFreya, she banked to port, and from his left−hand seat Squadron Leader Latham looked
down visually. Behind him and below him, the camera zoomed closer, beating the human
eye. It
picked out the lone figure of the terrorist in the forepeak, masked face staring upward at the silver
swallow three miles above him. It picked out the second terrorist on top of the funnel, and zoomed
until his black balaclava filled the screen. The man cradled a submachine carbine in his arms in the
sunshine far below.
There they are, the bastards, called the camera operator. The Nimrod established a gentle, rate 1
turn above theFreya, went over to automatic pilot, closed down the engine, reduced power to
maximum endurance setting on the other two, and began to do its job. It circled, watched and waited,
reporting everything back to base. Mark Latham ordered his copilot to take over, unbuckled, and left
the flight deck. He went aft to the four−man dining area, visited the toilet, washed his hands, and sat
down with a vacuum−heated lunch−box. It was, he reflected, really rather a comfortable way to go to
war.
The gleaming Volvo of the police chief of Ålesund ground up the gravel drive of the
timber−construction, ranch−style house at Bogneset, twenty minutes out from the town center, and
halted by the rough−stone porch.
TrygveDabi was a contemporary ofThor Larsen. They had grown up together in Ålesund, and Dahl
had entered the force as a police cadet about the time Larsen had joined the merchant marine. He had
known Lisa Larsen since his friend had brought the young bride back from Oslo after their
marriage.
His own children knew Kurt andKristina, played with them at school, sailed with them in
the long summer holidays.
Damn it, he thought as he climbed out of the Volvo, what the hell do I tell her?
There had been no reply on the telephone, which meant she must be out. The children would be at
school. If she was shopping, perhaps she had met someone who had told her already.
He rang the
bell, and when no one answered, walked around to the back.
Lisa Larsen liked to keep a large vegetable garden, and he found her feeding carrot tops to
Kristinas pet rabbit. She looked up and smiled when she saw him coming around the house.
She doesnt know, he thought. She pushed the remainder of the carrots through the wire of the cage
and came over to him, pulling off her gardening gloves.
Trygve, how nice to see you. What brings you out of town?
Lisa, have you listened to the news this morning on the radio?
She considered the question.
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN 207
I listened to the eight oclock broadcast over breakfast. Ive been out here since then, in the
garden.
You didnt answer the telephone?
For the first time a shadow came into her bright brown eyes. The smile faded.
No. I wouldnt hear it. Has it been ringing?
Look, Lisa, be calm. Something has happened. No, not to the children. ToThor. 
She went pale beneath the honey−colored outdoor tan. Carefully, Trygve Dahl told her what had
happened since the small hours of the morning, far to the south off Rotterdam.
So far as we know, hes perfectly all right. Nothing has happened to him, and nothing will. The
Germans are bound to release these two men, and all will be well.
She did not cry. She stood quite calmly amid the spring lettuce and said, I want to go to him.
The police chief was relieved. He could have expected it of her, but he was relieved. Now he could
organize things. He was better at that.
Harald Wennerstromsprivate jet is due at the airport in twenty minutes, he said. Ill run you
there. He called me an hour ago. He thought you might want to go to Rotterdam, to be close. Now,
dont worry about the children. Im having them picked up from school before they hear from the
teachers.
Well look after them; they can stay with us, of course.
Twenty minutes later she was in the front seat of the car with Dahl, heading quickly back toward
Ålesund. The police chief used his radio to hold the ferry across to the airfield. Just after three−thirty
the Jetstream in the silver and ice−blue livery of the Nordia Line howled down the runway, swept
out over the waters of the bay, and climbed toward the south.
Since the sixties, and particularly through the seventies, the growing outbreaks of terrorism had
caused the formation of a routine procedure on the part of the British government to facilitate the
handling of them. The principal procedure is called the crisis management committee.
When the crisis is serious enough to involve numerous departments
and sections, the committee,
grouping liaison officers
from all these departments, meets at a central point close to the heart of
government to pool information and correlate
decisions and actions. This central point is a
well−protected
chamber two floors below the parquet of the Cabinet Office on Whitehall and a few
steps across the lawn from 10 Downing Street. In this room meets the United Cabinet Office Review
Group (National Emergency), or UNICORNE.
Surrounding the main meeting room are smaller offices; a separate telephone switchboard, linking
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN 208
UNICORNE with every
department of state through direct lines that cannot be interfered
with; a
teleprinter room fitted with the printers of the main news agencies; a telex room and radio room; and
a room for secretaries with typewriters and copiers. There is even a small kitchen where a trusted
attendant prepares coffee and light snacks.
The men who grouped under the chairmanship of Cabinet Secretary Sir Julian Flannery just after
noon that Friday represented all the departments he adjudged might conceivably
be involved.
At this stage, no cabinet ministers were present, though each had sent a representative of at least
assistant under secretary level. These included the Foreign Office, Home Office,
Defense Ministry,
and the departments of the Environment,
Trade and Industry, Agriculture and Fisheries, and Energy.
Assisting them were a bevy of specialist experts, including three scientists in various disciplines,
notably explosives, ships, and pollution; the Vice Chief of Defense Staff (a vice admiral), someone
from Defense Intelligence, from MI5, from the SIS, a Royal Air Force group captain, and a senior
Royal Marine colonel named Timothy Holmes.
Well now, gentlemen, Sir Julian Flannery began, we have all had the time to read the transcript
of the noon broadcast from Captain Larsen. First I think we ought to have a few indisputable facts.
May we begin with this ship, the ...er ...Freya. What do we know about her?
The shipping expert, coming under the Trade and Industry people, found all eyes on him.
Ive been to Lloyds this morning and secured the plan of theFreya, he said briefly. I have it
here. Its detailed down to the last nut and bolt.
He went on for ten minutes, the plan spread on the table, describing the size, cargo capacity, and
construction of theFreya in clear, laymans language.
When he had finished, the expert from the Department ofEnergy was called on. He had an aide bring
to the table a five−foot−long model of a supertanker.
I borrowed this, this morning, he said, from British Petroleum.
Its a model of their
supertankerBritish Princess, quarter of a million tons. But the design differences are few; theFreya is
just bigger, really.
With the aid of the model of thePrincess he went on to point out where the bridge was, where the
captains cabin would be, where the cargo holds and ballast holds would probably be, adding that
the exact locations of these holds would be known when the Nordia Line could pass them over to
London.
The surrounding men watched the demonstration and listened
with attention. None more than
Colonel Holmes; of all those present, he would be the one whose fellow Marines might have to
storm the vessel and wipe out her captors. He knew those men would want to know every nook and
cranny of the realFreya before they went on board.
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN 209
There is one last thing, said the scientist from Energy. Shes full of Mubarraq.
God! said one of the other men at the table.
Sir Julian Flannery regarded the speaker benignly.
Yes, Dr. Henderson?
The man who had spoken was the scientist from Warren Springs Laboratory who had accompanied
the representative of Agriculture and Fisheries.
What I mean, said Henderson in his unrecycled Scottish accent, is that Mubarraq, which is a
crude oil from Abu Dhabi, has some of the properties ofdiesel fuel.
He went on to explain that when crude oil is spilled on the sea, it contains both lighter fractions
which evaporate into the air, and heavier fractions which cannot evaporate and which are what
viewers see washed onto the beaches as thick black sludge.
What I mean is, he concluded, itll spread all over the bloody place. Itll spread from coast to
coast before the lighter fractions evaporate. Itll poison the whole North Sea for weeks, denying the
marine life the oxygen it needs to live.
I see, said Sir Julian gravely. Thank you, Doctor.
There followed information from other experts. The explosives
man from the Royal Engineers
explained that, placed in the right areas, industrial dynamite could destroy a ship this size.
Its also a question of the sheer latent strength contained in the weight represented by a million
tons of oilor anything.
If the holes are made in the right places, the unbalanced
mass of her will
pull her apart. Theres one last thing; the message read out by Captain Larsen mentioned the phrase
at the touch of a button. He then repeated that phrase. It seems to me there must be nearly a dozen
charges placed. That phrase the touch of a button, seems to indicate triggering by radio impulse.
Is that possible? asked Sir Julian.
Perfectly possible, said the sapper, and explained how an oscillator worked.
Surely they could have wires to each charge, linked to a plunger? asked Sir Julian.
Its a question of the weight again, said the engineer. The wires would have to be waterproof,
plastic−coated. The weight of that number of miles of electric cable would nearly sink the launch on
which these terrorists arrived.
There was more information about the destructive capacity of the oil by pollution, the few chances of
rescuing the trapped crewmen, and the SIS admitted they had no information
that might help
identify the terrorists from among foreign
groups of such people.
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN 210
The man from MI5, who was actually the deputy chief of C4 Department within that body, the
section dealing exclusively
with terrorism as it affected Britain, underlined the strange nature of the
demands of the captors of theFreya.
These men, Mishkin and Lazareff, he pointed out, are Jewish. Hijackers who tried to escape
from the USSR and ended up shooting a flight captain. One has to assume that those seeking to free
them are their friends or admirers. That tends to indicate fellow Jews. The only ones who fit into that
category are those of the Jewish Defense League. But so far theyve just demonstrated and thrown
things. In our files we havent had Jews threatening to blow people to pieces to free their friends
since the Irgun and the Stern Gang.
Oh dear, one hopes they dont start that again, observed Sir Julian. If not them, then who else?
The man from C4 shrugged.
We dont know, he admitted. We can notice no one in our files conspicuous by being missing,
nor do we have a trace from what Captain Larsen has broadcast to indicate their origins. This
morning I thought of Arabs, even Irish. But neither would lift a finger for imprisoned Jews. Its a
blank wall.
Still photographs were brought in, taken by the Nimrod an hour earlier, some showing the masked
men on lookout. They were keenly examined.
MAT−forty−nine, said ColonelHohnes briefly, studying the submachine gun one of the men
cradled in his arms. Its French.
Ah, said Sir Julian, now perhaps we have something. These blighters could be French?
Not necessarily, said Holmes. You can buy these things in the underworld. The Paris
underworld is famous for its taste for submachine guns.
At three−thirty, Sir Julian Flannery brought the meetinginto recess. It was agreed to keep the Nimrod
circling above theFreya until further notice. The Vice Chief of Defense Staff put forward and had
accepted his proposal to divert a naval warship to take up station Just over five miles west of
theFreya to watch her also, in case of an attempt by the terrorists
to leave under cover of darkness.
The Nimrod would spot them and pass their position to the Navy. The warship would easily overhaul
the fishing launch still tied by theFreydas side.
The Foreign Office agreed to ask to be informed of any decision
by West Germany and Israel on the
terrorists demands.
There does not, after all, appear much that Her Majestys government can do at the present
moment, Sir Julian pointed out. The decision is up to the Israeli Prime Minister and the West
German Chancellor. Personally I cannot see what else they can do except to let these wretched young
men go to Israel, repugnant though the idea of yielding to blackmail
must be.
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN 211
When the men left the room, only Colonel Holmes of the Royal Marines stayed behind. He sat down
again and stared at the model of the quarter−million−ton British Petroleum tanker in front of him.
Supposing theydont?  He said to himself.
Carefully he began to measure the distance in feet from the sea to the stern taffrail.
The Swedish pilot of the Jetstream was at fifteen thousand feet off the West Frisian Islands,
preparing to let down intoSchiedam airfield outside Rotterdam. He turned around and called
something to the petite woman who was his passenger. She unbuckled and came forward to where he
sat.
I asked if you wanted to see theFreya, the pilot repeated.
The woman nodded.
The Jetstream banked away to the sea, and five minutes later tilted gently onto one wing. From her
seat, face pressed to the tiny porthole, Lisa Larsen looked down. Far below in a blue sea, like a gray
sardine nailed to the water, theFreya lay at anchor. There were no ships around her; she was quite
alone in her captivity.
Even from fifteen thousand feet, through the clear spring air, Lisa Larsen could make out where the
bridge would be, where the starboard side of that bridge was; below it she knew her husband was
facing a man with a gun pointed straight at his chest, with explosive beneath his feet. She did not
know whether the man with the gun was mad, brutal, or reckless. That he must be a fanatic, she
knew.
Two tears welled out of her eyes and ran down her cheeks. When she whispered, her breath misted
the perspex disk in front of her.
Thor,my darling, please come out of there alive.
The Jetstream banked again and began its long drop toward Schiedam. The Nimrod, miles away
across the sky, watched it go.
Who was that? asked the radar operator of no one in particular.
Who was what? replied a sonar operator, having nothing to do.
Small executive jet just banked over theFreya, had a look, and went off to Rotterdam, said the
radarman.
Probably the owner checking on his property, said the crews wit from the radio console.
On theFreya the two lookouts gazed through eyeslits after the tiny sliver of metal high above as it
headed east toward the Dutch coast. They did not report it to their leader; it was well above ten
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER THIRTEEN 212
thousand feet.
The West German cabinet meeting began just after threeP.M. in the Chancellery Office, with
DietrichBusch in the chair as usual. He went straight to the point, as he had a habit of doing.
Lets be clear about one thing: this is not Mogadisho all over again. This time we do not have a
German plane with a German crew and mainly German passengers on an airstrip
whose authorities
are prepared to be collaborative toward us. This is a Swedish vessel with a Norwegian captain in
international
waters; she has crewmen from five countries including
the United States, an
American−owned cargo insured by a British company, and her destruction would affect at least five
coastal nations, including ourselves. Foreign Minister?
Hagowitz informed his colleagues he had already received polite queries from Finland, Norway,
Sweden, Denmark, Holland, Belgium, France, and Britain regarding the kind of decision the
government of the Federal Republic might come to. After all, they held Mishkin and Lazareff.
They are being courteous enough not to exert any pressure to influence our decision, but I have no
doubt they would view a refusal on our part to send Mishkin and Lazareff
to Israel with the deepest
misgivings, he said.
Once you start giving in to this terrorist blackmail, it never ends, put in the Defense Minister.
Dietrich, we gave in over the Peter Lorenz affair years ago and paid for it. The very terrorists we
freed came back and operated again. We stood up to them over Mogadishu and won; we stood up
again over Schleyer and had a corpse on our hands. But at least those were pretty well all−German
affairs. This isnt. The lives at stake arent German; the property isnt German. Moreover, the
hijackers in Berlin arent from a German terrorist group. Theyre Jews who tried to get away from
Russia the only way they knew how. Frankly, it puts us in the devil of a spot, Hagowitz concluded.
Any chance that its a bluff, a confidence trick, that they really cant destroy theFreya or kill her
crew? someone asked.
The Interior Minister shook his head.
We cant bank on that. These pictures the British have just transmitted to us show the armed and
masked men are real enough. Ivesent them along to the leader of GSG−nine to see what he thinks.
But the trouble is, approaching a ship with all−around, over−and−under radar and sonar cover is not
their area of expertise. It would mean divers or frogmen.
He was referring by GSG−nine to the ultratough unit of West German commandos drawn from the
Border Troops who had stormed the hijacked aircraft at Mogadisho five years earlier.
The argument continued for an hour: whether to accede to the terrorists demands in view of the
several nationalities of the probable victims of a refusal, and accept the inevitable protests from
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Moscow; or whether to refuse and call their bluff; or whether to consult with the British allies about
the idea of storming theFreya. A compromise view of adopting delaying tactics, stalling for time,
testing the determination of theFreyas captors, seemed to be gaining ground. At four−fifteen,
there
was a quiet knock on the door. ChancellorBusch frowned; he did not like interruptions.
Herein,he called. An aide entered the room and whispered
urgently in the Chancellors ear. The
head of the Federal
Republics government paled.
Du lieber Gott,he breathed.
When the light aircraft, later traced as a privately owned Cessna on charter fromLe Touquet airfield
on the northern French coast, began to approach, she was spotted by three different
air−traffic−control zones: at Heathrow, Brussels, and Amsterdam. She was flying due north, and the
radars put her at five thousand feet, on track for theFreya. The ether began to crackle furiously.
Unidentified light aircraft ... identify yourself and turn back. You are entering a prohibited area. ...
French and English were used; later, Dutch. They had no effect. Either the pilot had switched off his
radio or he was on the wrong channel. The operators on the ground began to weep through the wave
bands.
The circling Nimrod picked the aircraft up on radar and tried to contact her.
On board the Cessna, the pilot turned to his passenger in despair.
Theyll have my license, he yelled. Theyre going mad down there.
Switch off, the passenger shouted back. Dont worry, nothing will happen. You never heard
them, okay?
The passenger gripped his camera and adjusted the telephoto lens. He began to sight up on the
approaching supertanker.
In the forepeak, the masked lookout stiffened and squinted against the
sun, now in the southwest. The plane was coming from due south. After watching for several
seconds, he took a walkie−talkie from his anorak and spoke sharply
into it.
On the bridge, one of his colleagues heard the message, peered forward through the panoramic
screen, and walked hurriedly outside onto the wing. Here he, too, could hear the engine note. He
reentered the bridge and shook his sleeping colleague awake, snapping several orders in Ukrainian.
The man ran downstairs to the door of the day cabin and knocked.
Inside the cabin,Thor Larsen and Andrew Drake, both looking unshaven and more haggard than
twelve hours earlier,
were still at the table, the gun by the Ukrainians right hand. A foot away from
him was his powerful transistor radio,
picking up the latest news. The masked man entered on his
command and spoke in Ukrainian. His leader scowled and ordered the man to take over in the cabin.
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Drake left the cabin quickly, raced up to the bridge and out onto the wing. As he did so, he pulled on
his black mask. From the bridge he gazed up as the Cessna, banking at a thousand feet, performed
one orbit of theFreya and flew back to the south, climbing steadily. While it turned he had seen the
great zoom lens poking down at him.
Inside the aircraft, the free−lance cameraman was exultant.
Fantastic! he shouted at the pilot. Completely exclusive. The magazines will pay their right arms
for this.
Drake returned to the bridge and issued a rapid stream of orders. Over the walkie−talkie he told the
man up front to continue his watch. The bridge lookout was sent below to summon two men who
were catching sleep. When all three returned, he gave them further instructions. When he returned
to the day cabin, he did not dismiss the extra guard.
I think its time I told those stupid bastards over there in Europe that I am not joking, he toldThor
Larsen.
Five minutes later the camera operator on the Nimrod called over the intercom to his captain.
Theres something happening down there, skipper.
Squadron Leader Latham left the flight deck and walked back to the center section of the hull, where
the visual image of what the cameras were photographing was on display. Two men were walking
down the deck of theFreya, the great wall of superstructure behind them, the long, lonely deck
ahead. One of the men, the one at the rear, was in black from head to foot, with a submachine gun.
The one ahead wore sneakers,
casual slacks, and a nylon−type anorak with three horizontal black
stripes across its back. The hood was up against the chill afternoon breeze.
Looks like a terrorist at the back, but a seaman in front, said the camera operator. Latham nodded.
He could not see the colors; his pictures were monochrome.
Give me a closer look, he said, and transmit. The camera zoomed down until the frame
occupied forty feet of foredeck, both men walking in the center of the picture.
CaptainThor Larsen could see the colors. He gazed through the wide forward windows of his cabin
beneath the bridge in disbelief. Behind him the guard with the machine gun stood well back, muzzle
trained on the middle of the Norwegians white sweater.
Halfway down the foredeck, reduced by distance to match−stick figures, the second man, in black,
stopped, raised his machine gun, and aimed at the back in front of him. Even through the glazing the
crackle of the one−second burst could be heard. The figure in the pillar−box red anorak arched as if
kicked in the spine, threw up its arms, pitched forward, rolled once, and came to rest, half−obscured
beneath the inspection catwalk.
ThorLarsen slowly closed his eyes. When the ship had been taken over, his third mate,
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN 215
Danish−American Tom Keller,
had been wearing fawn slacks and a light nylon wind−breaker in
bright red with three black stripes across the back. Larsen leaned his forehead against the back of his
hand on the glass. Then he straightened, turned to the man he knew as Svoboda, and stared at him.
Drake stared back.
I warned them, he said angrily. I told them exactly what would happen, and they thought they
could play games. Now they know they cant.
Twenty minutes later the still pictures showing the sequence
of what had happened on the deck of
theFreya were coming out of a machine in the heart of London. Twenty minutes after that, the details
in verbal terms were rattling off a teleprinter in the Federal Chancellery in Bonn. It was
four−thirtyP.M.
ChancellorBusch looked at his cabinet.
I regret to have to inform you, he said, that one hour ago a private plane apparently sought to
take pictures of theFreya from close range, about a thousand feet. Ten minutes later the terrorists
walked one of the crew halfway down the deck and, under the cameras of the British Nimrod above
them, executed him. His body now lies half under the catwalk,
half under the sky.
There was dead silence in the room.
Can he be identified? asked one of the ministers in a low voice.
No, his face was partly covered by the hood of his anorak.

Bastards, said the Defense Minister. Now thirty families all over Scandinavia will be in anguish,
instead of one. Theyre really turning the knife.
In the wake of this, so will the four governments of Scandinavia,
and I shall have to answer their
ambassadors, said Hagowitz. I really dont think we have any alternative.
When the hands were raised, the majority were for Hagowitzs proposal: that he instruct the German
Ambassador
to Israel to seek an urgent interview with the Israeli Premier
and ask from him, at
Germanys request, the guarantee the terrorists had demanded. Following which, if it was given, the
Federal Republic would announce that with regret it had no alternative, in order to spare further
misery to innocent men and women outside West Germany, but to release Mishkin and Lazareff to
Israel.
The terrorists have given the Israeli Prime Minister until midnight to offer that guarantee, said
ChancellorBusch. And ourselves until dawn to put these hijackers on a plane. Well hold our
announcement until Jerusalem agrees. Without that, there is nothing we can do, anyway.
By agreement among the NATO allies concerned, the RAF Nimrod remained the only aircraft in the
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sky above theFreya, circling endlessly, watching and noting, sending pictures
back to base
whenever there was anything to showpictures that went immediately to London and to the capitals
of the concerned countries.
At fiveP.M. the lookouts were changed, the men from the focsle and funnel top, who had been
there for ten hours, being allowed to return, chilled and stiff, to the crews quarters for food,
warmth, and sleep. For the night watch, they were replaced by others, equipped with walkie−talkies
and powerful flashlights.
But the allied agreement on the Nimrod did not extend to surface ships. Each coastal nation wanted
an on−site observer from its own Navy. During the late afternoon the French light cruiserMontcalm
stole quietly out of the south and hove lo, just over five nautical miles from theFreya. Out of the
north, where she had been cruising off the Frisians, came the Dutch missile frigateBreda, which
stopped six nautical miles to the north of the helpless tanker.
She was joined by the German missile frigateBrunner, and the frigates lay five cable lengths away
from each other, both watching the dim shape on the southern horizon. From the Scottish port of
Leith, where she had been on a courtesy visit, H.M.S.Argyll put to sea, and as the first evening star
appeared
in the cloudless sky, she took up her station due west of theFreya.
She was a guided−missile light cruiser, known as a DLG, of just under six thousand tons, armed with
batteries ofExocet missiles. Her modern gas−turbine and steam engines had enabled
her to put to
sea at a moments notice, and deep in her hull the Data Link computer she carried was tapped into
the Data Link of the Nimrod circling fifteen thousand feet above in the darkening sky. Toward her
stern, one step up from theafterdeck, she carried her ownWestland Wessex helicopter.
Beneath the water, the sonar ears of the warships surrounded
theFreya on three sides; above the
water, the radar scanners
swept the ocean constantly. With the Nimrod above,Freya was cocooned
in an invisible shroud of electronic surveillance.
She lay silent and inert as the sun prepared to fall
over the English coast.
It was five oclock in Western Europe but seven in Israel when the West German Ambassador asked
for a personal audience with Premier Benyamin Golen. It was pointed out to him at once that the
Sabbath had started one hour before and that as a devout Jew the Premier was at rest in his own
home. Nevertheless, the message was relayed because neither the Prime Ministers private office
nor he himself was unaware of what was happening in the North Sea. Indeed, since the 0900
broadcast fromThor Larsen, the Israeli intelligence service, Mossad, had been keeping Jerusalem
informed, and following the demands made at noon concerning Israel, the most copious
position
papers had been prepared. Before the official start of the Sabbath at six oclock, Premier Golen had
read them all.
I am not prepared to breakShabbat and drive to the office, hetold his aide, who telephoned him
with the news, even though I am now answering this telephone. And it is rather a long way to walk.
Ask the Ambassador to call on me personally.
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN 217
Ten minutes later the German Embassy car drew up outside
the Premiers ascetically modest house
in the suburbs of Jerusalem. When the envoy was shown in, he was apologetic.
After the traditional greetings of Shabbat Shalom, the Ambassador said:
Prime Minister, I would not have disturbed you for all the world during the hours of the Sabbath,
but I understand it is permitted to break the Sabbath if human life is at stake.
Premier Golen inclined his head.
It is permitted if human life is at stake or in danger, he conceded.
In this case, that is very much so, said the Ambassador. You will be aware, sir, of what has been
happening on board the supertankerFreya in the North Sea these past twelve hours.
The Premier was more than aware; he was deeply concerned,
for since the noon demands, it had
become plain that the terrorists, whoever they were, could not be Palestinian Arabs, and might even
be Jewish fanatics. But his own agencies,
the external Mossad and the internal Sherut Bitachon,
called from its initials Shin Bet, had not been able to find any trace of such fanatics being missing
from their usual haunts.
I am aware, Ambassador, and I join in sorrow for the murdered seaman. What is it that the Federal
Republic wants of Israel?
Prime Minister, my countrys cabinet has considered all the issues for several hours. Though it
regards the prospect of acceding to terrorist blackmail with utter repugnance, and though if the affair
were a completely internal German matter
it might be prepared to resist, in the present case it feels it
must yield.
My governments request is therefore that the State of Israel
agree to accept Lev Mishkin and
David Lazareff, with the guarantees of nonprosecution and nonextradition that the terrorists
demand.
Premier Golen had in fact been considering the reply he would make to such a request for several
hours. It came as no surprise to him. He had prepared his position. His government
was a finely
balanced coalition, and privately he was aware that many if not most of his own people were so
incensed by the continuing persecution of Jews and the Jewish religion inside the USSR that for
them Mishkin and Lazareff were hardly to be considered terrorists in the same class as the
Baader−Meinhof gang or the PLO. Indeed, some sympathized
with them for seeking to escape by
hijacking a Soviet airliner, and accepted that the gun in the cockpit had gone off by accident.
You have to understand two things, Ambassador. One is that although Mishkin and Lazareff may
be Jews, the State of Israel had nothing to do with their original offenses, nor with the demand for
their freedom now made.
If the terrorists themselves turn out to be Jewish, how many people are going to believe that? he
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN 218
thought.
The second thing is that the State of Israel is not directly affected by the plight of theFreyas crew,
nor by the effects of her possible destruction. It is not the State of Israel that is under pressure here,
or being blackmailed.
That is understood, Prime Minister, said the German.
If, therefore, Israel agrees to receive these two men, it must be clearly and publicly understood that
she does so at the express and earnest request of the government of the Federal
Republic of
Germany.
That request is being made, sir, by me, now, on behalf of my government.
Fifteen minutes later the format was arranged. West Germany
would publicly announce that it had
made the request to Israel on its own behalf. Immediately afterward, Israel would announce that she
had reluctantly agreed to the request.
Following that, West Germany could announce the release
of
the prisoners at 0800 hours the following morning, European time. The announcements would come
from Bonn and Jerusalem, and would be synchronized at ten−minute intervals,
starting one hour
hence. It was seven−thirty in Israel, five−thirty in Europe.
Across the continent the last editions of the afternoon newspapers
whirled onto the streets, to be
snapped up by a public of three hundred million who had followed the drama since midmorning. The
latest headlines gave details of the murder of the unidentified seaman and the arrest of a free−lance
French photographer and a pilot atLe Touquet.
Radio bulletins carried the news that the West German Ambassador to Israel had visited Premier
Golen in his private house during the Sabbath, and had left thirty−five minutes later. There was no
news from the meeting, and speculation was rife. Television had pictures of anyone who would pose
for them, and quite a few who preferred not to. The latter were the ones who knew what was going
on. No pictures taken by the Nimrod of the seamans body were released by the authorities.
The daily papers, preparing for issue starting at midnight, were holding front pages for the chance of
a statement from Jerusalem or Bonn, or another transmission from theFreya. The learned articles on
the inside pages about theFreya herself,
her cargo, the effects of its spillage, speculation on the
identity of the terrorists, and editorials urging the release of the two hijackers, covered many
columns of copy.
A mild and balmy dusk was ending a glorious spring day when Sir Julian Flannery completed his
report to the Prime Minister in her office at 10 Downing Street. It was comprehensive
and yet
succinct, a masterpiece of draftsmanship.
We have to assume, then, Sir Julian, she said at length, that they certainly exist, that they have
undoubtedly taken complete possession of theFreya, that they could well be in a position to blow her
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apart and sink her, that they would not stop at doing so, and that the financial, environmental, and
human consequences would constitute a catastrophe of appalling dimensions.
That, maam, might seem to be the most pessimistic interpretation,
yet the crisis management
committee feels it would be rash to assume a more hopeful tone, the Secretary to the Cabinet
replied. Only four have been seen: the two lookouts and their replacements. We feel we must
assume another on the bridge, one watching the prisoners, and a leader; that makes a minimum of
seven. They might be too few to stop an armed boarding party, but we cannot assume so. They might
have no dynamite on board, or too little, or have placed it wrongly, but we cannot assume so. Their
triggering device might fail, they might have no second device, but we cannot assume so. They
might not be prepared to kill any more seamen, but we cannot assume so. Finally, they might not be
prepared actually to blow theFreya apart and die with her, but we cannot assume so. Your committee
feels it would be wrong to assume less than the possible, which is the worst.
The telephone from her private staff tinkled, and she answered it. When she replaced the receiver,
she gave Sir Julian a fleeting smile.
It looks as if we may not face the catastrophe after all, she said. The West German government
has just announced it has made the request to Israel. Israel has replied that she accedes to the German
request. Bonn countered by announcing
the release of these two men at eight tomorrow morning.
It was twenty to seven.
The same news came over the transistor radio in the day cabin of CaptainThor Larsen. Keeping him
covered all the time, Drake had switched the cabin lights on an hour earlier and drawn the curtains.
The cabin was well−lit, warm, almost cheery. The percolator of coffee had been exhausted and
replenished
five times. It was still bubbling. Both men, the mariner
and the fanatic, were stubbled
and tired. But one was filled with grief for the death of a friend, and anger; the other triumphant.
Theyve agreed, said Drake. I knew they would. The odds were too long, the consequences too
bad.
ThorLarsen might have been relieved at the news of the pending reprieve of his ship. But the
controlled anger was burning too hot even for this comfort.
Its not over yet, he growled.
It will be. Soon. If my friends are released at eight, they will be in Tel Aviv by oneP.M., or two at
the latest. With an hour for identification and the publication of the news by radio,
we should know
by three or four oclock tomorrow. After
dark, we will leave you safe and sound.
Except Tom Keller out there, snapped the Norwegian.
Im sorry about that. The demonstration of our seriousness
was necessary. They left me no
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER THIRTEEN 220
alternative.
The Soviet Ambassadors request was unusual, highly so, in that it was repeated, tough, and
insistent Although representing
a supposedly revolutionary country, Soviet ambassadors are usually
meticulous in their observance of diplomatic procedures,
originally devised by Western capitalist
nations.
David Lawrence repeatedly asked over the telephone whether AmbassadorKonstantin Kirov could
not talk to him, as U.S. Secretary of State. Kirov replied that his message was for President
Matthews personally, extremely urgent, and finally
that it concerned matters Chairman Maxim
Rudin personally
wished to bring to President Matthewss attention.
The President granted Kirov his face−to−face, and the long black limousine with the
hammer−and−sickle emblem swept into the White House grounds during the lunch hour.
It was a quarter to seven in Europe, but only a quarter to two in Washington. The envoy was shown
straight to the Oval Room by the Secretary of State, to face a President who was puzzled, intrigued,
and curious. The formalities were observed,
but neither partys mind was on them.
Mr. President, said Kirov, I am instructed by a personal order from Chairman Maxim Rudin to
seek this urgent interview
with you. I am instructed to relay to you his personal message, without
variation. It is:
In the event that the hijackers and murderers Lev Mishkin and David Lazareff are freed from jail
and released from their just deserts, the USSR will not be able to sign the Treaty of Dublin in the
week after next, or at any time at all. The Soviet Union will reject the treaty permanently.
President Matthews stared at the Soviet envoy in stunned amazement. It was several seconds before
he spoke.
You mean, Maxim Rudin will just tear it up?
Kirov was ramrod−stiff, formal, unbending.
Mr. President, that is the first part of the message I have been instructed to deliver to you. It goes
on to say that if the nature or contents of this message are revealed, the same reaction from the USSR
will apply.
When he was gone, William Matthews turned helplessly to Lawrence.
David, what the hell is going on? We cant just bully the West German government into reversing
its decision without explaining why.
Mr. President, I think you are going to have to. With respect,
Maxim Rudin has just left you no alternative.

Chapter Fourteen


1900 to Midnight
PRESIDENT WILLIAM MATTHEWS sat stunned by the suddenness, the unexpectedness, and the
brutality of the Soviet
reaction. He waited while his CIA Director, Robert Benson,
and his national
security adviser,Stanislaw Poklewski, were sent for.
When the pair joined the Secretary of State in the Oval Office,
Matthews explained the burden of
the visit from Ambassador
Kirov.
What the hell are they up to? demanded the President.
None of his three principal advisers could come up with an answer. Various suggestions were put
forward, notably that Maxim Rudin had suffered a reverse within his own Politburo and could not
proceed with the Treaty of Dublin, and theFreya affair was simply his excuse for getting out of
signing.
The idea was rejected by mutual consent. Without the treaty the Soviet Union would receive no
grain, and they were at their last few truckloads. It was suggested the dead Aeroflot pilot, Captain
Rudenko, represented the sort of loss of face the Kremlin could not stomach. This, too, was rejected.
International treaties are not torn up because of dead pilots.
The Director of Central Intelligence summed up the feelings of everybody after an hour.
It just doesnt make sense, and yet it must. Maxim Rudin would not react like a madman unless he
had a reason, a reason
we dont know.
That still doesnt get us out from between two appalling alternatives, said President Matthews.
Either we let the release
of Mishkin and Lazareff go through, and lose the most important
disarmament treaty of our generation, and witness war within a year, or we use our clout to block
that release, and subject Western Europe to the biggest ecological disaster of this generation.
We have to find a third choice, said David Lawrence. But in Gods name, where?
There is only one place to look, replied Poklewski. Inside
Moscow. The answer lies inside
Moscow somewhere. I do not believe we can formulate a policy aimed at avoiding both the
alternative disasters unless we know why Maxim Rudin has reacted in this way.
I think youre referring to the Nightingale, Benson cut In. There just isnt the time. Were not
talking about weeks, or even days. We have only hours. I believe, Mr. President, that you should
seek to speak personally with Maxim Rudin on the direct line. Ask him, as President to President,
why he is taking this attitude over two Jewish hijackers.
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN 222
And if he declines to give his reason? asked Lawrence. He could have given a reason through
Kirov. Or sent a personal
letter. ...
President Matthews made up his mind.
I am calling Maxim Rudin, he said. But if he will not take my call or declines to give me an
explanation, we will have to assume he is himself under intolerable pressures of some kind within his
own circle. So while I am waiting for the call, I am going to entrust Mrs. Carpenter with the secret of
what has just happened here and ask for her help through Sir Nigel Irvine and the Nightingale. In the
last resort I will call ChancellorBusch in Bonn and ask him to give me more time.
When the caller asked forLudwig Jahn personally, the switchboard operator at Tegel Jail was
prepared to cut him off. There had been numerous press calls seeking to speak with specific officers
on the staff in order to elicit details on Mishkin and Lazareff. The operator had her orders: no calls.
But when the caller explained he was Jahns cousin and that Jahn was to have attended his
daughters wedding the following day at noon, the operator softened. Family was different.
She put
the call through; Jahn took it from his office.
I think you remember me, the voice told Jahn.
The officer remembered him wellthe Russian with the labor−
camp eyes.
You shouldnt have called me here, he whispered hoarsely.
I cant help you. The guards have
been trebled, the shifts changed. I am on shift permanently now, sleeping here in the office until
further noticethose are the orders. They are unapproachable now, those two men.
You had better make an excuse to get out for an hour, said the voice of Colonel Kukushkin.
Theres a bar four hundred meters from the staff gate. He named the bar and gave its address.
Jahn did not know it, but he knew the street. In one hour, said the voice. There was a click.
It was eightP.M. in Berlin, and quite dark.
The British Prime Minister had been taking a quiet supper with her husband in the private apartments
atop 10 Downing Street when she was summoned to accept a personal call from President Matthews.
She was back at her desk when the call came through. The two government leaders knew each other
well, and had met a dozen times since Britains first woman premier came to office. Face−to−face
they used Christian
names, but even though the super−secure call across the Atlantic could not be
eavesdropped, there was an official record made, so they stayed with formalities.
In careful, succinct terms. President Matthews explained the message he had received from Maxim
Rudin via his Ambassador
in Washington. Joan Carpenter was stunned.
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN 223
In heavens name, why? she asked.
Thats my problem, maam, came the Southern drawl from across the Atlantic. There is no
explanation. None at all. Two more things. Ambassador Kirov advised me that if the content of
Rudins message ever became public knowledge, the same consequences to the Treaty of Dublin
would still apply. I may count on your discretion?
Implicitly, she replied. The second thing?
Ive tried to call Maxim Rudin on the hot line. He is unavailable.
Now, from that, I have to
assume he has his problems
right in the heart of the Kremlin and he cant talk about them. Frankly,
that has put me in an impossible position. But about one thing I am absolutely determined. I cannot
let that treaty be destroyed. It is far too important to the whole of the Western world. I have to fight
for it. I cannot let two hijackers
in a Berlin jail destroy it; I cannot let a bunch of terrorists
on a
tanker in the North Sea unleash an armed conflict between East and West such as would ensue.
I entirely agree with you, Mr. President, said the Premier from her London desk. What do you
want from me? I imagineyou would have more influence with ChancellorBusch than I.
Its not that, maam. Two things. We have a certain amount of information about the
consequences to Europe of theFreyas blowing up, but I assume you have more. I need to know
every conceivable possible consequence and option in the event the terrorists aboard do their worst.
Yes, said Mrs. Carpenter, during the whole of today our people have put together an in−depth
study of the ship, her cargo, the chances of containing the spillage, and so on. So far, we havent
examined the idea of storming her. Now we may have to. I will have all our information on those
aspects
on their way to you within the hour. What else?
This is the hard one, and I scarcely know how to ask it, said William Matthews. We believe
there has to be an explanation
of Rudins behavior, and until we know it, we are groping in the
dark. If I am to handle this crisis, I have to see some daylight. I have to have that explanation. I need
to know if there is a third option. I would like you to ask your people to activate the Nightingale one
last time and get that answer for me.
Joan Carpenter was pensive. She had always made it a policy
not to interfere with the way Sir Nigel
Irvine ran his service.
Unlike several of her predecessors, she had steadily declined to poke around
in the intelligence services to satisfy her curiosity. Since coming to office she had doubled the
budgets of both her directors, of SIS and MI5, had chosen hard−core professionals for the posts, and
had been rewarded by their unswerving loyalty. Secure in that loyalty, she trusted them not to let her
down. And neither had.
I will do what I can, she said at length. But we are talking
about something in the very heart of
the Kremlin, and a matter of hours. If it is possible, it will be done. You have my word on it.
When the telephone was back in its cradle, she called her husband to tell him not to wait for her, she
would be at her desk all night. From the kitchen she ordered a pot of coffee. The practical side of
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER FOURTEEN 224
things arranged, she called Sir Julian Flannery at his home, told him simply over the line that a fresh
crisis had arisen, and asked him to return at once to the Cabinet Office. Her last call was not on an
open line; it was to the duty officer at the head office of the Firm. She asked for Sir Nigel Irvine to
be contacted wherever he was, and to be asked to come immediately to No. 10. While waiting, she
switched on the office television and caught the start of the nine oclock BBC news. The long night
had begun.
Ludwig Jahnslipped into the booth and sat down, sweating gently. From across the table the Russian
regarded him coldly. The plump prison guard could not know that the fearsome
Russian was
fighting for his own life; the man gave no hint.
He listened impassively as Jahn explained the new procedures,
instituted since two that afternoon.
In point of fact, Kukushkin had no diplomatic cover; he was hiding out in an SSD safe house in West
Berlin as a guest of his East German colleagues.
So you see, concluded Jahn, there is nothing I can do. I could not possibly get you into that
corridor. There are three on duty, as a minimum figure, night and day. Passes have to be shown
every time one enters the corridor, even by me, and we all know each other. We have worked
together for years. No new face would be admitted without a check call to the governor.
Kukushkin nodded slowly. Jahn felt relief rising in his chest. They would let him go; they would
leave him alone; they would not hurt his family. It was over.
You enter the corridor, of course, said the Russian. You may enter the cells.
Well, yes, I am the Oberachmeister. At periodic intervals I have to check that they are all right.
At night they sleep?
Maybe. They have heard about the matter in the North Sea. They lost their radios just after the
noon broadcasts, but one of the other prisoners in solitary shouted the news across to them before the
corridor was cleared of all other prisoners. Perhaps they will sleep, perhaps not.
The Russian nodded somberly.
Then, he said, you will do the job yourself.
Jahns jaw dropped.
No, no, he babbled. You dont understand. I couldnt use a gun. I couldnt kill anyone.
For answer the Russian laid two slim tubes like fountain pens on the table between them.
Not guns, he said. These. Place the open end, here, a few centimeters from the mouth and nose
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of the sleeping man. Press the button on the side, here. Death occurs within three seconds. Inhalation
of hydrogen cyanide gas causes instantaneous
death. Within an hour the effects are identical to
those of cardiac arrest. When it is done, close the cells, return to the staff area, wipe the tubes clean,
and place them in the locker of another guard with access to the same pair of cells. Very simple, very
clean. And it leaves you in the clear.
What Kukushkin had laid before the horrified gaze of the senior officer was an updated version of
the same sort of poison−
gas pistols with which the Wet Affairs department of the KGB had
assassinated the two Ukrainian nationalist leaders
StepanBandera and Lev Rebet in Germany two
decades earlier. The principle was still simple, the efficiency of the gas increased by further research.
Inside the tubes, glass globules of prussic acid rested. The trigger impelled a spring, which worked
on a hammer, which crushed the glass. Simultaneously
the acid was vaporized by a compressed−air
canister, activated
in the same motion of pressing the trigger button. Impelled by the compressed
air, the gas vapor shot out of the tube into the breathing passages in an invisible cloud. An hour later
the telltale bitter almond smell of prussic acid was gone, the muscles of the corpse relaxed again; the
symptoms were those of heart attack.
No one would believe two simultaneous heart attacks in two young men; a search would be made.
The gas guns, found in the locker of a guard, would incriminate the man almost
completely.
I ... I cant do that, whispered Jahn.
But I can, and will, see your entire family in an Arctic labor
camp for the rest of their lives,
murmured the Russian. A simple choice,Herr Jahn. The overcoming of your scruples for a brief ten
minutes, against all their lives. Think about it.
Kukushkin took Jahns hand, turned it over, and placed the tubes in the palm.
Think about it, he said, but not too long. Then walk into those cells and do it Thats all.
He slid out of the booth and left. Minutes later Jahn closed his hand around the gas guns, slipped
them in his raincoat pocket, and went back to Tegel Jail. At midnight, in three hours, he would
relieve the evening−shift supervisor. At oneA.M. he would enter the cells and do it. He knew he had
no alternative.
As the last rays of the sun left the sky, the Nimrod over theFreya had switched from her daytime
f/126 camera to her nighttime f/135 version. Otherwise, nothing had changed. The night−vision
camera, peering downward with its infrared sights, could pick out most of what was happening
fifteen thousand feet beneath. If the Nimrods captain wanted, he could take still pictures with the
aid of the f/135s electronic flash, or throw the switch on his aircrafts million−candle−power
searchlight.
The night camera failed to notice the figure in the anorak, lying prostrate since midafternoon, slowly
begin to move, crawling under the inspection catwalk, and from there inching
its way back toward
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the superstructure. When the figure finally crawled over the sill of the half−open doorway and stood
up in the interior, no one noticed. At dawn it was supposed
the body had been thrown into the sea.
The man in the anorak went below to the galley, rubbing hands and shivering repeatedly. In the
galley he found one of his colleagues and helped himself to a piping mug of coffee. When he had
finished he returned to the bridge and sought out his own clothes, the black tracksuit and sweater he
had come aboard with.
Jeez, he told the man on the bridge in his American accent,
you sure didnt miss. I could feel
the wadding from those blanks slapping into the back of the windbreaker.
The bridge watch grinned.
Andriy said to make it good, he replied. It worked. Mishkin and Lazareff are coming out at eight
tomorrow morning. By afternoon theyll be in Tel Aviv.
Great, said the Ukrainian−American. Lets hope Andriys plan to get us off this ship works as
well as the rest.
It will, said the other. You better get your mask on and give those clothes back to that Yankee in
the paint locker. Then grab some sleep. Youre on watch at six in the morning.

Sir Julian Flannery reconvened the crisis management committee
within an hour of his private talk
with the Prime Minister.
She had told him the reason why the situation had changed, but he and Sir
Nigel Irvine would be the only ones to know, and they would not talk. The members of the
committee
would simply need to know that, for reasons of state, the release of Mishkin and Lazareff
at dawn might be delayed or canceled, depending on the reaction of the German
Chancellor.
Elsewhere in Whitehall, page after page of data about theFreya, her crew, cargo, and hazard
potential were being photographically
transmitted direct to Washington.
Sir Julian had been lucky; most of the principal experts from the committee lived within a
sixty−minute fast−drive radius
of Whitehall. Most were caught over dinner at home, none had left
for the countryside; two were traced to restaurants,
one to the theater. By nine−thirty the bulk
ofUNICORNE were seated in conference once again.
Sir Julian explained that their duty now was to assume that the whole affair had passed from the
realm of a form of exercise
and into the major−crisis category.
We have to assume that ChancellorBusch will agree to delay the release, pending the clarification
of certain other matters. If he does, we have to assume the chance that the terrorists will at least
activate their first threat, to vent oil cargo from theFreya. Now we have to plan to contain and
destroy a possible first slick of twenty thousand tons of crude oil; secondly, to envisage that figure
being multiplied fifty−fold.
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The picture that emerged was gloomy. Public indifference over years had led to political neglect;
nevertheless, the amounts of crude−oil emulsifier in the hands of the British, and the vehicles for
their delivery onto an oil slick, were still greater than those of the rest of Europe combined.
We have to assume that the main burden of containing the ecological damage will fall to us, said
the man from Warren Springs. In theAmoco Cadiz affair in 1978, the French refused to accept our
help, even though we had better emulsifiers and better delivery systems than they did. Their
fishermen paid bitterly for that particular stupidity. The old−fashioned detergent they used instead of
our emulsifier concentrates caused as much toxic damage as the oil itself. And they had neither
enough of it nor the right delivery systems.
It was like trying to kill an octopus with a peashooter.
I have no doubt the Germans, Dutch, and Belgians will not hesitate to ask for a joint allied
operation in this matter, said the man from the Foreign Office.
Then we must be ready, said Sir Julian. How much have we got?
Dr. Henderson from Warren Springs continued.
The best emulsifier, in concentrated form, will emulsifythat is, break down into minuscule
globules that permit natural bacteria to complete the destructiontwenty times its own volume. One
gallon of emulsifier for twenty gallons of crude oil. We have one thousand tons in stock.
Enough for one slick of twenty thousand tons of crude oil, observed Sir Julian. What about a
million tons?
Not a chance, said Henderson grimly. Not a chance in hell. If we start to produce more now, we
can manufacture a thousand tons every four days. For a million tons, wed need fifty thousand tons
of emulsifier. Frankly, those maniacs in the black helmets could wipe out most marine life in the
North Sea and English Channel, and foul up the beaches from Hull to Cornwall on our side, and
Bremen to Ushant on the other.
There was silence for a while.
Lets assume the first slick, said Sir Julian quietly. The other is beyond belief.
The committee agreed to issue immediate orders for the procurement during the night of every ton of
emulsifier from the store in Hampshire; to commandeer tanker lorries from the petroleum companies
through the Energy Ministry; to bring the whole consignment to the esplanade parking lot at
Lowestoft on the east coast; and to get under way and divert to Lowestoft every single marine tug
with spray equipment, including the Port of London firefighting vessels and the Royal Navy
equivalents. By late morning it was hoped to have the entire flotilla in Lowestoft port, tanking up
with emulsifier.
If the sea remains calm, said Dr. Henderson, the slick will drift gently northeast of theFreya on
the tide, heading for North Holland, at about two knots. That gives us time. When the tide changes, it
should drift back again. But if the wind rises, it might move faster, in any direction, according to the
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wind, which will overcome the tide at surface level. We should be able to cope with a
twenty−thousand ton slick.
We cant move ships into the area five miles round theFreya on three sides, or anywhere between
her and the Dutch coast, the Vice Chief of Defense Staff pointed out.
But we can watch the slick from the Nimrod, said the group captain from the RAF. If it moves
out of range of theFreya, your Navy chaps can start squirting.
So far, so good, for the threatened twenty−thousand−ton spillage, said the Foreign Office man.
What happens after that?
Nothing, said Dr. Henderson. After that, were finished, expended.
Well, thats it, then. An enormous administrative task awaits us, said Sir Julian.
There is one other option, said Colonel Holmes of the Royal Marines. The hard option.
There was an uncomfortable silence around the table. The vice admiral and the group captain did not
share the discomfort;
they were interested. The scientists and bureaucrats were accustomed to
technical and administrative problems, their countermeasures and solutions. Each suspected the
rawboned colonel in civilian clothes was talking about shooting holes in people.
You may not like the option, said Holmes reasonably, but these terrorists have killed one sailor
in cold blood. They may well kill another twenty−nine. The ship costs one hundred seventy million
dollars, the cargo one hundred forty million dollars, the clean−up operation treble that. If, for
whatever reason, ChancellorBusch cannot or will not release the men in Berlin, we may be left with
no alternative but to try to storm the ship and knock off the man with the detonator
before he can
use it.
What exactly do you propose, Colonel Holmes? asked Sir Julian.
I propose that we ask MajorFallon to drive up from Dorset
and that we listen to him, said
Holmes.
It was agreed, and on that note the meeting adjourned until
threeA.M. It was ten minutes before ten
oclock.
During the meeting, not far away from the Cabinet Office, the Prime Minister had received Sir Nigel
Irvine.
That, then, is the position, Sir Nigel, she concluded. If we cannot come up with a third
alternative, either the men go free and Maxim Rudin tears up the Treaty of Dublin, or they stay in jail
and their friends tear up theFreya. In the second case, they might stay their hand and not do it, but
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we can entertain no hopes of that. It might be possible to storm it, but chances of success are slim. In
order to have a chance of perceiving the third alternative, we have to know why Maxim Rudin is
taking this course. Is he, for example, overplaying
his hand? Is he trying to bluff the West into
sustaining
enormous economic damage in order to offset his own embarrassment over his grain
problems? Will he really go through with his threat? We have to know.
How long have you got, Prime Minister? How long has President Matthews got? asked the
Director General of the SIS.
One must assume, if the hijackers are not released at dawn, we will have to stall the terrorists, play
for time. But I would hope to have something for the President by afternoon tomorrow.
As a rather long−serving officer, I would have thought that was impossible, maam. It is the
middle of the night in Moscow.
The Nightingale is virtually unapproachable, except at meetings
planned well ahead. To attempt an instant rendezvous
might well blow that agent sky−high.
I know your rules, Sir Nigel, and I understand them. The safety of the agent out in the cold is
paramount. But so are matters of state. The destruction of the treaty, or the destruction
of
theFreya,is a matter of state. The first could jeopardize
peace for years, perhaps put Yefrem
Vishnayev in power, with all its consequences. The financial losses alone sustained by Lloyds, and
through Lloyds the British economy, if theFreya destroyed herself and the North Sea, would be
disastrous, not to mention the deaths of the remaining
twenty−nine seamen. I make no flat order, Sir
Nigel. I ask you to put the certain alternatives against the putative hazard to one single Russian
agent.
Maam, I will do what I can. You have my word on it, said Sir Nigel, and left to return to his
headquarters.
From an office in the Defense Ministry, Colonel Holmes was on the telephone to Poole, Dorset,
headquarters of the Special Boat Service, or SBS. Major SimonFallon was found befriending a pint
of beer in the officers mess and brought to the telephone. The two Marines knew each other well.
Youve been following theFreya affair? asked Holmes from London.
There was a dry chuckle from the other end.
I thought youd come shopping here eventually, saidFallon. What do they want?
Things are turning sour, said Holmes. The Germans may have to change their minds and keep
those two jokers in Berlin after all. Ive just spent an hour with the reconvened CMC. They dont
like it, but they may have to consider our way. Got any ideas?
Sure, saidFallon. Been thinking about it all day. Need a model, though, and a plan. And the
gear.
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN 230
Right, said Holmes. I have the plan here, and a pretty good model of another but similar ship.
Get the boys together.
Get all the gear out of stores: underwater magnets, all the types of hardware,
stun grenadesyou name it. The lot. What you dont need can be returned. Im asking the Navy to
come round from Portland and pick up the lot: the gear and the team. When youve left a good man
in charge, jump into the car and get up to London. Report at my office as soon as you can.
Dont worry, saidFallon. Ive got the gear sorted and bagged already. Get the transport here as
fast as you can. Im on my way.
When the hard, chunky major returned to the bar, there was silence. His men knew he had taken a
call from London. Within minutes they were rousing the NCOs and Marines from their barracks,
changing rapidly out of the plain clothes they had been wearing in the mess into the black webbing
and green berets of their unit. Before midnight they were waiting on the stone jetty tucked away in
their cordoned section
of the Marine base; waiting for the arrival of the Navy to take their
equipment to where it was needed.
There was a bright moon rising over Portland Bill to the west of them as the three fast patrol
boatsSabre,Cutlass andScimitar came out of the harbor, heading east for Poole. When the throttles
were open, the three prows rose, the sterns buried in the foaming water, and the thunder echoed
across the bay.
The same moon illuminated the long track of the Hampshire
motorway as Major Fallons Rover
sedan burned up the miles to London.
Now, what the hell do I tell ChancellorBusch? President Matthews asked his advisers.
It was five in the afternoon in Washington; though night had long settled on Europe, the
late−afternoon sun was still on the Rose Garden beyond the French windows where the first buds
were responding to the spring warmth.
I dont believe you can reveal to him the real message received
from Kirov, said Robert Benson.
Why the devil not? I told Joan Carpenter, and no doubt shell have had to tell Nigel Irvine.
Theres a difference, pointed out the CIA chief. The British can take the necessary precautions
to cope with an ecological
problem in the sea off their coasts by calling on their technical experts.
Its a technical problem; Joan Carpenter did not need to call a full cabinet meeting. DietrichBusch is
going to be asked to hold onto Mishkin and Lazareff at the risk of provoking a catastrophe for his
European neighbors. For that hell almost certainly consult his cabinet
Hes an honorable man, cut in Lawrence. If he knows that the price is the Treaty of Dublin,
hell feel bound to share that knowledge with his cabinet.
And theres the problem, concluded Benson. That a minimum of fifteen more people would
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learn of it. Some of them would confide in their wives, their aides. We still havent forgotten
theGünterGuillaume affair. There are just too damn many leaks in Bonn. If it got out, the Dublin
Treaty would be finished in any case, regardless of what happened
in the North Sea.
His call went through in a minute. What the hell do I tell him? repeated Matthews.
Tell him you have information that simply cannot be divulged
on any telephone line, even a secure
transatlantic line, suggested Poklewski. Tell him the release of Mishkin and Lazareff would
provoke a greater disaster than even frustrating
the terrorists on theFreya for a few more hours. Ask
him at this stage simply to give you a little time.
How long? asked the President.
As long as possible, said Benson.
And when the time runs out? asked the President.
The call to Bonn came through. ChancellorBusch had been contacted at his home. The top−security
call was patched through to him there. There was no need of translators on the line; DietrichBusch
spoke fluent English. President Matthews spoke to him for ten minutes while the Bonn government
chief listened with growing amazement.
But why? he asked at length. Surely the matter hardly affects the United States.
Matthews was tempted. At the Washington end, Robert Benson wagged a warning finger.
Mr. Chancellor, please. Believe me. Im asking you to trust me. On this line, on any line across the
Atlantic, I cant be as frank as Id like to be. Something has cropped up, something of enormous
dimensions. Look, Ill be as plain as I can. Over here we have discovered something about these two
men; their release would be disastrous at this stage, for the next few hours. Im asking for time, my
friend, just time. A delay until certain things can be taken care of.
The German Chancellor was standing in his study with the strains of Beethoven drifting through the
door from the sitting
room where he had been enjoying a cigar and a concert on the stereo. To say
that he was suspicious would be putting it mildly. So far as he was concerned, the transatlantic line,
established years before to link the NATO government heads, and checked regularly, was perfectly
safe. Moreover, he reasoned,
the United States had perfectly good communications with their Bonn
Embassy and could send him a personal message on that route if desired. It did not occur to him that
Washington would simply not trust his cabinet with a secret of this magnitude after the repeated
exposure of East German
agents close to the seat of power on the Rhine.
On the other hand, the President of the United States was not given to making late−night calls or
crazy appeals. He had to have his reasons,Busch knew. But what he was being asked was not
something he could decide without consultation.
It is just past tenP.M. over here, he told Matthews. We have until dawn to decide. Nothing fresh
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ought to happen until
then. I shall reconvene my cabinet during the night and consult with them. I
cannot promise you more.
President William Matthews had to be satisfied with that.
When the phone was replaced, DietrichBusch stayed for long minutes in thought. There was
something going on, he reasoned, and it concerned Mishkin and Lazareff, sitting in their separate
cells in Tegel Jail in West Berlin. If anything happened to them, there was no way in which the
Federal Republics government would escape a howl of censure from within Germany, by the
combined media and the political opposition.
And with the state elections coming up ...
His first call was toLudwig Fischer, his Minister of Justice,
also at home in the capital. None of his
ministers would be weekending in the country, by prior agreement. His suggestion
was met with
immediate agreement by the Justice Minister. To transfer the pair from the old−fashioned prison of
Tegel to the much newer and super−secure jail of Moabit was an obvious precaution. No CIA
operatives would ever get at them inside Moabit. Fischer telephoned the instruction to Berlin
immediately.
There are certain phrases, innocent enough, which when used by the senior cipher clerk at the British
Embassy in Moscow to the man he knows to be the SIS resident on the embassy staff, mean, in
effect, Get the hell down here fast Something urgent is coming through from London. Such was
the phrase that brought Adam Munro from his bed at midnight Moscow time, tenP.M. London time,
across town to Maurice Thorez Embankment.
Driving back from Downing Street to his office, Sir Nigel Irvine had realized the Prime Minister was
absolutely right Compared to the destruction of the Treaty of Dublin on the one hand or the
destruction of theFreya, her crew, and her cargo on the other, putting a Russian agent at risk of
exposure
was the lesser evil What he was going to ask Munro in Moscow to do, and the way he
would have to demand it gave him no pleasure. But before he arrived at the SIS building
he knew it
would have to be done.
Deep in the basement the communications room was handling
the usual routine traffic when he
entered, and startled the night duty staff. But the scrambler telex raised Moscow in less than five
minutes. No one queried the right of the Master to talk directly to his Moscow resident in the middle
of the night. It was thirty minutes later that the telex from the Moscow
cipher room chattered its
message that Munro was there and waiting.
The operators at both ends, senior men of a lifetimes experience,
could be trusted with the
whereabouts of Christs bones, if necessarythey had to be, they handled, as routine, messages that
could bring down governments. From London the telex would send its scrambled, uninterceptible
message down to a forest of aerials outside Cheltenham, better known for its horse races and
womans college. From there the words would be converted automaticallyinto an unbreakable
one−off code and beamed out over a sleeping Europe to an aerial on the embassy roof. Four seconds
after they were typed in London, they would emerge,in clear, on the telex in the basement of the old
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sugar magnates house in Moscow.
There, the cipher clerk turned to Munro, standing by his side.
Its the Master himself, he said, reading the code tag on the incoming message. There must be a
flap on.
Sir Nigel had to tell Munro the burden of Kirovs message to President Matthews of only three
hours earlier. Without that knowledge, Munro could not ask the Nightingale for the answer to
Matthewss question: Why?
The telex rattled for several minutes. Munro read the message that spewed out, with horror.
I cant do that, he told the impassive clerk over whose shoulder he was reading. When the
message from London was ended, he told the clerk:
Reply as follows: Not repeat not possible obtain this sort of answer in tune scale. Send it.
The interchange between Sir Nigel Irvine and Adam Munro went on for fifteen minutes. There is a
method of contactingN at short notice, suggested London. Yes, but only in case of dire emergency,
replied Munro. This qualifies one hundred times as emergency, chattered the machine from London.
ButN could not begin to inquire in less than several days, pointed out Munro. Next regular Politburo
meeting not due until Thursday following. What about records of last Thursdays meeting? asked
London.Freya was not hijacked last Thursday, retorted Munro. Finally Sir Nigel did what he hoped
he would not have to do.
Regret, tapped the machine, prime ministerial order not refusable. Unless attempt made avert
this disaster, operation to bring outN to West cannot proceed.
Munro looked down at the stream of paper coming out of the telex with disbelief. For the first time
he was caught in the net of his own attempts to keep his love for the agent he ran from his superiors
in London. Sir Nigel Irvine thought the Nightingale was an embittered Russian turncoat called
Anatoly Krivoi, right−hand man to the warmonger Vishnayev.
Make to London, he told the clerk dully, the following: Will try this night stop decline to
accept responsibility ifN refuses or is unmasked during attempt stop. 
The reply from the Master was brief: Agree. Proceed. It was half past one in Moscow, and very
cold.
Half past six in Washington, and the dusk was settling over the sweep of lawns beyond the
bulletproof windows behind the Presidentschair, causing the lamps to be switched on. The group in
the Oval Office was wailing: waiting for ChancellorBusch, waiting for an unknown agent in
Moscow, waiting for a masked terrorist of unknown origins sitting on a million−ton bomb off
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Europe with a detonator in his hand. Waiting for the chance of a third alternative.
The phone rang and it was forStanislaw Poklewski. He listened,
held a hand over the mouthpiece,
and told the President it was from the Navy Department in answer to his query of an hour earlier.
There was one U.S. Navy vessel in the area of theFreya. She had been paying a courtesy visit to the
Danish coastal city of Esbjerg, and was on her way back to join her squadron of the Standing Naval
Force Atlantic, or STANFORLANT, then cruising on patrol west of Norway. She was well off the
Danish coast, steaming north by west to rejoin her NATO allies.
Divert toFreyas area, said the President.
Poklewski passed the Commander in Chiefs order back to the Navy Department, which soon began
to make signals via STANFORLANT headquarters to the American warship.
Just after one in the morning, the U.S.S.Moran, halfway between Denmark and the Orkney Islands,
put her helm about, opened her engines to full power, and then began racing
through the moonlight
southward for the English Channel.
She was a guided−missile ship of almost eight thousand tons,
which, although heavier than the British light cruiserArgyll, was classified as a destroyer, or DD.
Moving at full power in a calm sea, she was making close to thirty knots to bring her to her station
five miles from theFreya at eightA.M.
There were few cars in the parking lot of the Mojarsky Hotel,
just off the roundabout at the far end
of KutuzovskyProspekt. Those that were there were dark, uninhabited, save two.
Munro watched the lights of the other car flicker and dim, then climbed from his own vehicle and
walked across to it. When he climbed into the passenger seat beside her,Valentina
was alarmed and
trembling.
What is it, Adam? Why did you call me at the apartment? The call must have been recorded.
He put his arm around her, feeling the trembling through her coat.
It was from a call box, he said, and only concerned Gregors inability to attend your dinner
party. No one will suspect anything.
At two in the morning? she remonstrated. No one makes calls like that at two in the morning. I
was seen to leave the apartment compound by the night watchman. He will report it.
Darling, Im sorry. Listen.
He told her of the visit by Ambassador Kirov to President Matthews the previous evening; of the
news being passed to London; of the demand to him that he try to find out why the Kremlin was
taking such an attitude over Mishkin and Lazareff.
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN 235
I dont know, she said simply. I havent the faintest idea. Perhaps because those animals
murdered Captain Rudenko, a man with a wife and children.
Valentina,we have listened to the Politburo these past nine months. The Treaty of Dublin is vital to
your people. Why would Rudin put it in jeopardy over these two men?
He has not done so, answeredValentina. It is possible for the West to control the oil slick if the
ship blows up. The costs can be met. The West is rich.
Darling, there are twenty−rune seamen aboard that ship. They, too, have wives and children.
Twenty−nine mens lives against the imprisonment of two. There has to be another and more
serious reason.
I dont know, she repeated. It has not been mentioned in Politburo meetings. You know that
also.
Munro stared miserably through the windshield. He had hoped against hope she might have an
answer for Washington,
something she had heard inside the Central Committee building. Finally he
decided he had to tell her.
When he had finished, she stared through the darkness with round eyes. He caught a hint of tears in
the dying light of the moon.
They promised, she whispered. They promised they would bring me and Sasha out, in a
fortnight, from Rumania.
Theyve gone back on their word, he confessed. They want this last favor.
She placed her forehead on her gloved hands, supported by the steering wheel.
They will catch me, she mumbled. I am so frightened.
They wont catch you. He tried to reassure her. The KGB acts much more slowly than people
think, and the higher their suspect is placed, the more slowly they have to act. If you can get this
piece of information for President Matthews, I think I can persuade them to get you out in a few
days, you and Sasha, instead of two weeks. Please try, my love. Its our only chance left of ever
being together.
Valentinastared through the glass.
There was a Politburo meeting this evening, she said finally.
I was not there. It was a special
meeting, out of sequence.
Normally on Friday evenings they are all going to the country.
Transcription begins tomorrowthat is, today
at ten in the morning. The staff have to give up their
weekend to get it ready for Monday. Perhaps they mentioned the matter.
Could you get in to see the notes, listen to the tapes? he asked.
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN 236
In the middle of the night? There would be questions asked.
Make an excuse, darling. Any excuse. You want to start and finish your work early, so as to get
away.
I will try, she said eventually. I will tryfor you, Adam, not for those men in London.
I know those men in London, said Adam Munro. They will bring you and Sasha out if you help
them now. This will be the last risk, truly the last.
She seemed not to have heard him, and to have overcome, for a while, her fear of the KGB, exposure
as a spy, the awful
consequences of capture unless she could escape in time. When she spoke, her
voice was quite level.
You know Detsky Mir? The soft−toys counter. At ten oclock this morning.
He stood on the black tarmac and watched her taillights vanish. It was done. They had asked him to
do it, demanded that he do it, and he had done it. He had diplomatic protection
to keep him out of
Lubyanka. The worst that could happen
would be his Ambassadors summons to the Foreign
Ministry on Monday morning to receive Dmitri Rykovs icy protest and demand for his removal.
ButValentina was walking
right into the secret archives, without even the disguise of normal,
accustomed, justified behavior to protect her. He looked at his watch. Seven hours, seven hours to
go, seven hours of knotted stomach muscles and ragged nerve ends. He walked back to his car.
Ludwig Jahnstood in the open gateway of Tegel Jail and watched the taillights of the armored van
bearing Mishkin and Lazareff disappear down the street.
For him, unlike for Munro, there would be no more waiting,
no tension stretching through the dawn
and into the morning. For him the waiting was over.
He walked carefully to his office on the first floor and closed the door. For a few moments he stood
by the open window, then drew back one hand and hurled the first of the cyanide pistols far into the
night. He was fat, overweight, unfit.
A heart attack would be accepted as possible, provided no
evidence was found.
Leaning far out of the window, he thought of his nieces over the Wall in the East, their laughing
faces when UncleLudo had brought the presents four months ago at Christmas. He closed his eyes,
held the other tube beneath his nostrils, and pressed the trigger button.
The pain slammed across his chest like a giant hammer. The loosened fingers dropped the tube,
which fell with a tinkle to the street below. Jahn slumped, hit the windowsill, and caved backward
into his office, already dead. When they found him, they would assume he had opened the window
for air when the first pain came. Kukushkin would not have his triumph. The chimes of midnight
were drowned by the roar of a truck that crushed the tube in the gutter to fragments.
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN 237
The hijacking of theFreya had claimed its first victim.

Chapter Fifteen


Midnight to 0800
THE RESUMED West German cabinet meeting assembled in the Chancellery at oneA.M., and the
mood when the ministers
heard from DietrichBusch the plea from Washington varied between
exasperation andtruculence.
Well, why the hell wont he give a reason? asked the Defense
Minister. Doesnt he trust us?
He claims he has a reason of paramount importance, but cannot divulge it even over the hot line,
replied ChancellorBusch. That gives us the opportunity of either believing him or calling him a liar.
At this stage I cannot do the latter.
Has he any idea what the terrorists will do when they learn Mishkin and Lazareff are not to be
released at dawn? queried another.
Yes, I think he has. At least the texts of all the exchanges between theFreya andMaas Control are
in his hands. As we all know, they have threatened either to kill another seaman, or to vent twenty
thousand tons of crude, or both.
Well, then, let him carry the responsibility, urged the Interior
Minister. Why should we take the
blame if that happens?

I havent the slightest intention that we should, repliedBusch, but that doesnt answer the
question. Do we grant President Matthewss request or not?
There was silence for a while. The Foreign Minister broke it.
How long is he asking for?
As long as possible, said the Chancellor. He seems to have some plan afoot to break the
deadlock, to find a third alternative. But what the plan is, or what the alternative could be, he alone
knows. He and a few people he evidently trusts with the secret, he added with some bitterness.
But that doesnt include us, for the moment.
Well, personally I think it is stretching the friendship between
us a bit far, said the Foreign
Minister, but I think we ought to grant him an extension, while making plain, at least unofficially,
that it is at his request, not ours.
Perhaps he has an idea to storm theFreya, suggested Defense.
Our own people say that would be extremely risky, replied
the Interior Minister. It would
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require an underwater approach for at least the last two miles, a sheer climb up smooth steel from the
sea to the deck, a penetration of the superstructure without being observed from atop the funnel, and
the selection of the right cabin with the leader of the terrorists
in it. If, as we suspect, the man holds
a remote−control detonating mechanism in his hand, hed have to be shot and killed before he could
press the button.
In any case, it is too late to do it before dawn, said the Defense Minister. It would have to be in
darkness, and that means tenP.M. at the earliest, twenty−one hours from now.
At a quarter to three the German cabinet finally agreed to grant President Matthews his request: an
indefinite delay on the release of Mishkin and Lazareff, while reserving the right to keep the
consequences under constant review and to reverse
that decision if it became regarded in Western
Europe as impossible to continue to hold the pair.
At the same time the government spokesman was quietly asked to leak the news to two of his most
reliable media contacts
that only massive pressure from Washington had caused the about−face in
Bonn.
It was elevenP.M. in Washington, fourA.M. in Europe, when the news from Bonn reached President
Matthews. He sent back his heartfelt thanks to ChancellorBusch and asked David Lawrence:
Any reply from Jerusalem yet?
None, said Lawrence. We know only that our Ambassador
there has been granted a personal
interview with Benyamin Golen.
When the Israeli Premier was disturbed for the second time during the Sabbath night, his tetchy
capacity for patience was wearing distinctly thin. He received the U.S. Ambassador in his dressing
gown, and the reception was frosty. It was threeA.M. in Europe, but five in Jerusalem, and the first
thin light of Saturday morning was on the hills of Judea.
He listened without reaction to the Ambassadors personal plea from President Matthews. His
private fear was for the identity of the terrorists aboard theFreya. No terrorist action aimed at
delivering Jews from a prison cell had been mounted
since the days of his own youth, fighting right
on the soil where he stood. Then it had been to free condemned Jewish partisans from a British jail at
Acre, and he had been a part of that fight. Now it was Israel that roundly condemned terrorism,
the
taking of hostages, the blackmail of regimes. And yet ...
And yet, hundreds of thousands of his own people would secretly sympathize with two youths who
had sought to escape
the terror of the KGB in the only way left open to them. The same voters
would not openly hail the youths as heroes, but they would not condemn them as murderers, either.
As to the masked men on theFreya, there was a chance that they, too, were Jewishpossibly (heaven
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forbid) Israelis.
He had hoped the previous evening that the affair would be over by sundown of the
Sabbath, the prisoners from Berlin inside Israel, the terrorists on theFreya captured or dead. There
would be a fuss, but it would die down.
Now he was learning that there would be no release. The news hardly inclined him to the American
request, which was in any case impossible. When he had heard the Ambassador out, he shook his
head.
Please convey to my good friend William Matthews my heartfelt wish that this appalling affair can
be concluded without further loss of life, he replied. But on the matter of Mishkin and Lazareff
my position is this: if on behalf of the government and the people of Israel, and at the urgent request
of West Germany, I give a solemn public pledge not to imprison them here or return them to Berlin,
then I shall have to abide by that pledge. Im sorry, but I cannot do as you ask and return them to jail
in Germany as soon as theFreya has been released.
He did not need to explain what the American Ambassador
already knew: that apart from any
question of national honor, even the explanation that promises extracted under duress were not
binding would not work in this case. The outrage from the National Religious Party, the Gush
Emunim extremists, the Jewish Defense League, and the hundred thousand Israeli voters who had
come from the USSR in the past decadeall these alone would prevent any Israeli premier
from
reneging on an international pledge to set Mishkin and Lazareff free.
Well, it was worth a try, said President Matthews when the cable reached Washington an hour
later.
It now ranks as one possible third alternative that no longer exists, remarked David Lawrence,
even if Maxim Rudin had accepted it, which I doubt.
It was one hour to midnight; lights were burning in five government departments scattered across the
capital, as they burned in the Oval Office and a score of other rooms throughout the White House
where men and women sat at telephones and teleprinters awaiting the news from Europe. The four
men in the Oval Office settled to await the reaction from theFreya.
Doctors say three in the morning is the time when the human spirit is at its lowest ebb; it is the hour
of deepest weariness, slowest reactions, and gloomiest depression. ThreeA.M. marked one complete
cycle of the sun and moon for the two men who faced each other in the captains cabin of theFreya.
Neither had slept that night or the previous one; each had been forty−four hours without rest; each
was drawn and red−eyed.
Thor Larsen,at the epicenter of a whirling storm of international
activity, of cabinets and councils,
embassies and meetings, plottings and consultations that kept the lights burning on three continents
from Jerusalem to Washington, was playing his own game. He was pitting his own capacity to stay
awake against the will of the fanatic who faced him, knowing that at stake if he failed were the lives
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of his crew and his ship.
Larsen knew that the man who called himself Svoboda, younger and consumed by his own inner fire,
nerves tightened by a combination of black coffee and the tension of his gamble against the world,
could have ordered the Norwegian captain to be tied up while he himself sought rest. So the bearded
mariner sat facing the barrel of a gun and played on his captors pride, hoping that the man would
take his challenge,
refuse to back down, and concede defeat in the game of beating sleep.
It was Larsen who proposed the endless cups of strong black coffee, a drink he usually took with
milk and sugar only two or three times a day. It was he who talked through the day and the night,
provoking the Ukrainian with suggestions
of eventual failure, then backing off when the man
became
too irritable for safety. Long years of experience, nights of yawning, gritty−mouthed
training as a sea captain, had taught the bearded giant to stay awake and alert through the night
watches, when the cadets drowsed and the deckhands dozed.
So he played his own solitary game, without guns or ammunition,
without teleprinters or
night−sight cameras, without support and without company. All the superb technology the Japanese
had built into his new command was as much use as rusty nails to him now. If he pushed the man
across the table too far, he might lose his temper and shoot to kill. If he were provoked too far, he
could order the execution of another
crewman. If he felt himself becoming too drowsy, he might
have himself relieved by another, fitter terrorist while he himself took sleep and undid all that Larsen
was trying to do to him.
That Mishkin andLazareff would be released at dawn, Larsen still had reason to believe. After their
safe arrival in Tel Aviv, the terrorists would prepare to quit theFreya. Or would they? Could they?
Would the surrounding warships let them go so easily? Even away from theFreya, attacked by the
NATO navies, Svoboda could press his button and blow theFreya apart.
But that was not all of it This man in black had killed one of the crew.Thor Larsen wanted him for
that, and he wanted him dead. So he talked the night away to the man opposite him, denying them
both sleep.
Whitehall was not sleeping, either. The crisis management committee had been in session since
threeA.M., and by four, the progress reports were complete.
Across southern England the bulk tanker lorries, commandeered
from Shell, British Petroleum, and
a dozen other sources, were filling up with emulsifier concentrate at the Hampshire depot
Bleary−eyed drivers rumbled through the night, empty toward Hampshire or loaded toward
Lowestoft, moving hundreds of tons of the concentrate to the Suffolk port. By fourA.M. the stocks
were empty; all one thousand tons of the national supply were headed east to the coast.
So also were inflatable booms to try to hold the vented oil away from the coast until the chemicals
could do their work. The factory that made the emulsifier had been geared for maximum output until
further notice.
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN 241
At half past three the news had come from Washington that the Bonn cabinet had agreed to hold
Mishkin andLazareff
for awhile longer.
Does Matthews know what hes doing? someone asked.
Sir Julian Flannerys face was impassive.
We must assume that he does, he said smoothly. We must also assume that a venting by
theFreya will probably now take place. The efforts of the night have not been in vain. At least we are
now almost ready.
We must also assume, said the civil servant from the Foreign Ministry, that when the
announcement becomes public, France, Belgium, and Holland are going to ask for assistance
in
fighting any oil slick that may result.
Then we shall be ready to do what we can, said Sir Julian. Now, what about the spraying and
firefighting vessels?
The report in the UNICORNE room mirrored what was happening at sea. From the Humber estuary,
tugs were churning
south toward Lowestoft harbor, while from the Thames and even as far around
as the Navy base at Lee, other tugs capable of spraying liquid onto the surface of the sea were
moving to the rendezvous point on the Suffolk coast. They were not the only things moving around
the south coast that night.
Off the towering cliffs of Beachy Head, theCutlass,Scimitar,
andSabre, carrying the assorted,
complex, and lethal hardware of the worlds toughest team of assault frogmen, were pointing their
noses north of east to bring them past Sussex and Kent toward where the cruiserArgyll lay at anchor
in the North Sea.
The boom of their engines echoed off the chalk battlements of the southern coast, and light sleepers
in Eastbourne heard the rumble out to sea.
Twelve Royal Marines of the Special Boat Service clung to the rails of the bucking craft, watching
over their precious kayaks and the crates of diving gear, weapons, and unusual explosives that made
up the props of their trade. It was all being carried as deck cargo.
I hope, shouted the young lieutenant commander who skippered theCutlass to the Marine beside
him, the second−in−command of the team, that those whizz−bangs youre carrying
back there
dont go off.
They wont, said the Marine captain with confidence, not until we use them.
In a room adjoining the main conference center beneath the Cabinet Office, their commanding
officer was poring over photographs of theFreya, taken by night and day. He was comparing the
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configuration shown by the Nimrods pictures with the scale plan provided by Lloyds and the
model of the supertankerBritish Princess lent by British Petroleum.
Gentlemen, said ColonelHohnes, joining the assembled men next door, I think its time we
considered one of the less palatable choices we may have to face.
Ah, yes, said Sir Julian regretfully, the hard option.
If, pursuedHohnes, President Matthews continues to object to the release of Mishkin and
Lazareff, and West Germany
continues to accede to that demand, the moment may well come when
the terrorists will realize the game is up, that their blackmail is not going to work. At that moment
they may well refuse to have their bluff called, and blow theFreya to pieces. Personally, it seems to
me this will not happen before
nightfall, which gives us about sixteen hours.
Why nightfall, Colonel? asked Sir Julian.
Because, sir, unless they are all suicide candidates, which they may be, one must assume that they
will seek their own escape in the confusion. Now, if they wish to try to live, they may well leave the
ship and operate their remote−control detonator
at a certain distance from the ships side.
And your proposal, Colonel?
Twofold, sir. Firstly, their launch. It is still moored beside the courtesy ladder. As soon as darkness
falls, a diver could approach that launch and attach a delayed−action explosive device to it. If
theFreya were to blow up, nothing within a half−mile radius would be safe. Therefore I propose a
charge detonated by a mechanism operated by water pressure. As the launch moves away from the
ships side, the forward thrust of the launch will cause water to enter a funnel beneath the keel. This
water will operate a trigger, and sixty seconds later the launch will blow up, before the terrorists have
reached a point half a mile from theFreya, and therefore
before they can operate their own
detonator.
Would the exploding of their launch not detonate the charges on theFreya? asked someone.
No. If they have a remote−control detonator, it must be electronically operated. The charge would
blow the launch carrying the terrorists to smithereens. No one would survive.
But if the detonator sank, would not the water pressure depress the button? asked one of the
scientists.
No. Once under the water, the remote−control detonator would be safe. It could not beam its radio
message to the larger charges in the ships tanks.
Excellent, said Sir Julian. Can this plan not operate before
darkness falls?
No, it cannot, answered Holmes. A frogman diver leaves a trail of bubbles. In stormy weather
this might not be noticed, but on a flat sea it would be too obvious. One of the lookouts could spot
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the bubbles rising. It would provoke what we are trying to avoid.
After dark it is, then, said Sir Julian.
Except for one thing, which is why I oppose the idea of sabotaging their escape launch as the only
ploy. If, as may well happen, the leader of the terrorists is prepared to die with theFreya, he may not
leave the ship with the rest of his team. So I believe we may have to storm the ship during a night
attack and get to him before he can use his device.
The Cabinet Secretary sighed.
I see. Doubtless you have a plan for that as well?
Personally, I do not. But I would like you to meet Major SimonFallon, commanding the Special
Boat Service.
It was all the stuff of Sir Julian Flannerys nightmares. The Marine major was barely five feet eight
inches tall, but he seemed about the same across the shoulders and was evidently
of that breed of
men who talk about reducing other humans to their component parts with the same ease that Lady
Flannery talked of dicing vegetables for one of her famous
Provençal salads.
In at least three encounters the peace−loving Cabinet Secretary
had had occasion to meet officers
from theSAS, but this was the first time he had seen the commander of the other, smaller specialist
unit, the SBS. They were, he observed to himself, of the same breed.
The SBS had originally been formed for conventional war, to act as specialists in attacks from the
sea on coastal installations.
That was why they were drawn from the Marine commandos. As a basic
requirement they were physically fit to a revolting degree, experts in swimming, canoeing, diving,
climbing, marching, and fighting.
From there they went on to become proficient in parachuting,
explosives, demolition, and the
seemingly limitless
techniques of cutting throats or breaking necks with knife, wire loop, or simply
bare hands. In this, and in their capacity for living in self−sufficiency on, or rather off, the
countryside for extended periods and leaving no trace of their presence, they simply shared the skills
of their cousins in theSAS.
It was in their underwater skills that the SBS men were different.
In frogman gear they could swim
prodigious distances and lay explosive charges, or drop their swimming gear while treading water
without a ripple and emerge from the sea with their arsenal of special weapons wrapped about them.
Some of their weaponry was fairly routine: knives and cheese wire. But since the start of that rash of
outbreaks of terrorism in the late sixties, they had acquired fresh toys that delighted them.
All were expert marksmen with their high−precision, hand−tooled Finlanda rifle, a Norwegian−made
piece that had been evaluated as perhaps the best rifle in the world. It could be, and usually was,
fitted with an imageintensifier, a sniperscope as long as a bazooka, and a completely effective
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silencer and flash guard.
For taking doors away in half a second, they tended, like theSAS, toward short−barreled
pump−action shotguns firing solid charges. These they never aimed at the lock, for there could be
other bolts behind the door; they fired two simultaneously
to take off both hinges, kicked the door
down, and opened fire with the silenced Ingram machine pistols.
Also in the arsenal that had helped theSAS assist the Germans
at Mogadishu were their
flash−bang−crash grenades, a sophisticated development of the stun grenades. These do more
than just stun; they paralyze. With a half−second delay after pulling the pin, these grenades, thrown
into a confined space containing both terrorists and hostages, have three effects.
The flash blinds
anyone looking in that direction for at least thirty seconds, the bang blows the eardrums out, causing
instant pain and a certain loss of concentration, and the crash is a tonal sound that enters the middle
ear and causes a ten−second paralysis of all muscles. (During tests, one of their own men once tried
to pull the trigger of a gun pressed into a companions side while the grenade went off. It was
impossible.
Both terrorist and hostage lost their eardrums. But eardrums can grow again; dead
hostages cannot.)
While the paralytic effect lasts, the rescuers spray bullets four inches over head height while their
colleagues dive for the hostages, dragging them to the floor. At this point, the fixers drop their aim
by six inches.
The exact position of hostage and terrorist in a closed room can be determined by the application of
an electronic stethoscope to the outside of the door. Speech inside the room is not necessary;
breathing can be heard and located accurately.
The rescuers communicate in an elaborate sign
language
that permits of no misunderstanding.
MajorFallon placed the model of thePrincess on the conference
table, aware he had the attention of
everyone present.
I propose, he began, to ask the cruiserArgyll to turn herself broadside on to theFreya, and then
before dawn park the assault boats containing my men and equipment close up in the lee of
theArgyll, where the lookout, here, on top of theFreyas funnel, cannot see them, even with
binoculars. That will enable us to make our preparations, unobserved, through the afternoon. In case
of airplanes hired by the press, I would like the sky cleared, and any emulsifier−spraying tugs within
visual range of what we are doing to keep silent.
There was no dissent to that. Sir Julian made two notes.
I would approach theFreya with four two−man kayaks, halting at a range of three miles, in
darkness, before the rising
of the moon. Her radar will not spot kayaks. They are too small, too low
in the water; they are of wood and canvas construction, which does not effectively register on radar.
The paddlers will be in rubber, leather, wool undervests, and so on, and all buckles will be plastic.
Nothing should register on theFreyas radar.
The men in the rear seats will be frogmen; their oxygen bottles have to be of metal, but at three
TheDevil'sAlternative
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miles will not register larger than a floating oil drum, not enough to cause alarm on theFreyas
bridge. At a range of three miles the divers take a compass bearing on theFreyas stern, which they
can see because
it is illuminated, and drop overboard. They have luminescent
wrist compasses, and
swim by these.
Why not go for the bow? asked the RAF group captain. Its darker there.
Partly because it would mean eliminating the man on lookout high up on the focsle, and he may
be in walkie−talkie contact with the bridge, saidFallon. Partly because its a hell of a long walk
down that deck, and they have a spotlight operable from the bridge. Partly because the
superstructure,
approached from the front, is a steel wall five stories
high. We would climb it, but it
has windows to cabins, some of which may be occupied.
The four divers, one of whom will be me, rendezvous at the stern of theFreya. There should be a
tiny overhang of a few feet. Now, theres a man on top of the funnel, a hundred feet up. But people a
hundred feet up tend to look outward rather than straight down. To help him in this, I want theArgyll
to start flashing her searchlight to another nearby vessel, creating a spectacle for the man to watch.
We will come up the stern from the water, having shed flippers, masks, oxygen bottles, and weighted
belts. We will be bareheaded, barefoot, in rubber wet suits only. All weaponry carried in wide
webbing
belts round the waist.
How do you get up the side of theFreya carrying forty pounds of metal after a three−mile swim?
asked one of the ministry men.
Fallonsmiled.
Its only thirty feet at most to the taffrail, he said. While practicing on the North Sea oil rigs,
weve climbed a hundred sixty feet of vertical steel in four minutes.
He saw no point in explaining the details of the fitness necessary for such a feat, nor of the
equipment that made it possible.
The boffins had long ago developed for the SBS some remarkable
climbing gear. Included among it
were magnetic climbing clamps. These were like dinner plates, fringed with rubber so that they could
be applied to metal without making a sound. The plate itself was rimmed with steel beneath the
rubber, and this steel ring could be magnetized to enormous strength.
The magnetic force could be turned on or off by a thumb switch pressed by the man holding the grip
on the back of the plate. The electrical charge came from a small but reliable
nickel−cadmium
battery inside the climbing plate.
The divers were trained to come out of the sea, reach upward
and affix the first plate, then turn on
the current. The magnet jammed the plate to the steel structure. Hanging on this, they reached higher
and hung the second plate. Only when it was secure did they unlock the first disk, reach higher still,
and reaffix it. Hand over hand, hanging on by fist grip, wrist, and forearm, they climbed out of the
sea and upward
body, legs, feet, and equipment swinging free, pulling against the hands and wrists.
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So strong were the magnets, so strong also the arms and shoulders, that the commandoes could climb
an overhang of forty−five degrees if they had to.
The first man goes up with the special clamps, saidFallon, trailing a rope behind him. If it is
quiet on the poop deck, he fixes the rope, and the other three can be on deck inside ten seconds.
Now, here, in the lee of the funnel assembly,
this turbine housing should cast a shadow in the light
thrown by the lamp above the door to the superstructure at A deck level. We group in this shadow.
Well have black wet suits; black hands, feet, and faces.
The first major hazard is getting across this patch of illuminatedafterdeck
from the shadow of the
turbine housing to the main superstructure with all its living quarters.
So how do you do it? asked the vice admiral, fascinated by this return from technology to the days
of Nelson.
We dont, sir, saidFallon. We will be on the side of the funnel assembly away from where
theArgyll is stationed. We hope the lookout atop the funnel will be looking at theArgyll,
away from
us. We move across from the shadow of the turbine housing, round the corner of the superstructure
to this point here, outside the window of the dirty−linen store. We cut the plate−glass window in
silence with a miniature blowtorch working off a small gas bottle, and go in through the window.
The chances of the door of such a store being locked are pretty slim. No one pinches dirty linen, so
no one locks such doors. By this time we will be inside the superstructure,
emerging to a passage a
few yards from the main stairway leading up to B, C, andD decks, and the bridge.
Where do you find the terrorist leader, asked Sir Julian Flannery, the man with the detonator?
On the way up the stairs we listen at every door for sounds of voices, saidFallon. If there are
any, we open the door and eliminate everyone in the room with silenced automatics.
Two men
entering the cabin; two men outside on guard. All the way up the structure. Anyone met on the stairs,
the same thing. That should bring us toD deck unobserved.
Here we have to take a calculated
gamble. One choice is the captains cabin; one man will take that choice. Open the door, step inside,
and shoot without any question. Another man will take the chief engineers cabin on the same floor,
other side of the ship. Same procedure. The last two men will cover the first officers and chief
stewards cabins and take the bridge itself; one man with grenades, the second with an Ingram. Its
too big an area, that bridge, to pick targets.
Well just have to sweep it with the Ingram and take
everybody
in the place after the grenades have paralyzed them.
What if one of them is Captain Larsen? asked a ministry man.
Fallonstudied the table.
Im sorry, theres no way of identifying targets, he said.
Suppose none of the cabins or the bridge contains the leader? Suppose the man with the
remote−control detonator is somewhere else? Out on deck taking the air? In the lavatory? Asleep in
another cabin?
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SimonFallon shrugged. Bang, he said, big bang.
There are twenty−eight crewmen locked down below, protested a scientist. Cant you get them
out? Or at least up on deck where they could have a chance to swim for it?
No, sir. Ive tried every way of getting down to the paint locker, if they are indeed in the paint
locker. To attempt to get down through the deck housing would give the game away: the bolts could
well squeak; the opening of the steel door would flood the poop deck with light. To go down through
the main superstructure to the engine room and try to get them that way would split my force.
Moreover, the engine
room is vast: three levels of it, vaulted like a cathedral. One single man down
there, in communication with his leader before we could silence him, and everything would be lost. I
believe getting the man with the detonator is our best chance.
If she does blow up with you and your men topside, I suppose you can dive over the side and swim
for theArgyll? suggested another of the ministry civil servants.
MajorFallon looked at the man with anger in his suntanned
face.
Sir, if she blows up, any swimmer within two hundred yards of her will be sucked down into the
currents of water pouring into her holes.
Im sorry, MajorFallon, interposed the Cabinet Secretary
hurriedly. I am sure my colleague
was simply concerned
for your own safety. Now the question is this. The percentage chance of your
hitting the holder of the detonator is a highly problematical figure. Failure to stop the man from
setting off his charges would provoke the very disaster we are trying to avoid
With the greatest respect, Sir Julian, cut in ColonelHohnes, if the terrorists threaten during the
course of the day to blow up theFreya at a certain hour tonight, and ChancellorBusch will not
weaken in the matter of releasing Mishkin and Lazareff, surely we will have to try Major Fallons
way. Well be in a no−win situation then, anyway. Well have no alternative.
The meeting murmured assent. Sir Julian conceded.
Very well. Defense Ministry will please make toArgyll: she should turn herself broadside to
theFreya and provide a lee shelter for Major Fallons assault boats when they arrive. Environment
will instruct air−traffic controllers to spot and turn back all aircraft trying to approach theArgyll at
any altitude;
various responsible departments will instruct the tugs and other vessels near theArgyll
not to betray Major Fallons preparations to anyone. What about you personally, MajorFallon?
The Marine commando glanced at his watch. It was five−fifteen.
The Navy is lending me a helicopter from the Battersea Heliport to theafterdeck of theArgyll, he
said. Ill be there when my men and equipment arrive by sea if I leave now. ...
Then be on your way, and good luck to you, young man.
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The men at the meeting stood up in tribute as a somewhat embarrassed major gathered his model
ship, his plans and photographs, and left with Colonel Holmes for the helicopter pad beside the
Thames Embankment.
A weary Sir Julian Flannery left the smoke−charged room to ascend to the chill of the predawn of
another spring day and report to his Prime Minister.
At sixA.M. a simple statement from Bonn was issued to the effect that after due consideration of all
the factors involved, the government of the Federal Republic of Germany had come to the
conclusion that it would after all be wrong to accede to blackmail and that therefore the policy of
releasing Mishkin and Lazareff at eightA.M. had been reconsidered.
Instead, the statement continued, the Federal Republics government would do all in its power to
enter into negotiations
with the captors of theFreya, with a view to seeking the release of the ship
and its crew by alternative proposals.
The European allies of West Germany were informed of this statement just one hour before it was
issued. Each and every premier privately asked the same question: What the hell is Bonn up to?
The exception was Joan Carpenter in London, who knew already. But unofficially, each government
was informed that the reversal of position stemmed from urgent American pressure on Bonn during
the night, and informed, moreover, that Bonn had agreed to delay the release only pending further
and, it was hoped, more optimistic developments.
With the breaking of the news, the Bonn government spokesman had a brief and very private
working breakfast with two influential German journalists, during which the newsmen were given to
understand in oblique terms that the change of policy stemmed only from brutal pressure from
Washington.
The first radio newscasts of the day carried the fresh statement
out of Bonn even as the listeners
were picking up their newspapers, which confidently announced the release at breakfast time of the
two hijackers. The newspaper editors were not amused and bombarded the governments press
office
for an explanation. None was forthcoming that satisfied anyone. The Sunday papers, due for
preparation that Saturday,
geared themselves for an explosive issue the following morning.
On theFreya, the news from Bonn came over the BBC World Service, to which Drake had tuned his
portable radio, at six−thirty. Like many another interested party in Europe that morning, the
Ukrainian listened to the news in silence, then burst out:
What the hell do they think theyre up to?
Something has gone wrong, saidThor Larsen flatly. Theyve changed their minds. Its not
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going to work.
For answer, Drake leaned far across the table and pointed his handgun straight at the Norwegians
face.
Dont you gloat! he shouted. Its not just my friends in Berlin theyre playing silly games
with. Its not just me. Its your precious ship and crew theyre playing with. And dont you forget
it.
He went into deep thought for several minutes, then used the captains intercom to summon one of
his men from the bridge. The man, when he came to the cabin, was still masked, and spoke to his
chief in Ukrainian, but the tone sounded worried. Drake left him to guard Captain Larsen and was
away for fifteen minutes. When he returned, he brusquely beckoned theFreyas skipper to
accompany him to the bridge.
The call came in toMaas Control just a minute before seven. Channel 20 was still reserved for
theFreya alone, and the duty operator was expecting something, for he, too, had heard the news from
Bonn. When theFreya called, he had the tape spinning.
Larsens voice sounded tired, but he read the statement from his captors in an unemotional tone.
 Following the stupid decision of the government in Bonn to reverse its decision to release Lev
Mishkin and David Lazareff at oh−eight−hundred hours this morning, those who presently hold
theFreya announce the following: in the event that Mishkin and Lazareff are not released and
airborne on their way to Tel Aviv by noon today, theFreya will, on the stroke of noon, vent twenty
thousand tons of crude oil into the North Sea. Any attempt to prevent this, or interfere with the
process, and any attempt by ships or aircraft to enter the area of clear water around theFreya, will
result in the immediate
destruction of the ship, her crew, and her cargo. 
The transmission ceased, and the channel was cut off. No questions were asked. Almost a hundred
listening posts heard the message, and it was contained in news flashes on the breakfast radio shows
across Europe within fifteen minutes.
President Matthewss Oval Office was beginning to adopt the aspect of a council of war by the
small hours of the morning.
All four men in it had taken their jackets off and loosened ties. Aides came and went with messages
from the communications
room for one or another of the presidential advisers. The corresponding
communication rooms at Langley and the State Department had been patched through to the White
House. It was seven−fifteen European time but two−fifteen in the small hours when the news of
Drakes ultimatum was brought into the office and handed to Robert Benson. He passed it without a
word to President Matthews.
I suppose we should have expected it, said the President wearily, but that makes it no easier to
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take.
Do you think hell really do it, whoever he is? asked Secretary of State David Lawrence.
Hes done everything else hes promised so far, damn him, repliedStanislaw Poklewski.
I assume Mishkin and Lazareff are under extra−heavy guard in Tegel, said Lawrence.
Theyre not in Tegel anymore, replied Benson. They were moved just before midnight, Berlin
time, to Moabit. Its more modern and more secure.
How do you know, Bob? asked Poklewski.
Ive had Tegel and Moabit under surveillance since theFreyas noon broadcast, said Benson.
Lawrence, the old−style diplomat, looked exasperated.
Is it the new policy to spy even on our allies? he snapped.
Not quite, replied Benson. Weve always done it.
Why the change of jail, Bob? asked Matthews. DoesDietrich Busch think the Russians would try
to get at Mishkin and Lazareff?
No, Mr. President He thinks I will, said Benson.
There seems to me a possibility here that maybe we hadnt thought of, interposed Poklewski. If
the terrorists on theFreya go ahead and vent twenty thousand tons of crude, and, say, threaten to vent
a further fifty thousand tons later in the day, the pressures onBusch could become overwhelming.
...
No doubt they will, observed Lawrence.
What I mean is,Busch might simply decide to go it alone and release the hijackers unilaterally.
Remember, he doesnt know that the price of such an action would be the destruction
of the Treaty
of Dublin.
There was silence for several seconds.
Theres nothing I can do to stop him, said President Matthews quietly.
There is, actually, said Benson. He had the instant attention
of the other three. When he described
what it was, the faces of Matthews, Lawrence, and Poklewski showed disgust.
I couldnt give that order, said the President.
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Its a pretty terrible thing to do, agreed Benson, but its the only way to preempt
ChancellorBusch. And we will know if he tries to make secret plans to release the pair prematurely.
Never mind how; wewill know. Lets face it; the alternative would be the destruction of the treaty,
and the consequences in terms of a resumed arms race that this must bring. If the treaty is destroyed,
presumably we will not go ahead with the grain shipments to Russia. In that event, Rudin may fall.
...
Which makes his reaction over this business so crazy, Lawrence pointed out.
Maybe so, but thatis his reaction, and until we know why, we cant judge how crazy he is,
Benson resumed. Until
we do know, Chancellor Buschs private knowledge of the proposal I have
just made should hold him in check awhile longer.
You mean we could just use it as something to hold over Buschs head? asked Matthews
hopefully. We might never actually have to do it?
At that moment a personal message arrived for the President from Prime Minister Carpenter in
London.
Thats some woman, he said when he had read it. The British think they can cope with the first
oil slick of twenty thousand tons, but no more. Theyre preparing a plan to storm theFreya with
specialist frogmen after sundown and silence the man with the detonator. They give themselves a
better than even chance.
So we only have to hold the German Chancellor in line for another twelve hours, said Benson.
Mr. President, I urge you to order what I have just proposed. The chances are it will never have to
be activated.
But if it must be, Bob? If it must be?
Then it must be.
William Matthews placed the palms of his hands over his face and rubbed tired eyes with his
fingertips.
Dear God, no man should be asked to give orders like that, he said. But if it must ... Bob, give
the order.
The sun was just clear of the horizon, away to the east over the Dutch coast. On theafterdeck of the
cruiserArgyll, now turned broadside to where theFreya lay, MajorFallon stood and looked down at
the three fast assault craft tethered to her lee side. From the lookout on the Fredas funnel top, all
three would be out of vision. So, too, the activity on their decks, where Fallons team of Marine
commandos were preparing their kayaks and unpacking their unusual pieces of equipment.
It was a
bright, clear sunrise, giving promise of another warm and sunny day. The sea was a flat calm.Fallon
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN 252
was joined by theArgylls skipper, Captain Richard Preston.
They stood side by side, looking down at the three sleek sea greyhounds that had brought the men
and equipment from Poole in eight hours. The boats rocked in the swell of a warship passing several
cables to the west of them.Fallon looked up.
Whos that? he asked, nodding toward the gray warship flying the Stars and Stripes that was
moving to the south.
The American Navy has sent an observer, said Captain Preston. The U.S.S.Moran. Shell take
up station between us and theMontcalm. He glanced at his watch. Seven−thirty. Breakfast is being
served in the wardroom, if youd care to join us.
It was seven−fifty when there was a knock at the door of the cabin of Captain Michael Manning,
commanding theMoran.
She was at anchor after her race through the night, and Manning, whod been on the bridge
throughout the night, was running a razor over the stubble on his chin. When the radioman
entered.
Manning took the proffered message and gave it a glance, still shaving. He stopped and turned to the
sailor.
Its still in code, he said.
Yes, sir. Its tagged for your eyes only, sir.
Manning dismissed the man, went to his wall safe and took out his personal decoder. Such an
occurrence was unusual, but not unheard of. He began to run a pencil down columns of figures,
seeking the groups on the message in front of him and their corresponding letter combinations. When
he had finished decoding, he just sat at his table and stared at the message, searching for any error.
He rechecked the beginning of the message, hoping it was a practical joke. But there was no joke. It
was for him, via STANFORLANT through the Navy Department, Washington. And it was a
presidential order,
personal to him from the Commander in Chief, U.S. Armed Forces, White
House, Washington.
He cant ask me to do that, he breathed. No man can ask a sailor to do that.
But the message did, and it was unequivocal: In the event the West German government seeks to
release the hijackers in Berlin unilaterally, the U.S.S.Moran is to sink the supertankerFreya
by
shellfire, using all possible measures to ignite cargo and minimize environmental damage. This
action will be taken on receipt by U.S.S.Moran of the signalTHUNDERBOLT
repeatTHUNDERBOLT. Destroy message.
Mike Manning was forty−three years old, married, with four children who lived with their mother
outside Norfolk, Virginia. He had been an officer in the United States Navy for twenty−one years
TheDevil'sAlternative
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and had never yet thought to question a superiors order.
He walked to the porthole and looked across the five miles of ocean to the low outline between
himself and the climbing sun. He thought of his magnesium−based starshells slamming into her
unprotected skin, penetrating the volatile crude oil beneath. He thought of twenty−eight men,
crouched deep beneath the waterline, eighty feet beneath the waves, in a steel coffin, waiting for
rescue, thinking of their own families. He crumpled the paper in his hand.
Mr. President, he whispered, I dont know if I can do that.

Chapter Sixteen


0800 to 1500
DETSKY MIR means Childrens World and is Moscows premier toyshopfour stories of dolls
and playthings, puppets
and games. Compared to a Western equivalent, the layout
is drab and the
stock shabby, but it is the best the Soviet capital has, apart from the hard−currency Beriozka shops,
where mainly foreigners go.
By an unintended irony it is across Dzerzhinsky Square from the KGB headquarters, which is
definitely not a children
s world. Adam Munro was at the ground−floor soft−toys counter just
before tenA.M. Moscow time, two hours later than North Sea time. He began to examine a nylon
bear as if debating whether to buy it for his offspring.
Two minutes after ten, someone moved to the counter beside him. Out of the corner of his eye he
saw that she was pale, her normally full lips drawn, tight, the color of cigarette ash.
She nodded. Her voice was pitched, like his own, low, conversational,
uninvolved.
I managed to see the transcript, Adam. Its serious.
She picked up a hand puppet shaped like a small monkey in artificial fur, and told him quietly what
she had discovered.
Thats impossible, he muttered. Hes still convalescing from a heart attack.
No. He was shot dead last October thirty−first in the middle of the night on a street in Kiev.
Two salesgirls leaning against the wall twenty feet away eyed them without curiosity and returned to
their gossip. One of the few advantages of shopping in Moscow is that one is guaranteed complete
privacy from assistance by the sales staff.
And those two in Berlin were the ones? asked Munro.
It seems so, she said dully. The fear is that if they escape toIsrael they will hold a press
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conference and inflict an intolerable humiliation on the Soviet Union.
Causing Maxim Rudin to fall, breathed Munro.No wonder he will not countenance their release.
He cannot. He, too, has no alternative. And youare you safe, darling?
I dont know. I dont think so. There were suspicions. Unspoken,
but they were there. Soon there
will be a report from the man on the telephone switchboard about your call; the gateman will report
about my drive in the small hours. It will come together.
Listen,Valentina, I will get you out of here. Quickly, in the next few days.
For the first time, she turned and faced him. He saw that her eyes were brimming.
Its over, Adam. Ive done what you asked of me, and now its too late. She reached up and
kissed him briefly, before
the astonished gaze of the salesgirls. Good−bye, Adam, my love. Im
sorry.
She turned, paused for a moment to collect herself, and walked away, through the glass doors to the
street, back through the gap in the Wall into the East. From where he stood with a plastic−faced
milkmaid doll in his hand, he saw her reach the pavement and turn out of sight. A man in a gray
trench coat, who had been wiping the windshield of a car, straightened, nodded to a colleague behind
the windshield,
and strolled after her.
Adam Munro felt the grief and the anger rising in his throat like a ball of sticky acid. The sounds of
the shop muted as a roaring invaded his ears. His hand closed around the head of the doll, crushing,
cracking, splintering the smiling pink face beneath the lace cap. A salesgirl appeared rapidly at his
side.
Youve broken it, she said. That will be four rubles.
Compared with the whirlwind of public and media concern that had concentrated on the West
German Chancellor the previous afternoon, the recriminations that poured upon Bonn that Saturday
morning were more like a hurricane.
The Foreign Ministry received a continual stream of requests
couched in the most urgent terms from
the embassies of Finland, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, France, Holland, and Belgium, asking that
their ambassadors be received. Each wish was granted, and each ambassador asked in the courteous
phraseology of diplomacy the same question: What the hell is going on?
Newspapers, television, and radio operations called in all their staffers from weekend leave and tried
to give the affair saturation coverage, which was not easy. There were no pictures
of theFreya since
the hijacking, save those taken by the French free−lance, who was under arrest and his pictures
confiscated.
In fact the same pictures were under study in Paris, but the shots from the successive
Nimrods were just as good, and the French government was receiving them, anyway.
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For lack of hard news, the papers hunted anything they could go for. Two enterprising Englishmen
bribed the Hilton Hotel staff in Rotterdam to lend them their uniforms, and tried to reach the
penthouse suite where Harry Wennerstrom and Lisa Larsen were under siege.
Others sought out former prime ministers, cabinet officeholders,
and tanker captains for their views.
Extraordinary sums were waved in the faces of the wives of the crewmen, almost all of whom had
been traced, to be photographed praying for their husbands deliverance.
One former mercenary commander offered to storm theFreya alone for a million−dollar fee; four
archbishops and seventeen parliamentarians of varying persuasions and ambitions
offered
themselves as hostages in exchange for Captain Larsen and his crew.
Separately, or in job lots? snapped DietrichBusch when he was informed. I wish William
Matthews were on board instead of those good sailors. Id hold out till Christmas.
By midmorning, the leaks to the two German stars of press and radio were beginning to have their
effect. Their respective
comments on German radio and television were picked up by the news
agencies and Germany−based correspondents and given wider coverage. The view began to
percolate that DietrichBusch had in fact been acting in the hours before dawn under massive
American pressure.
Bonn declined to confirm this, but refused to deny it, either.
The sheer evasiveness of the
government spokesman there told the press its own story.
As dawn broke over Washington, five hours behind Europe,
the emphasis switched to the White
House. By sixA.M. in Washington the White House press corps was clamoring for an interview with
the President himself. They had to be satisfied, but were not, with a harassed and evasive official
spokesman. The spokesman was evasive only because he did not know what to say; his repeated
appeals to the Oval Office brought only further instructions that he tell the newshounds the matter
was a European affair and the Europeans must do as they thought best. Which threw the affair back
into the lap of an increasingly outraged German Chancellor.
How much longer can this go on? shouted a thoroughly shaken William Matthews to his advisers
as he pushed away a plate of scrambled eggs just after sixA.M. Washington time.
The same question was being asked, but not answered, in a score of offices across America and
Europe that unquiet Saturday
morning.
From his office in Texas, the owner of the one million tons of Mubarraq crude lying dormant but
dangerous beneath theFreyas deck was on the line to Washington.
I dont care what the hell time of the morning it is, he shouted to the party campaign managers
secretary. You get him on the line and tell him this is Clint Blake, you hear?
When the campaign manager of the political party to which the President belonged finally came on
the line, he was not a happy man. When he put the receiver back in its cradle, he was downright
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER SIXTEEN 256
morose. A man who all but controls more than a hundred delegates to the national convention is no
small potatoes, and Clint Blakes threat to do a John Connelly and switch parties was no joke.
It seemed to matter little to Blake that the cargo was fully insured against loss by Lloyds. He was
one very angry Texan that morning.
Harry Wennerstrom was on the line most of the morning to Stockholm, calling every one of his
friends and contacts in shipping, banking, and government to bring pressure on the Swedish Premier.
The pressure was effective, and it was passed on to Bonn.
In London, the chairman of Lloyds, Sir Murray Kelso, found the Permanent Under Secretary to the
Department of the Environment still at his desk in Whitehall. Saturday is not normally a day when
the senior members of Britains civil service are to be found at their desks, but this was no normal
Saturday. Sir Rupert Mossbank had driven hastily back from his country home before dawn when
the news came from Downing Street that Mishkin and Lazareff were not to be released.
He showed
his visitor to a chair.
Damnable business, said Sir Murray.
Perfectly appalling, agreed Sir Rupert.
He preferred the Butter Osbornes, and the two knights sipped their tea.
The thing is, said Sir Murray at length, the sums involved
are really quite vast. Close to a
billion dollars. Even if the victim countries of the oil spillage if theFreya blows up were to sue West
Germany rather than us, wed still have to carry the loss of the ship, cargo, and crew. Thats about
four hundred million dollars.
Youd be able to cover it, of course, said Sir Rupert anxiously.
Lloyds was more than just a
company, it was an institution,
and as Sir Ruperts department covered merchant shipping, he was
concerned.
Oh, yes, we would cover it. Have to, said Sir Murray. Thing is, its such a sum it would have to
be reflected in the countrys invisible earnings for the year. Probably tip the balance,
actually. And
what with the new application for another
International Monetary Fund Loan ...
Its a German question, you know, said Mossbank. Not really up to us.
Nevertheless, one might press the Germans a bit over this one. Hijackers are bastards, of course,
but in this case, why not just let those two blighters in Berlin go? Good riddance to them.
Leave it to me, said Mossbank. Ill see what I can do.
Privately, he knew he could do nothing. The confidential file locked in his safe told him MajorFallon
was going in by kayak in eleven hours, and until then the Prime Ministers orders
were that the line
had to hold.
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN 257
Chancellor DietrichBusch received the news of the intended underwater attack in a midmorning
face−to−face interview with the British Ambassador. He was slightly mollified.
So thats what its all about, he said when he had examined
the plan unfolded before him.
Why could I not have been told of this before?
We were not sure whether it would work before, said the Ambassador smoothly. Those were his
instructions. We were working on it through the afternoon of yesterday and last night. By dawn we
were certain it was perfectly feasible.
What chance of success do you give yourselves? asked DietrichBusch.
The Ambassador cleared his throat.
We estimate the odds at three to one in our favor, he said. The sun sets at seven−thirty. Darkness
is complete by nine. The men are going in at ten tonight.
The Chancellor looked at his watch. Twelve hours to go. If the British tried and succeeded, much of
the credit would go to their frogmen, but much also to him for keeping his nerve. If they failed, theirs
would be the responsibility.
So it all depends now on this MajorFallon. Very well, Ambassador, I will continue to play my part
until ten tonight.
Apart from her batteries of guided missiles, the U.S.S.Moran was armed with two five−inch Mark 45
naval guns, one forward,
one aft. They were of the most modern type available, radar−aimed and
computer−controlled.
Each could fire a complete magazine of twenty shells in rapid succession without reloading, and the
sequence of various
types of shell could be preset on the computer.
The old days when naval guns ammunition had to be manually hauled out of the deep magazine,
hoisted up to the gun turret by steam power, and rammed into the breech by sweating gunners, were
long gone. On theMoran the shells would be selected by type and performance from the stock in the
magazine by the computer, the shells brought to the firing turret automatically, the five−inch guns
loaded, fired, voided, reloaded, and fired again, without a human hand.
The aiming was by radar; the invisible eyes of the ship would seek out the target according to the
programmed instructions,
adjust for wind, range, and the movement of either
target or firing
platform, and once locked on, hold that aim until given fresh orders. The computer would work
together
with the eyes of radar, absorbing within fractions of a second any tiny shift of theMoran
herself, the target, or the wind strength between them. Once locked on, the target could begin to
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move, theMoran could go anywhere she liked; the guns would simply move on silent bearings,
keeping their deadly muzzles pointed to just where the shells should go. Wild seas could force
theMoran to pitch and roll; the target could yaw and swing; it made no difference, the computer
compensated. Even the pattern in which the homing shells should fall could be preset.
As a backup, the gunnery officer could scan the target visually with the aid of a camera mounted
high aloft, and issue fresh instructions to both radar and computer when he wished to change target.
With grim concentration, Captain Mike Manning surveyed theFreya from where he stood by the rail.
Whoever had advised
the President must have done his homework well. The environmental hazard
in the death of theFreya lay in the escape
in crude−oil form of her million−ton cargo. But if that
cargo were ignited while still in the holds, or within a few seconds of the ships rupture, it would
burn. In fact it would more than burnit would explode.
Normally, crude oil is exceptionally difficult to burn, but if heated enough, it will inevitably reach its
flashpoint and take fire. The Mubarraq crude theFreya carried was the lightest of them all, and to
plunge lumps of blazing magnesium, burning at more than a thousand degrees Centigrade, into her
hull would do the trick with margin to spare. Up to ninety percent of her cargo would never reach the
ocean in crude−oil form; it would flame, making a fireball over ten thousand feet high.
What would be left of the cargo would be scum, drifting on the seas surface, and a black pall of
smoke as big as the cloud that once hung over Hiroshima. Of the ship herself, there would be nothing
left, but the environmental problem would have been reduced to manageable proportions. Mike
Manning summoned his gunnery officer, Lieutenant Commander
Chuck Olsen, to join him by the
rail.
I want you to load and lay the forward gun, he said flatly. Olsen began to note the commands.
Ordnance: three semi−armor−piercing, five magnesiumstarshell, two high explosive. Total: ten.
Then repeat that sequence.
Total: Twenty.
Yes, sir. Three SAP, five star, two HE. Fall pattern?
First shell on target; next shell two hundred meters farther;
third shell two hundred meters farther
still. Backtrack in forty−meter drops with the five starshells. Then forward again with the high
explosive, one hundred meters each.
Lieutenant Commander Olsen noted the fall pattern his captain required. Manning stared over the
rail. Five miles away, the bow of theFreya was pointing straight at theMoran. The fall pattern he had
dictated would cause the shells to drop in a line from the forepeak of theFreya to the base of her
superstructure, then back to the bow, then back again with the explosive toward the superstructure.
The semi−armor−piercing shells would cut open her tanks through the deck metal as a scalpel opens
skin; the starshells would drop in a line of five down the cuts; the high explosive would push the
blazing crude oil outward into all the port and starboard
holds.
Got it, Captain. Fall point for first shell?
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN 259
Ten meters over the bow of theFreya.
Olsens pen halted above the paper of his clipboard. He started at what he had written, then raised
his eyes to theFreya, five miles away.
Captain, he said slowly, if you do that, she wont just sink; she wont just burn; she wont just
explode. Shell vaporize.

Those are my orders, Mr. Olsen, said Manning stonily. The young Swedish−American by his side
was pale.
For Christs sake, there are twenty−nine Scandinavian seamen on that ship.
Mr. Olsen, I am aware of the facts. You will either carry out my orders and lay that gun, or
announce to me that you refuse.
The gunnery officer stiffened to attention.
Ill load and lay your gun for you, Captain Manning, he said, but I will not fire it. If the fire
button has to be pressed, you must press it yourself.
He snapped a perfect salute and marched away to the fire−control station below decks.
You wont have to, thought Manning, and I couldnt charge you with mutiny. If the President
himself orders me, I will fire it. Then I will resign my commission.
An hour later theWestland Wessex from theArgyll came overhead and winched a Royal Navy officer
to the deck of theMoran. He asked to speak to Captain Manning in private and was shown to the
Americans cabin.
Compliments of Captain Preston, sir, said the ensign, and handed Manning a letter from Preston.
When he had finished
reading it, Manning sat back like a man reprieved from the gallows. It told
him that the British were sending in a team of armed frogmen at ten that night, and all governments
had agreed to undertake no independent action in the meantime.
While Manning was thinking the unthinkable aboard the U.S.S.Moran, the airliner bearing Adam
Munro back to the West was clearing the Soviet−Polish border.
From the toyshop on Dzerzhinsky Square, Munro had gone to a public call box and telephoned the
head of Chancery at his embassy. He had told the amazed diplomat in coded language that he had
discovered what his masters wanted to know, but would not be returning to the embassy. Instead, he
was heading straight for the airport to catch the noon plane.
By the time the diplomat had informed the ForeignOffice of this, and the FO had told the SIS, the
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message back to the effect that Munro should cable his news was too late. Munro was boarding.
What the devils he doing? asked Sir Nigel Irvine of Barry Ferndale in the SIS head office in
London when he learned his stormy petrel was flying home.
No idea, replied the controller of Soviet Section. Perhaps
the Nightingales been blown and he
needs to get back urgently before the diplomatic incident blows up. Shall I meet him?
When does he land?
One−forty−five London time, said Ferndale. I think I ought to meet him. It seems he has the
answer to President Matthewss question. Frankly, Im curious to find out what the devil it can be.
So am I, said Sir Nigel. Take a car with a scrambler phone and stay in touch with me
personally.
At a quarter to twelve, Drake sent one of his men to bring theFreyas pumpman back to the
cargo−control room on A deck. LeavingThor Larsen under the guard of another terrorist,
Drake
descended to cargo control, took the fuses from his pocket, and replaced them. Power was restored to
the cargo pumps.
When you discharge cargo, what do you do? he asked the crewman. Ive still got a submachine
gun pointing at your captain, and Ill order it to be used if you play any tricks.
The ships pipeline system terminates at a single point, a cluster of pipes that we call the
manifold, said the pumpman.
Hoses from the shore installation are coupled to the manifold. After
that, the main gate valves are opened at the manifold, and the ship begins to pump.
Whats your rate of discharge?
Twenty thousand tons per hour, said the man. During discharge, the ships balance is
maintained by venting several tanks at different points on the ship simultaneously.
Drake had noted that there was a slight, one−knot tide flowing past theFreya, northeast toward the
West Frisian Islands.
He pointed to a tank amidships on theFreyas starboard
side.
Open the master valve on that one, he said. The man paused for a second, then obeyed.
Right, said Drake. When I give the word, switch on the cargo pumps and vent the entire tank.
Into the sea? asked the pumpman incredulously.
Into the sea, said Drake grimly. ChancellorBusch is about to learn what international pressure
really means.
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As the minutes ticked away to midday of Saturday, April 2, Europe held its breath. So far as anyone
knew, the terrorists had already executed one seaman for a breach of the airspace above them, and
had threatened to do it again, or vent crude oil, on the stroke of noon.
The Nimrod that had replaced Squadron Leader Lathams aircraft the previous midnight had run
short of fuel by elevenA.M., so Latham was back on duty, cameras whirring as the minutes to noon
ticked away.
Many miles above him, a Condor spy satellite was on station,
bouncing its continuous stream of
picture images across the globe to where a haggard American President sat in the Oval Office
watching a television screen. On the TV theFreya inched gently into the frame from the bottom rim,
like a pointing finger.
In London, men of rank and influence in the Cabinet Office
briefing room grouped around a screen
on which was presented what the Nimrod was seeing. The Nimrod was on continuous camera roll
from five minutes before twelve, her pictures passing to the Data Link on theArgyll beneath her, and
from there to Whitehall.
Along the rails of theMontcalm,Breda,Brunner,Argyll, andMoran, sailors of five nations passed
binoculars from hand to hand. Their officers stood as high aloft as they could get, with telescopes to
eye.
On the BBC World Service, the bell of Big Ben struck noon. In the Cabinet Office two hundred
yards from Big Ben and two floors beneath the street, someone shouted, Christ, shes venting!
Three thousand miles away, four shirt−sleeved Americans in the Oval Office watched the same
spectacle.
From the side of theFreya, midships to starboard, a column of sticky, ocher−red crude oil erupted.
It was thick as a mans torso. Impelled by the power of theFreyas mighty pumps, the oil leaped the
starboard rail, dropped twenty−five feet, and thundered into the sea. Within seconds, the blue−green
water was discolored, putrefied. As the oil bubbled back to the surface, a stain began to spread,
moving out and away from the ships hull on the tide.
For sixty minutes the venting went on, until the single tank was dry. The great stain formed the shape
of an egg, broad nearest the Dutch coast and tapering near to the ship. Finally the mass of oil parted
company with theFreya and began to drift. The sea being calm, the oil slick stayed in one piece, but
it began to expand as the light crude ran across the surface
of the water. At twoP.M., an hour after
the venting ended, the slick was ten miles long and seven miles wide at its broadest.
The Condor passed on, and the slick moved off the screen in Washington.Stanislaw Poklewski
switched off the set.
Thats just one fiftieth of what she carries, he said. Those Europeans will go mad.
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Robert Benson took a telephone call and turned to President Matthews.
London just checked in with Langley, he said. Their man from Moscow has cabled that he has
the answer to our question. He claims he knows why Maxim Rudin is threatening
to tear up the
Treaty of Dublin if Mishkin and Lazareff go free. Hes flying personally with the news from
Moscow to London, and he should land in one hour.
Matthews shrugged.
With this man MajorFallon going in with his divers in nine hours, maybe it doesnt matter
anymore, he said, but Id sure be interested to know.
Hell report to Sir Nigel Irvine, who will tell Mrs. Carpenter.
Maybe you could ask her to use the
hot line the moment she knows, suggested Benson.
Ill do that thing, said the President.
It was just after eightA.M. in Washington but past oneP.M. in Europe when Andrew Drake, who had
been pensive and withdrawn while the oil was being vented, decided to make contact again.
By twenty past one, CaptainThor Larsen was speaking again toMaas Control, from whom he asked
at once to be patched through to the Dutch Premier, Jan Grayling. The patch−through to The Hague
took no time; the possibility had been foreseen that sooner or later the Premier might get a chance to
talk to the leader of the terrorists personally and appeal for negotiations on behalf of Holland and
Germany.
I am listening to you, Captain Larsen, said the Dutchman
to the Norwegian in English. This is
Jan Grayling speaking.
Prime Minister, you have seen the venting of twenty thousand
tons of crude oil from my ship?
asked Larsen, the gun barrel an inch from his ear.
With great regret, yes, said Grayling.
The leader of the partisans proposes a conference.
The captains voice boomed through the Premiers office in The Hague. Grayling looked up sharply
at the two senior civil servants who had joined him. The tape recorder rolled impassively.
I see, said Grayling, who did not see at all but was stalling
for time. What kind of conference?
 A face−to−face conference with the representatives of the coastal nations and other interested
parties,  said Larsen, reading from the paper in front of him.
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Jan Grayling clapped his hand over the mouthpiece.
The bastard wants to talk, he said excitedly. And then, into the telephone, he said, On behalf of
the Dutch government,
I agree to be host to such a conference. Please inform the partisan leader of
this.
On the bridge of theFreya, Drake shook his head and placed his hand over the mouthpiece. He had a
hurried discussion
with Larsen.
Not on land, said Larsen into the phone. Here at sea. What is the name of that British cruiser?
Shes called theArgyll, said Grayling.
She has a helicopter, said Larsen at Drakes instruction. The conference will be aboard
theArgyll. At threeP.M. Those present should include yourself, the West German Ambassador,
and
the captains of the five NATO warships. No one else.
That is understood, said Grayling. Will the leader of the partisans attend in person? I would need
to consult the British about a guarantee of safe−conduct.
There was silence as another conference took place on the bridge of theFreya. Captain Larsens
voice came back.
No, the leader will not attend. He will send a representative.
At five minutes before three, the
helicopter from theArgyll
will be permitted to hover over the helipad of theFreya. There must be no
soldiers or Marines on board. Only the pilot
and the winchman, both unarmed. The scene will be
observed
from the bridge. There will be no cameras. The helicopter will not descend lower than
twenty feet The winchman
will lower a harness, and the emissary will be lifted off the main deck
and across to theArgyll. Is that understood?

Perfectly, said Grayling. May I ask who the representative
will be?
One moment, said Larsen, and the line went dead. On theFreya, Larsen turned to Drake and
asked:
Well, Mr. Svoboda, if not yourself, whom are you sending?
Drake smiled briefly.
You, he said. You will represent me. You are the best person I can think of to convince them I
am not jokingnot about the ship, or the crew, or the cargo. And that my patience
is running short.
The phone in Premier Graylings hand crackled to life.
I am informed it will be me, said Larsen, and the line was cut.
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Jan Grayling glanced at his watch.
One−forty−five, he said. Seventy−five minutes to go. Get Konrad Voss over here. Prepare a
helicopter to take off from the nearest point to this office. And I want a direct line to Mrs. Carpenter
in London.
He had hardly finished speaking before his private secretary
told him Harry Wennerstrom was on
the line. The old millionaire in the penthouse above the Hilton in Rotterdam had acquired his own
radio receiver during the night and had mounted a permanent watch on Channel 20.
Youll be going out to theArgyll by helicopter, he told the Dutch Premier without preamble. Id
be grateful if you would take Mrs. Lisa Larsen with you.
Well, I dont know began Grayling.
For pitys sake, man, boomed the Swede, the terrorists will never know. And if this business
isnt handled right, it may be the last time she ever sees him.
Get her here in forty minutes, said Grayling. We take off at half past two.
The conversation on Channel 20 had been heard by every intelligence
network and most of the
media. Lines were already buzzing between Rotterdam and nine European capitals. The National
Security Agency in Washington had a transcript clattering
off the White House teleprinter for
President Matthews.
An aide was darting across the lawn from the Cabinet Office to Mrs.
Carpenters study at 10 Downing Street. The Israeli Ambassador in Bonn was urgently asking
ChancellorBusch to ascertain for Prime Minister Golen from Captain Larsen whether the terrorists
were Jews or not, and the West German government chief promised to do this.
The afternoon newspapers and radio and TV shows across Europe had their headlines for the
fiveP.M. edition, and frantic
calls were made to four Navy ministries for a report on the conference
if and when it took place.
As Jan Grayling put down the telephone after speaking toThor Larsen, the jet airliner carrying Adam
Munro from Moscow
touched the tarmac of Runway 1 at Londons Heathrow Airport.
Barry Ferndales Foreign Office pass had brought him to the foot of the aircraft steps, and he
ushered his bleak−faced colleague from Moscow into the back seat. The car was better
than most
that the Firm used; it had a screen between driver and passengers, and a telephone linked to the head
office.
As they swept down the tunnel from the airport to the M4 motorway, Ferndale broke the silence.
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Rough trip, old boy? He was not referring to the airplane
journey.
Disastrous, snapped Munro. I think the Nightingale is blown. Certainly followed by the
Opposition. May have been picked up by now.
Ferndale clucked sympathy.
Bloody bad luck, he said. Always terrible to lose an agent. Damned upsetting. Lost a couple
myself, you know. One died damned unpleasantly. But thats the trade were in, Adam. Thats part
of what Kipling used to call the Great Game.
Except this is no game, said Munro, and what the KGB will do to the Nightingale is no joke.
Absolutely not. Sorry. Shouldnt have said that. Ferndale paused expectantly as their car joined
the M4 traffic stream. But you did get the answer to our question: Why is Rudin so pathologically
opposed to the release of Mishkin and Lazareff?
The answer toMrs.Carpenters question, said Munro grimly. Yes, I got it.
And it is?
She asked it, said Munro. Shell get the answer. I hope shell like it. It cost a life to get it.
That might not be wise, Adam old son, said Ferndale. You cant just walk in on the P.M., you
know. Even the Master has to make an appointment.
Then ask him to make one, said Munro, gesturing to the telephone.
Im afraid Ill have to, said Ferndale quietly. It was a pity to see a talented man blow his career
to bits, but Munro had evidently reached the end of his tether. Ferndale was not going to stand in his
way; the Master had told him to stay in touch. He did exactly that.
Ten minutes later, Mrs. Joan Carpenter listened carefully to the voice of Sir Nigel Irvine on the
scrambler telephone.
To give the answer to me personally, Sir Nigel? she asked. Isnt that rather unusual?
Extremely so, maam. In fact, its unheard of. I fear it has to mean Mr. Munro and the services
parting company. But short of asking the specialists to require the information out of him, I can
hardly force him to tell me. You see, hes lost an agent who seems to have become a personal friend
over the past nine months, and hes just about at the end of his tether.
Joan Carpenter thought for several moments.
I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of so much distress, she said. I would like to apologize
to your Mr. Munro for what I had to ask him to do. Please ask his driver to bring him to Number
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN 266
Ten. And join me yourself, immediately.

The line went dead. Sir Nigel Irvine stared at the receiver for a while. That woman never ceases to
surprise me, he thought. All right Adam, you want your moment of glory, son, youll have it. But
itll be your last. After that, its pastures
new for you. Cant haveprima donnas in the Firm.
As he descended to his car, Sir Nigel reflected that however
interesting the explanation might be, it
was academic, or soon would be. In seven hours Major SimonFallon would steal aboard theFreya
with three companions and wipe out the terrorists. After that, Mishkin and Lazareff would stay
where they were for fifteen years.
At two oclock, back in the day cabin, Drake leaned forward towardThor Larsen and told him:
Youre probably wondering why I set up this conference on theArgyll. I know that while you are
there you will tell them who we are and how many we are. What we are armed with and where the
charges are placed. Now listen carefully because this is what you must also tell them if you want to
save your crew and ship from instant destruction.
He talked for over thirty minutes.Thor Larsen listened impassively,
drinking in the words and their
implications.
When he had finished, the Norwegian captain said, Ill tell them. Not because I aim to save your
skin, Mr. Svoboda, but because you are not going to kill my crew and my ship.
There was a trill from the intercom in the soundproof cabin. Drake answered it and looked out
through the windows
to the distant focsle. Approaching from the seaward side, very slowly and
carefully, was the Wessex helicopter from theArgyll, the Royal Navy markings clear along her tail.
Five minutes later, under the eyes of cameras that beamed their images across the world, watched by
men and women in subterranean offices hundreds and even thousands of miles away, CaptainThor
Larsen, master of the biggest ship ever built, stepped out of her superstructure into the open air. He
had insisted on donning his black trousers, and over his white sweater had buttoned his merchant
navy jacket with the four gold rings of a sea captain. On his head was the braided cap with the
Viking helmet emblem of the Nordia Line. He was in the uniform he would have worn the previous
evening to meet the worlds press for the first time. Squaring his broad shoulders, he began the long,
lonely walk down the vast expanse
of his ship to where the harness and cable dangled from the
helicopter a third of a mile in front of him.

Chapter Seventeen


1500 to 2100

SIR NIGEL IRVINES personal limousine, bearing Barry Ferndale and Adam Munro, arrived at 10
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 267
Downing Street a few seconds before three oclock. When the pair were shown into the anteroom
leading to the Prime Ministers study, Sir Nigel himself was already there. He greeted Munro
coolly.
I do hope this insistence on delivering your report to theP.M. personally will have been worth all
the effort, Munro, he said.
I think it will, Sir Nigel, replied Munro.
The Director General of the SIS regarded his staffer quizzically.
The man was evidently exhausted,
and had had a rough deal over the Nightingale affair. Still, that was no excuse for breaking
discipline. The door to the private study opened and Sir Julian Flannery appeared.
Do come in, gentlemen, he said.
Adam Munro had never met the Prime Minister personally.
Despite not having slept for two days,
she appeared fresh and poised. She greeted Sir Nigel first, then shook hands with the two men she
had not met before, Barry Ferndale and Adam Munro.
Mr. Munro, she said, let me state at the outset my deep regret that I had to cause you both
personal hazard and possible
exposure to your agent in Moscow. I had no wish to do so, but the
answer to President Matthewss question was of truly international importance, and I do not use that
phrase lightly.
Thank you for saying so, maam, replied Munro.
She went on to explain that, even as they talked, the captain
of theFreya,Thor Larsen, was landing
on theafterdeck of the cruiserArgyll for a conference; and that, scheduled for ten that evening, a team
of SBS frogmen was going to attack theFreya in an attempt to wipe out the terrorists and their
detonator.
Munros face was set like granite when he heard.
If, maam, he said clearly, these commandos are successful,
then the hijacking will be over, the
two prisoners in Berlin will stay where they are, and the probable exposure of my agent will have
been in vain.
She had the grace to look thoroughly uncomfortable.
I can only repeat my apology, Mr. Munro. The plan to storm theFreya was only devised in the
small hours of this morning, ten hours after Maxim Rudin delivered his ultimatum
to President
Matthews. By then you were already consulting
the Nightingale. It was impossible to call that agent
back.
Sir Julian entered the room and told the Premier, Theyre coming on patch−through now,
maam.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 268
The Prime Minister asked her three guests to be seated. A box speaker had been placed in the corner
of her office, and wires led from it to a neighboring anteroom.
Gentlemen, the conference on theArgyll is beginning. Let us listen to it, and then we will learn from
Mr. Munro the reason for Maxim Rudins extraordinary ultimatum.
AsThor Larsen stepped from the harness onto theafterdeck of the British cruiser at the end of his
dizzying five−mile ride through the sky beneath the Wessex, the roar of the engines above his head
was penetrated by the shrill welcome of the bosuns pipes.
TheArgylls captain stepped forward, saluted, and held out his hand.
Richard Preston, said the Royal Navy captain. Larsen returned the salute and shook hands.
Welcome aboard, Captain, said Preston.
Thank you, said Larsen.
Would you care to step down to the wardroom?
The two captains descended from the fresh air into the largest cabin in the cruiser, the officers
wardroom. There Captain Preston made the formal introductions.
The Right Honorable Jan Grayling, Prime Minister of the Netherlands. You have spoken on the
telephone already, I believe. ... His Excellency Konrad Voss, Ambassador of the Federal Republic of
Germany. CaptainDesmoulins of the French Navy,de Jong of the Dutch Navy,Hasselmann of the
German Navy, and Manning of the United States Navy.
Mike Manning put out his hand and stared into the eyes of the bearded Norwegian.
Good to meet you, Captain. The words stuck in his throat.Thor Larsen looked into his eyes a
fraction longer than he had into those of the other naval commanders, and passed on.
Finally, said Captain Preston, may I present Major SimonFallon
of the Royal Marine
commandos.
Larsen looked down at the short, burly Marine and felt the mans hard fist in his own. So, he
thought, Svoboda was right after all.
At Captain Prestons invitation they all seated themselves at the expansive dining table.
Captain Larsen, I should make plain that our conversation
has to be recorded, and will be
transmitted in uninterceptible form directly from this cabin to Whitehall, where the British Prime
Minister will be listening.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 269
Larsen nodded. His gaze kept wandering to the American; everyone else was looking at him with
interest; the U.S. Navy man was studying the mahogany table.
Before we begin, may I offer you anything? asked Preston. A drink, perhaps? Food? Tea or
coffee?
Just a coffee, thank you. Black, no sugar.
Captain Preston nodded to a steward by the door, who disappeared.
It has been agreed that, to begin with, I shall ask the questions that interest and concern all our
governments, continued Captain Preston. Mr. Grayling and Mr. Voss have graciously conceded to
this. Of course, anyone may pose a question that I may have overlooked. Firstly, may we ask you,
Captain Larsen, what happened in the small hours of yesterday morning.
Was it only yesterday? Larsen thought. Yes, threeA.M. in the small hours of Friday morning; and it
was now five past three on Saturday afternoon. Just thirty−six hours. It seemed like a week.
Briefly and clearly he described the takeover of theFreya during the night watch, how the attackers
came so effortlessly aboard and herded the crew down to the paint locker.
So there are seven of them? asked the Marine major. You are quite certain there are no more?
Quite certain, said Larsen. Just seven.
And do you know who they are? asked Preston. Jews? Arabs? Red Brigades?
Larsen stared at the ring of faces in surprise. He had forgotten
that outside theFreya no one knew
who the hijackers were.
No, he said. Theyre Ukrainians. Ukrainian nationalists. The leader calls himself simply
Svoboda. He said it means freedom in Ukrainian. They always talk to each other in what must be
Ukrainian. Certainly, its Slavic.
Then why the hell are they seeking the liberation of two Russian Jews in Berlin? asked Jan
Grayling in exasperation.
I dont know, said Larsen. The leader claims they are friends of his.
One moment, said Ambassador Voss. We have all been mesmerized by the fact that Mishkin
and Lazareff are Jews and wish to go to Israel. But of course they both come from the Ukraine, the
city of Lvov. It did not occur to my government
that they could be Ukrainian partisan fighters as
well.
Why do they think the liberation of Mishkin and Lazareff will help their Ukrainian nationalist
cause? asked Preston.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 270
I dont know, said Larsen. Svoboda wont say. I asked him; he nearly told me, but then shut up.
He would say only that the liberation of those two men would cause such a blow to the Kremlin, it
could start a widespread popular uprising.
There was blank incomprehension on the faces of the men around him. The final questions about the
layout of the ship, where Svoboda and Larsen stayed, the deployment of the terrorists,
took a further
ten minutes. Finally, Preston looked around at the other captains and the representatives of Holland
and Germany. The men nodded. Preston leaned forward.
Now, Captain Larsen, I think it is time to tell you. Tonight, MajorFallon here and a group of his
colleagues are going to approach theFreya underwater, scale her sides, and wipe out Svoboda and his
men.
He sat back to watch the effect.
No, saidThor Larsen slowly, they are not.
I beg your pardon.
There will be no underwater attack unless you wish to have theFreya blown up and sunk. That is
what Svoboda sent me here to tell you.
Item by item, Captain Larsen spelled out Svobodas message to the West. Before sundown every
single floodlight on theFreya would be switched on. The man in the focsle would be withdrawn;
the entire foredeck from the bow to the base of the superstructure would be bathed in light.
Inside the superstructure, every door leading outside would be locked and bolted on the inside. Every
interior door would also be locked, to prevent access via a window.
Svoboda himself, with his detonator, would remain inside the superstructure, but would select one of
the more than fifty cabins to occupy. Every light in every cabin would be switched on, and every
curtain drawn.
One terrorist would remain on the bridge, in walkie−talkie contact with the man atop the funnel. The
other four men would ceaselessly patrol the taffrail around the entire stern area of theFreya with
powerful flashlights, scanning the surface
of the sea. At the first trace of a stream of bubbles, or
someone climbing the vessels side, the patrol would fire a shot. The man atop the funnel would
alert the bridge watch, who would shout a warning on the telephone to the cabin where Svoboda hid.
This telephone line would be kept open all night. On hearing the word of alarm, Svoboda would
press his red button.
When Larsen had finished, there was silence around the table.
Bastard, said Captain Preston with feeling. The groups eyes swiveled to MajorFallon, who
stared unblinkingly at Larsen.
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Well, Major? asked Grayling.
We could come aboard at the bow instead, saidFallon.
Larsen shook his head.
The bridge watch would see you in the floodlights, he said. You wouldnt get halfway down the
foredeck.
Well have to booby−trap their escape launch, anyway, saidFallon.
Svoboda thought of that, too, said Larsen. They are going
to pull it around to the stern, where it
will be in the glare of the deck lights.
Fallonshrugged.
That just leaves a frontal assault, he said. Come out of the water firing, use more men, come
aboard against the opposition,
beat in the door, and move through the cabins one by one.
Not a chance, said Larsen firmly. You wouldnt be over the rail before Svoboda had heard you
and blown us all to kingdom come.
Im afraid I have to agree with Captain Larsen, said Jan Grayling. I dont believe the Dutch
government would agree to a suicide mission.
Nor the West German government, said Voss.
Fallontried one last move.
You are alone with Svoboda for much of the time, Captain
Larsen. Would you kill him?
Willingly, said Larsen, but if you are thinking of giving me a weapon, dont bother. On my
return I am to be skin−searched, well out of Svobodas reach. Any weapon found, and another of
my seamen is executed. Im not taking anything
back on board. Not weapons, not poison.
Im afraid its over, MajorFallon, said Captain Preston gently. The hard option wont work.
He rose from the table.
Well, gentlemen, barring further questions to Captain Larsen,
I believe there is little more we can
do. It now has to be passed back to the concerned governments. Captain Larsen, thank you for your
time and your patience. In my personal cabin there is someone who would like to speak with you.
ThorLarsen was shown from the silent wardroom by a steward. An anguished Mike Manning
watched him leave. The destruction of the plan of attack by Major Fallons party now brought back
to terrible possibility the order he had been given that morning from Washington.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 272
The steward showed the Norwegian captain through the door of Prestons personal living quarters.
Lisa Larsen rose from the edge of the bed where she had been sitting, staring out of the porthole at
the dim outline of theFreya.
Thor,she said. Larsen kicked back and slammed the door shut. He opened his arms and caught the
running woman in a hug.
Hello, little snow mouse.
In the Prime Ministers private office on Downing Street, the transmission from theArgyll was
switched off.
Blast! said Sir Nigel, expressing the views of them all.
The Prime Minister turned to Munro.
Now, Mr. Munro, it seems that your news is not so academic
after all. If the explanation can in any
way assist us to solve this impasse, your risks will not have been run in vain. So, in a sentence, why
is Maxim Rudin behaving in this way?
Because, maam, as we all know, his supremacy in the Politburo
hangs by a thread and has done
so for months. ...
But on the question of arms concessions to the Americans,
surely, said Mrs. Carpenter. That is
the issue on which Vishnayev wishes to bring him down.
Maam, Yefrem Vishnayev has made his play for supreme power in the Soviet Union and cannot
go back now. He will bring Rudin down any way he can, for if he does not, then following the
signature of the Treaty of Dublin in eight days time, Rudin will destroy him. These two men in
Berlin can deliver to Vishnayev the instrument he needs to swing one or two more members of the
Politburo to change their votes and join his faction of hawks.
How? asked Sir Nigel.
By speaking. By opening their mouths. By reaching Israel alive and holding an international press
conference. By inflicting
on the Soviet Union a massive public and international humiliation.
Not for killing an airline captain no one had ever heard of? asked the Prime Minister.
No. Not for that. The killing of Captain Rudenko in that cockpit was almost certainly an accident.
The escape to the West was indispensable if they were to give their real achievement the worldwide
publicity it needed. You see, maam, on the thirty−first of October last, during the night, in a street
in Kiev, Mishkin and Lazareff assassinated Yuri Ivanenko, the head of the KGB.
TheDevil'sAlternative
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SirNigel Irvine and Barry Ferndale sat bolt−upright, as if stung.
So thats what happened to him, breathed Ferndale, the Soviet expert. I thought he must be in
disgrace.
Not disgrace, a grave, said Munro. The Politburo knows it, of course, and at least one, maybe
two, of Rudins faction have threatened they will change sides if the assassins escape scot−free and
humiliate the Soviet Union.
Does that make sense in Russian psychology, Mr. Fern−dale? the Prime Minister asked.
Ferndales handkerchief whirled in circles across the lenses of his glasses as he polished them
furiously.
Perfect sense, maam, he said excitedly. Internally and externally. In times of crisis, such as
food shortages, it is imperative
that the KGB inspire awe in the people, especially the non−Russian
nationalities, to hold them in check. If that awe were to vanish, if the terrible KGB were to become a
laughingstock, the repercussions could be appallingseen from the Kremlin, of course.
Externally, and especially in the Third World, the impression
that the power of the Kremlin is an
impenetrable fortress is of paramount importance to Moscow in maintaining
its hold and its steady
advance.
Yes, those two men are a time bomb for Maxim Rudin. The fuse is lit by theFreya affair, and the
time is running out.
Then why cannot ChancellorBusch be told of Rudins ultimatum?
 asked Munro. Hed realize
that the Treaty of Dublin, which affects his country traumatically, is more important than theFreya.
Because, cut in Sir Nigel, even the news that Rudin has made the ultimatum is secret. If even
that got out, the world would realize the affair must concern more than just a dead airline captain.
Well, gentlemen, this is all very interesting, said Mrs. Carpenter. Indeed, fascinating. But it does
not help solve the problem. President Matthews faces two alternatives: permit ChancellorBusch to
release Mishkin andLazaren, and lose the treaty. Require these two men to remain in jail, and lose
theFreya while gaining the loathing of nearly a dozen European governments and the condemnation
of the world.
So far, he has tried a third alternative, that of asking Prime Minister Golen to return the two men to
jail in Germany
after the release of theFreya. The idea was to seek to satisfy Maxim Rudin. It might
have; it might not. In fact, Benyamin Golen refused. So that was that.
Thenwe proposed a third alternative, that of storming theFreya and liberating her. Now that has
become impossible. I fear there are no more alternatives, short of doing what we suspect the
Americans have in mind.
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And what is that? asked Munro.
Blowing her apart by shellfire, said Sir Nigel Irvine. We have no proof of it, but the guns of
theMoran are trained right on theFreya.
Actually, thereis a third alternative. It might satisfy Maxim Rudin, and it should work, suggested
Munro.
Then please explain it, commanded the Prime Minister.
Munro did so. It took barely five minutes. There was silence.
I find it utterly repulsive, said Mrs. Carpenter at last.
Maam, with all respect, so did I when I was forced to expose myagent to the KGB, Munro
replied stonily. Ferndale shot him a warning look.
Do we have such devilish equipment available? Mrs. Carpenter asked Sir Nigel.
He studied his fingertips.
I believe the specialist department may be able to lay its hands on that sort of thing, he said
quietly.
Joan Carpenter inhaled deeply.
It is not, thank God, a decision I would need to make. It is a decision for President Matthews. I
suppose it has to be put to him. But it should be explained person−to−person. Tell me, Mr. Munro,
would you be prepared to carry out this plan?
Munro thought ofValentina walking out into the street, to the waiting men in gray trench coats.
Yes, he said, without a qualm.
Time is short, she said briskly, if you are to reach Washington tonight. Sir Nigel, have you any
ideas?
There is the five oclock Concorde, the new service to Boston, he said. It could be diverted to
Washington if the President wanted it.
Mrs. Carpenter glanced at her watch. It read fourP.M.
On your way, Mr. Munro, she said. I will inform President Matthews of the news you have
brought from Moscow,
and ask him to receive you. You may explain to him personally your
somewhat ... macabre proposal. If he will see you at such short notice.
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Lisa Larsen was still holding her husband five minutes after he entered the cabin. He asked her about
home and the children.
She had spoken to them two hours earlier; there was no school on Saturday,
so they were staying with the Dahl family. They were fine, she said. They had just come back from
feeding the rabbits at Bogneset. The small talk died away.
Thor,what is going to happen?
I dont know. I dont understand why the Germans will not release those two men. I dont
understand why the Americans
will not allow it. I sit with prime ministers and ambassadors,
and
they cant tell me, either.
If they dont release the men, will that terrorist ... do it? she asked.
He may, said Larsen thoughtfully. I believe he will try. And if he does, I shall try to stop him. I
have to.
Those fine captains out there, why wont they help you?
They cant, snow mouse. No one can help me. I have to do it myself, or no one else will.
I dont trust that American captain, she whispered. I saw him when I came on board with Mr.
Grayling. He would not look me in the face.
No, he cannot. Nor me. You see, he has orders to blow theFreya out of the water.
She pulled away from him and looked up, eyes wide.
He couldnt, she said. No man would do that to other men.
He will if he has to. I dont know for certain, but I suspect
so. The guns of his ship are obviously
trained on us. If the Americans thought they had to do it, they would do it Burning up the cargo
would lessen the ecological damage, destroy the blackmail weapon.
She shivered and clung to him. She began to cry.
I hate him, she said.
ThorLarsen stroked her hair, his great hand almost Governing
her small head.
Donthate him, he rumbled. He has his orders. They all have their orders. They will all do what
the men far away in the chancelleries of Europe and America tell them to do.
I dont care. I hate them all.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 276
He laughed as he stroked her, gently reassuring.
Do something for me, snow mouse.
Anything.
Go back home. Go back to Ålesund. Get out of this place. Look after Kurt andKristina. Keep the
house ready for me. When this is over, I am going to come home. You can believe
that.
Come back with me. Now.
You know I have to go. The time is up.
Dont go back to the ship, she begged him. Theyll kill you there.
She was sniffing furiously, trying not to cry, trying not to hurt him.
Its my ship, he said gently. Its my crew. You know I have to go.
He left her in Captain Prestons armchair.
As he did so, the car bearing Adam Munro swung out of Downing Street, past the crowd of
sightseers who hoped to catch a glimpse of the high and the mighty at this moment of crisis, and
turned through Parliament Square for the Cromwell
Road and the highway to Heathrow.
Five minutes laterThor Larsen was buckled by two Royal Navy seamen, their hair awash from the
rotors of the Wessex above them, into the harness.
Captain Preston, with six of his officers and the four NATO captains, stood in a line a few yards
away. The Wessex began to lift.
Gentlemen, said Captain Preston. Five hands rose to five braided caps in simultaneous salute.
Mike Manning watched the bearded sailor in the harness being borne away from him. From a
hundred feet up, the Norwegian seemed to be looking down, straight at him.
He knows, thought Manning with horror. Oh, Jesus and Mary, he knows.
ThorLarsen walked into the day cabin of his own suite on theFreya with a submachine carbine at his
back. The man he knew as Svoboda was in his usual chair. Larsen was directed
into the one at the
far end of the table.
Did they believe you? asked the Ukrainian.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 277
Yes, said Larsen. They believed me. And you were right. They were preparing an attack by
frogmen after dark. Its been called off.
Drake snorted.
Just as well, he said. If they had tried it,Id have pressed this button without hesitation, suicide
or no suicide. Theyd have left me no alternative.
At ten minutes before noon, President William Matthews laid down the telephone that had joined
him for fifteen minutes to the British Premier in London, and looked at his three advisers.
They had
each heard the conversation on the Ampli−Vox.
So thats it, he said. The British are not going ahead with their night attack. Another of our
options gone. That just about leaves us with the alternative of blowing theFreya to pieces ourselves.
Is the warship on station?
In position, gun laid and loaded, confirmedStanislaw Poklewski.
Unless this man Munro has some idea that would work, suggested Robert Benson. Will you
agree to see him, Mr. President?
Bob, Ill see the devil himself if he can propose some way of getting me off this hook, said
Matthews.
One thing at least we may now be certain of, said David Lawrence. Maxim Rudin was not
overreacting. He could do nothing other than what he has done, after all. In his fight with Yefrem
Vishnayev, he, too, has no aces left. How the hell did those two in Moabit Prison ever get to shoot
Yuri Ivanenko?
We have to assume the one who leads that group on theFreya helped them, said Benson. Id
dearly love to get my hands on that Svoboda.
No doubt youd kill him, said Lawrence with distaste.
Wrong, said Benson. Id enlist him. Hes tough, ingenious,
and ruthless. Hes taken ten
European governments and made them dance like puppets.
It was noon in Washington, fiveP.M. in London, as the late−afternoon Concorde hoisted its stiltlike
legs over the concrete of Heathrow, lifted its drooping spear of a nose toward the western sky, and
climbed through the sound barrier toward the sunset.
The normal rules about not creating the sonic boom until well out over the sea had been overruled by
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 278
orders from Downing Street. The pencil−slim dart pushed its four screaming
Olympus engines to
full power just after takeoff, and a hundred fifty thousand pounds of thrust flung the airliner toward
the stratosphere.
The captain had estimated three hours to Washington, two hours ahead of the sun. Halfway across
the Atlantic he told his Boston−bound passengers with deep regret that the Concorde
would make a
stopover of a few moments at Dulles International
Airport, Washington, before heading back to
Boston, for operational reasons.
It was sevenP.M. in Western Europe but nine in Moscow when Yefrem Vishnayev finally got the
personal and highly unusual Saturday evening meeting with Maxim Rudin for which he had been
clamoring all day.
The old director of Soviet Russia agreed to meet his Party theoretician in the Politburo meeting room
on the third floor of the Arsenal building.
When he arrived, Vishnayev was backed by Marshal Nikolai
Kerensky, but he found Rudin
supported by his allies, Dmitri Rykov and Vassili Petrov.
I note that few appear to be enjoying this brilliant spring weekend in the countryside, he said
acidly.
Rudin shrugged. I was in the midst of enjoying a private dinner with two friends, he said. What
brings you, Comrades
Vishnayev and Kerensky, to the Kremlin at this hour?
The room was bare of secretaries and guards; it contained just the five power bosses of the Soviet
Union in angry confrontation
beneath the globe lights in the high ceiling.
Treason, snapped Vishnayev. Treason, Comrade Secretary−
General.
The silence was ominous, menacing.
Whose treason? asked Rudin.
Vishnayev leaned across the table and spoke two feet from Rudins face.
The treason of two filthy Jews from Lvov, he hissed. The treason of two men now in jail in
Berlin. Two men whose freedom is being sought by a gang of murderers on a tanker in the North
Sea. The treason of Mishkin and Lazareff.
It is true, said Rudin carefully, that the murder last December
by these two of Captain Rudenko
of Aeroflot constitutes

Is it not also true, asked Vishnayev menacingly, that these two murderers also killed Yuri
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 279
Ivanenko?
Maxim Rudin would dearly have liked to shoot a sideways glance at Vassili Petrov by his side.
Something had gone wrong. There had been a leak.
Petrovs lips set in a hard, straight line. He, too, now controlling
the KGB through General
Abrassov, knew that the circle of men aware of the real truth was small, very small. The man who
had spoken, he was sure, was Colonel Kukushkin, who had first failed to protest his master, and then
failed to liquidate his masters killers. He was trying to buy his career, perhaps even his life, by
changing camps and confiding to Vishnayev.
It is certainly suspected, said Rudin carefully. Not a proven fact.
I understand itis a proven fact, snapped Vishnayev. These two men have been positively
identified as the killers of our dear comrade, Yuri Ivanenko.
Rudin reflected on how intensely Vishnayev had loathed Ivanenko and wished him dead and gone.
The point is academic, said Rudin. Even for the killing of Captain Rudenko, the two murderers
are destined to be liquidated inside their Berlin jail.
Perhaps not, said Vishnayev with well−simulated outrage. It appears they may be released by
West Germany and sent to Israel. The West is weak; it cannot hold out for long against the terrorists
on theFreya. If those two reach Israel alive, they will talk. I think, my friendsoh, yes, I truly think
we all know what they will say.
What are you asking for? said Rudin.
Vishnayev rose. Taking his example, Kerensky rose, too.
I amdemanding, said Vishnayev, an extraordinary plenary meeting of the full Politburo here in
this room tomorrow
night at this hour, nine oclock. On a matter of exceptional
national urgency.
That is my right, Comrade Secretary−General?
Rudin nodded slowly. He looked up at Vishnayev from under
his eyebrows.
Yes, he growled, that is your right.
Then until this hour tomorrow, snapped the Party theoretician,
and stalked from the chamber.
Rudin turned to Petrov.
Colonel Kukushkin? he asked.
It looks like it. Either way, Vishnayev knows.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 280
Any possibility of eliminating Mishkin and Lazareff inside Moabit?
Petrov shook his head.
Not by tomorrow. No chance of mounting a fresh operation
under a new man in that time. Is there
any way of pressuring the West not to release them at all?
No, said Rudin shortly. I have brought every pressure on Matthews that I know how. There is
nothing more I can bring to bear on him. It is up to him now, him and that damned German
Chancellor in Bonn.
Tomorrow, said Rykov soberly, Vishnayev and his people will produce Kukushkin and demand
that we hear him out. And if by then Mishkin and Lazareff are in Israel ...
At eightP.M. European time, Andrew Drake, speaking through CaptainThor Larsen from theFreya,
issued his final ultimatum.
At nineA.M. the following morning, in thirteen hours, theFreya would vent one hundred thousand
tons of crude oil into the North Sea unless Mishkin and Lazareff were airborne and on their way to
Tel Aviv. At eightP.M., unless they were in Israel and identified as genuine, theFreya would blow
herself
apart.
Thats positively the last straw! shouted DietrichBusch when he heard the ultimatum ten minutes
after it was broadcast
from theFreya. Who does William Matthews think he is? No oneabsolutely
no oneis going to force the Chancellor of the Federal Republic of Germany to carry on with this
charade. It is over!
At twenty past eight, the West German government announced
that it was unilaterally releasing
Mishkin and Lazareff the following morning at eightA.M.
At eight−thirty, a personal coded message arrived on the U.S.S.Moran for Captain Mike Manning.
When decoded, it read simply: Prepare for fire order sevenA.M. tomorrow.
He screwed it into a ball in his fist and looked out through the porthole toward theFreya. She was lit
like a Christmas tree, flood and arc lights bathing her towering superstructure in a glare of white
light. She sat on the ocean five miles away, doomed, helpless; waiting for one of her two
executioners
to finish her off.
WhileThor Larsen was speaking on theFreyas radiotelephone
toMaas Control, the Concorde
bearing Adam Munro swept over the perimeter fence at Dulles International Airport,
flaps and
undercarriage hanging, nose high, a delta−shaped bird of prey seeking to grip the runway.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 281
The bewildered passengers, like goldfish peering through the tiny windows, noted only that she did
not taxi toward the terminal building, but simply hove to, engines running, in a parking bay beside
the taxi track. A gangway was waiting, along with a black limousine.
A single passenger, carrying no mackintosh and no hand luggage, rose from near the front, stepped
out of the open door, and ran down the steps. Seconds later the gangway was withdrawn, the door
closed, and the apologetic captain announced
that they would take off at once for Boston.
Adam Munro stepped into the limousine beside the two burly escorts and was immediately relieved
of his passport. The two Secret Service agents studied it intently as the car swept across the expanse
of tarmac to where a small helicopter
stood in the lee of a hangar, rotors whirling.
The agents were formal, polite. They had their orders. Before
he boarded the helicopter, Munro was
exhaustively frisked for hidden weapons. When they were satisfied, they escorted him aboard and
the whirlybird lifted off, beading across the Potomac for Washington and the spreading lawns of the
White House. It was half an hour after touchdown at Dulles, three−thirty on a warm Washington
spring afternoon, when they landed, barely a hundred yards from the Oval Office
windows.
The two agents escorted Munro across the lawns to where a narrow street ran between the big gray
Executive Office Building, a Victorian monstrosity of porticos and columns intersected
by a
bewildering variety of different types of window,
and the much smaller, white West Wing, a squat
box partly sunken below ground level.
It was to a small door at the basement level that the two agents led Munro. Inside, they identified
themselves and their visitor to a uniformed policeman sitting at a tiny desk. Munro was surprised;
this was all a far cry from the sweeping
facade of the front entrance to the residence on
Pennsylvania Avenue, so well−known to tourists and beloved of Americans.
The policeman checked with someone by house phone, and a woman secretary came out of an
elevator several minutes later. She led the three past the policeman and down a corridor,
at the end
of which they mounted a narrow staircase. One floor up, they were at ground level, stepping through
a door into a thickly carpeted hallway, where a male aide in a charcoal−gray suit glanced with raised
eyebrows at the unshaven,
disheveled Englishman.
Youre to come straight through, Mr. Munro, he said, and led the way. The two Secret Service
agents stayed with the woman.
Munro was led down the corridor, past a small bust of Abraham Lincoln. Two staffers coming the
other way passed in silence. The man leading him veered to the left and confronted
another
uniformed policeman sitting at a desk outside a white, paneled door, set flush with the wall. The
policeman examined Munros passport again, looked at his appearance with evident disapproval,
reached under his desk and pressed a button. A buzzer sounded, and the aide pushed at the door.
When it opened, he stepped back and ushered Munro past him. Munro took two paces forward and
found himself in the Oval Office. The door clicked shut behind him.
The four men in the room were evidently waiting for him, all four staring toward the curved door
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 282
now set back in the wall where he stood. He recognized President William Matthews,
but this was a
President as no voter had ever seen him: tired, haggard, ten years older than the smiling, confident,
mature but energetic image on the posters.
Robert Benson rose and approached him.
Im Bob Benson, he said. He drew Munro toward the desk. William Matthews leaned across and
shook hands. Munro was introduced to David Lawrence andStanislaw Poklewski, both of whom he
recognized from their newspaper pictures.
So, said President Matthews, looking with curiosity at the English agent across his desk, youre
the man who runs the Nightingale.
Ranthe Nightingale, Mr. President, said Munro. As of twelve hours ago, I believe that asset has
been blown to the KGB.
Im sorry, said Matthews. You know what a hell of an ultimatum Maxim Rudin put to me over
this tanker affair, I had to know why he was doing it.
Now we know, said Poklewski, but it doesnt seem to change much, except to prove that Rudin
is backed right into a corner, as we are here. The explanation is fantastic: the murder of Yuri
Ivanenko by two amateur assassins in a street in Kiev. But we are still on that hook. ...
We dont have to explain to Mr. Munro the importance of the Treaty of Dublin, or the likelihood
of war if Yefrem Vishnayev comes to power, said David Lawrence. Youve read all those reports
of the Politburo discussions that the Nightingale delivered to you, Mr. Munro?
Yes, Mr. Secretary, said Munro. I read them in the original Russian just after they were handed
over. I know what is at stake on both sides.
Then how the hell do we get out of it? asked President Matthews. Your Prime Minister asked me
to receive you because
you had some proposal she was not prepared to discuss over the telephone.
Thats why youre here, right?
Yes, Mr. President.
At that point, the phone rang. Benson listened for several seconds, then put it down.
Were moving toward the crunch, he said. That man Svoboda on theFreya has just announced
he is venting one hundred thousand tons of oil tomorrow morning at nine European
timethats
fourA.M. our time. Just over twelve hours from now.
So whats your suggestion, Mr. Munro? asked President Matthews.
Mr. President, there are two basic choices here. Either Mishkin and Lazareff are released to fly to
Israel, in which case they talk when they arrive there and destroy Maxim Rudin and the Treaty of
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 283
Dublin; or they stay where they are, in which case theFreya will either destroy herself or will have to
be destroyed with all her crew on board her.
He did not mention the British suspicion concerning the real role of theMoran, but Poklewski shot
the impassive Benson
a sharp glance.
We know that, Mr. Munro, said the President.
But the real fear of Maxim Rudin does not concern the geographical location of Mishkin and
Lazareff. His real concern is whether they have the opportunity to address the world on what they
did in that street in Kiev five months ago.
William Matthews sighed.
We thought of that, he said. We have asked Prime Minister
Golen to accept Mishkin and
Lazareff, hold them incommunicado
until theFreya is released, then return them to Moabit Prison,
even hold them out of sight and sound inside an Israeli jail for another ten years. He refused. He said
if he made the public pledge the terrorists demanded, he would not go back on it. And he wont.
Sorry, its been a wasted journey,
Mr. Munro.
That was not what I had in mind, said Munro. During the flight, I wrote the suggestion in
memorandum form on airline notepaper.
He withdrew a sheaf of papers from his inner pocket and laid them on the Presidents desk.
President Matthews read the memorandum with an expression
of increasing horror.
This is appalling, he said when he had finished. I have no choice here. Or rather, whichever
option I choose, men are going to die.
Adam Munro looked across at him with no sympathy. In his time he had learned that, in principle,
politicians have little enough objection to loss of life, provided that they personally
cannot be seen
publicly to have had anything to do with it.
It has happened before, Mr. President, he said firmly, and no doubt it will happen again. In the
Firm we call it the Devils Alternative. 
Wordlessly, President Matthews passed the memorandum to Robert Benson, who read it quickly.
Ingenious, he said. It might work. Can it be done in time?
We have the equipment, said Munro. The time is short, but not too short. I would have to be
back in Berlin by sevenA.M. Berlin time, ten hours from now.
But even if we agree, will Maxim Rudin go along with it? asked the President. Without his
concurrence the Treaty of Dublin would be forfeit.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 284
The only way is to ask him, said Poklewski, who had finished
the memorandum and passed it to
David Lawrence. The Boston−born Secretary of State put the papers down as if they would soil his
fingers.
I find the idea cold−blooded and repulsive, Lawrence said. No United States government could
put its imprimatur to such a scheme.
Is it worse than sitting back as twenty−nine innocent seamen in theFreya are burned alive? asked
Munro.
The phone rang again. When Benson replaced it he turned to the President.
I feel we may have no alternative but to seek Maxim Rudins agreement, he said.
ChancellorBusch has just announced Mishkin and Lazareff are being freed at oh−eight−hundred
hours, European time. And this time he will not back down.
Then we have to try it, said Matthews. But I am not taking sole responsibility. Maxim Rudin
must agree to permit the plan to go ahead. He must be forewarned. I shall call him personally.
Mr. President, said Munro. Maxim Rudin did not use the hot line to deliver his ultimatum to
you. He is not sure of the loyalties of some of his inner staff inside the Kremlin. In these faction
fights, even some of the small fry change sides and support the opposition with classified
information. I believe
this proposal should be for his ears alone or he will feel bound to refuse it.
Surely there is not the time for you to fly to Moscow through the night and be back in Berlin by
dawn? objected Poklewski.
There is one way, said Benson. There is a Blackbird based at Andrews that would cover the
distance in the time.
President Matthews made up his mind.
Bob, escort Mr. Munro to Andrews Air Force Base. Alert the crew of the Blackbird there to prepare
for takeoff in one hour. I will personally call Maxim Rudin and ask him to permit
the airplane to
enter Soviet airspace, and to receive Adam Munro as my personal envoy. Anything else, Mr.
Munro?
Munro took a single sheet from his pocket.
I would like the Company to get this message urgently to Sir Nigel Irvine so that he can take care
of the London and Berlin ends, he said.
It will be done, said the President. Be on your way, Mr. Munro. And good luck to you.

Chapter Eighteen


2100 to 0600

WHEN THE HELICOPTER rose from the White House lawn, the Secret Service agents were left
behind. An amazed pilot found himself bearing the mysterious Englishman in the rumpled clothes,
and the Director of the CIA. To their right, as they rose above Washington, the Potomac River
glittered in the late−afternoon sun. The pilot headed due southeast for Andrews Air Force Base.
Inside the Oval Office,Stanislaw Poklewski, invoking the personal authority of President Matthews
in every sentence, was speaking to the base commander there. That officers protestations
died
slowly away. Finally, the national security adviser
handed the phone to William Matthews.
Yes, General, this is William Matthews and those are my orders. You will inform Colonel
OSullivan that he is to prepare a flight plan immediately for a polar route direct from Washington
to Moscow. Clearance to enter Soviet airspace
unharmed will be radioed to him before he quits
Greenland.
The President went back to his other telephone, the red machine on which he was trying to speak
directly to Maxim Rudin in Moscow.
At Andrews, the commander himself met the helicopter as it touched down. Without the presence of
Robert Benson, whom the Air Force general knew by sight, it was unlikely he would have accepted
the unknown Englishman as a passenger on the worlds fastest reconnaissance jet, let alone his
orders to allow that jet to take off for Moscow. Ten years after it entered service, it was still on the
secret list, so sophisticated were its components and systems.
Very well, Mr. Director, he said finally, but I have to tell you that in Colonel OSullivan we
have one very angry Arizonan.
He was right. While Adam Munro was taken to the pilot clothing store to be issued with a g−suit,
boots, and goldfish−bowl oxygen helmet, Robert Benson found Colonel George T. OSullivan in the
navigation room, cigar clamped in his teeth, poring over maps of the Arctic and eastern Baltic. The
Director
of Central Intelligence might outrank him, but he was in no mood to be polite.
Are you seriously ordering me to fly this bird clean across Greenland and Scandinavia, and into the
heart of Rooshia? he demanded truculently.
No, Colonel, said Benson reasonably. The President of the United States is ordering you to do
it.
Without my navigator−systems operator? With some goddamLimey
sitting in his seat?
The goddam Limey happens to bear a personal message from President Matthews to President
Rudin of the USSR which has to reach him tonight and cannot be discussed in any other way, said
TheDevil'sAlternative
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 286
Benson.
The Air Force colonel stared at him for a moment.
Well, he conceded, it better be goddam important.
At twenty minutes before six, Adam Munro was led into the hangar where the aircraft stood,
swarming with ground technicians preparing her to fly.
He had heard of the Lockheed SR−71, nicknamed the Blackbird due to its color; he had seen pictures
of it, but never the real thing. It was certainly impressive. On a single, thin nosewheel assembly, the
bulletlike nose cone thrust upward at a shallow angle. Far down the fuselage, wafer−thin wings
sprouted, delta−shaped, being both wings and tail controls
all in one.
Almost at each wing tip, the engines were situated, sleek pods housing the Pratt & Whitney
JT−11−D turbofans, each capable with afterburner of throwing out thirty−two thousand pounds of
thrust Two knifelike rudders rose, one from atop each engine, to give directional control. Body and
engines resembled three hypodermic syringes, linked only by the wing.
Small white U.S. stars in their white circles indicated its nationality; otherwise the SR−71 was black
from nose to tail.
Ground assistants helped him into the narrow confines of the rear seat; he found himself sinking
lower and lower until the side walls of the cockpit rose above his ears. When the canopy came down,
it would be almost flush with the fuselage
to cut down drag effect. Looking out, he would see only
directly upward to the stars.
The man who should have occupied that seat would have understood the bewildering array of radar
screens, electronic countermeasure systems, and camera controls, for the SR−71 was essentially a
spy plane, designed and equipped to cruise at altitudes far beyond the reach of most interceptor
fighters and rockets, photographing what it saw below.
Helpful hands linked the tubes sprouting from his suit to the aircrafts systems: radio, oxygen,
anti−g−force. He watched Colonel OSullivan lower himself into the seat in front of him and begin
attaching his own life−support systems with accustomed ease. When the radio was connected, the
Arizonans voice boomed in his ears.
You Scotch, Mr. Munro?
Scottish, yes, said Munro into his helmet.
Im Irish, said the voice in his ears. You a Catholic?
A what?
A Catholic, for chrissake.
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Munro thought for a moment. He was not really religious at all.
No, he said, Church of Scotland.
There was evident disgust up front.
Jesus, twenty years in the United States Air Force and I get to chauffeur a Scotch Protestant.
The triple−perspex canopy capable of withstanding the tremendous air−pressure differences of
ultra−high−altitude flight was closed upon them. A hiss indicated the cabin was now fully
pressurized. Drawn by a tractor somewhere ahead of the nosewheel, the SR−71 emerged from the
hangar into the evening light.
Heard from inside the aircraft, the engines, once started, seemed to make only a low, whistling
sound. Outside, the ground crew shuddered even in their earmuffs as the boom echoed through the
hangars.
Colonel OSullivan secured immediate clearance for takeoff even while he was running through his
seemingly innumerable
pre−takeoff checks. At the start of the main runway, the Blackbird paused,
rocked on its wheels as the colonel lined her up; then Munro heard his voice:
Whatever God you pray to, start now, and hold tight.
Something like a runaway train hit Munro squarely across the broad of the back; it was the molded
seat in which he was strapped. He could see no buildings to judge his speed, just the pale blue sky
above. When the jet reached 150 knots, the nose left the tarmac; half a second later the main wheels
parted company, and OSullivan lifted the undercarriage into its bay.
Clean of encumbrances, the SR−71 tilted back until its jet efflux pipes were pointing directly down
at Maryland, and it climbed. It climbed almost vertically, powering its way to the sky like a rocket,
which was almost what it was. Munro was on his back, feet toward the sky, conscious only of the
steady pressure of the seat on his spine as the Blackbird streaked toward a sky that was soon turning
to dark blue, to violet, and finally to black.
In the front seat, Colonel OSullivan was navigating, which is to say, following the instructions
flashed before him in digital
display by the aircrafts on−board computer. It was feeding him
altitude, speed, rate of climb, course and heading, external
and internal temperatures, engine and
jet−pipe temperatures,
oxygen flow rates, and approach to the speed of sound.
Somewhere below them, Philadelphia and New York went by like toy towns; over northern New
York State they went through the sound barrier, still climbing and still accelerating. At eighty
thousand feet, five miles higher than the Concorde flew, Colonel OSullivan cut out the afterburners
and leveled his flight attitude.
Though it was still not quite sundown, the sky was a deep black, for at these altitudes there are so
few air molecules from which the suns rays can reflect that there is no light. But there are still
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enough such molecules to cause skin friction on a plane like the Blackbird. Before the state of Maine
and the Canadian frontier had passed beneath them, they had adopted a fast−cruise speed of almost
three times the speed of sound. Before Munros amazed eyes, the black skin of the SR−71, made of
pure titanium, began to glow cherry−red in the heat.
Within the cockpit, the aircrafts own refrigeration system kept its occupants comfortably cool in
their g−suits.
Can I talk? asked Munro.
Sure, said the pilot laconically.
Where are we now?
Over the Gulf of St. Lawrence, said OSullivan, heading for Newfoundland.
How many miles to Moscow?
From Andrews, four thousand eight hundred fifty−six miles.
How long for the flight?
Three hours and fifty minutes.
Munro calculated. They had taken off at sixP.M. Washington
time, elevenP.M. European time. That
would be oneA.M. in Moscow on Sunday, April 3. They would touch down at around fiveA.M.
Moscow time. If Rudin agreed to his plan, and the Blackbird could bring him back to Berlin, they
would gain two hours by flying the other way. There was just time to make Berlin by dawn.
They had been flying for just under one hour when Canadas last landfall at Cape Harrison drifted
far beneath them and they were over the cruel North Atlantic, bound for the southern tip of
Greenland, Cape Farewell.
Mr. President Rudin, please hear me out, said William Matthews. He was speaking earnestly into
a small microphone
on his desk, the so−called hot line, which in fact is not a telephone at all. From
an amplifier to one side of the microphone,
the listeners in the Oval Office could hear the mutter
of
the simultaneous translator speaking in Russian into Rudins ear in Moscow.
Maxim Andreevich, I believe we are both too old in this business, that we have worked too hard
and too long to secure
peace for our peoples, to be frustrated and cheated at this late stage by a gang
of murderers on a tanker in the North Sea.
There was silence for a few seconds; then the gruff voice of Rudin came on the line, speaking in
Russian. By the Presidents side a young aide from the State Department rattled off the translation in
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a low voice.
Then, William, my friend, you must destroy the tanker, take away the weapon of blackmail, for I
can do no other than I have done.
Bob Benson shot the President a warning look. There was no need to tell Rudin the West already
knew the real truth about Ivanenko.
I know this, said Matthews into the mike. But I cannot destroy the tanker, either. To do so would
destroy me. There may be another way. I ask you with all my heart to receive this man who is even
now airborne from here and heading for Moscow. He has a proposal that may be the way out for us
both.
Who is this American? asked Rudin.
He is not American, he is British, said President Matthews.
His name is Adam Munro.
There was silence for several moments. Finally the voice from Russia came back grudgingly.
Give my staff the details of his flight planheight, speed, course. I will order that his airplane be
allowed through, and will receive him personally when he arrives.Spakoinyo notch, William.
He wishes you a peaceful night, Mr. President, said the translator.
He must be joking, said William Matthews. Give his people the Blackbirds flight path, and tell
Blackbird to proceed on course.
On board theFreya, it struck midnight. Captives and captors entered their third and last day. Before
another midnight struck, Mishkin and Lazareff would be in Israel, or theFreyaand all aboard her
would be dead.
Despite his threat to choose a different cabin, Drake was confident there would be no night attack
from the Marines, and elected to stay where he was.
Thor Larsenfaced him grimly across the table in the day cabin. For both men the exhaustion was
almost total. Larsen, fighting back the waves of weariness that tried to force him to place his head in
his arms and go to sleep, continued his solo game of seeking to keep Svoboda awake, too,
pinpricking the Ukrainian to make him reply.
The surest way of provoking Svoboda, he had discovered, the surest way of making him use up his
last remaining reserve of nervous energy, was to draw the conversation to the question of Russians.
I dont believe in your popular uprising, Mr. Svoboda, he said. I dont believe the Russians will
ever rise against their masters in the Kremlin. Bad, inefficient, brutal they may be; but they have
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only to raise the specter of the foreigner, and they can rely on that limitless Russian patriotism.
For a moment it seemed the Norwegian might have gone too far. Svobodas hand closed over the
butt of his gun; his face went white with rage.
Damn and blast their patriotism! he shouted, rising to his feet I am sick and tired of hearing
Western writers and liberals go on and on about this so−called marvelous Russian patriotism.
What kind of patriotism is it that can feed only on the destruction of other peoples love of
homeland? What aboutmy patriotism, Larsen? What about the Ukrainians love for their enslaved
homeland? What about Georgians, Armenians, Lithuanians, Estonians, Latvians? Are they not
allowed any patriotism? Must it all be sublimated to this endless and sickening
love of Russia?
I hate their bloody patriotism. It is mere chauvinism, and always has been, since Peter and Ivan. It
can exist only through the conquest and slavery of other, surrounding nations.

He was standing over Larsen, halfway around the table, waving his gun, panting from the exertion of
shouting. He took a grip on himself and returned to his seat. Pointing the gun barrel atThor Larsen
like a forefinger, he told him:
One day, maybe not too long from now, the Russian empire
will begin to crack. One day soon, the
Rumanians will exercisetheir patriotism, and the Poles and Czechs. Followed by the East Germans
and Hungarians. And the Balts and Ukrainians, the Georgians and Armenians. The Russian empire
will crack and crumble, the way the Roman and British empires cracked, because at last the
arrogance of their mandarins
became insufferable.
Within twenty−four hours I am personally going to put the cold chisel into the mortar and swing
one gigantic hammer onto it. And if you or anyone else gets in my way, youll die. And you had
better believe it.
He put the gun down and spoke more softly.
In any case,Busch has acceded to my demands, and this time he will not go back on his promise.
This time, Mishkin and Lazareffwill reach Israel.
Thor Larsenobserved the younger man clinically. It had been risky; he had nearly used his gun. But
he had also nearly lost his concentration; he had nearly come within range. One more time, one
single further attempt, in the sad hour just before dawn ...
Coded and urgent messages had passed all night between Washington and Omaha, and from there to
the many radar stations mat make up the eyes and ears of the Western alliance
in an electronic ring
around the Soviet Union. Distant eyes had seen the shooting star of the blip from the Blackbird
moving east of Iceland toward Scandinavia on its route to Moscow. Forewarned, the watchers raised
no alarm.
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On the other side of the Iron Curtain, messages out of Moscow
alerted the Soviet watchers to the
presence of the incoming
plane. Forewarned, no fighters scrambled to intercept it. An air highway
was cleared from the Gulf of Bothnia to Moscow, and the Blackbird stuck to its route.
But one fighter base had apparently not heard the warning; or hearing it, had not heeded it; or had
been given a secret command from somewhere deep inside the Defense Ministry, countermanding
the Kremlins orders.
High in the Arctic, east of Kirkenes, two Mig−25s clawed their way from the snow toward the
stratosphere on an interception
course. These were the 25−E versions, ultramodern, better powered
and armed than the older version of the seventies
and the 25−A.
They were capable of 2.8 times the speed of sound, and of a maximum altitude of eighty thousand
feet. But the six Acrid air−to−air missiles that each had slung beneath its wings would roar on,
another twenty thousand feet above that They were climbing on full power with afterburner, leaping
upward at over ten thousand feet per minute.
The Blackbird was over Finland, heading for Lake Ladoga and Leningrad, when Colonel OSullivan
grunted into the microphone.
We have company.
Munro came out of his reverie. Though he understood little of the technology of the SR−71, the
small radar screen in front of him told its own story. There were two small blips on it, approaching
fast.
Who are they? he asked, and for a moment a twinge of fear moved in the pit of his stomach.
Maxim Rudin had given his personal clearance. He wouldnt revoke it, surely. But would someone
else?
Up front, Colonel OSullivan had his own duplicate radar scanner. He watched the speed of
approach for several seconds.
Mig−twenty−fives, he said. At sixty thousand feet and climbing fast. Those goddam Rooshians.
Knew we should never have trusted them.
You turning back to Sweden? asked Munro.
Nope, said the colonel. President of the U.S. of A. said to git you to Moscow, Limey, and you
are going to Moscow.
Colonel OSullivan threw his two afterburners into the game; Munro felt a kick as from a mule in
the base of the spine as the power increased. TheMach counter began to move upward, toward and
finally through the mark representing
three times the speed of sound. On the radar screen the
approach of the blips slowed and halted.
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The nose of the Blackbird rose slightly; in the rarefied atmosphere,
seeking a tenuous lift from the
weak air around her, the aircraft slid through the eighty−thousand−foot mark and kept climbing.
Below them, Major Pyotr Kuznetsov, leading the two−plane detail, pushed his two Tumansky
single−shaft jet engines to the limit of performance. His Soviet technology was good, the best
available, but he was producing five thousand fewer pounds of thrust with his two engines than the
twin American jets above him. Moreover, he was carrying external weaponry,
whose drag was
acting as a brake on his speed.
Nevertheless, the two Migs swept through seventy thousand feet and approached rocket range. Major
Kuznetsov armed his six missiles and snapped an order to his wingman to follow
suit.
The Blackbird was nudging ninety thousand feet, and Colonel OSullivans radar told him his
pursuers were over seventy−five thousand feet and nearly within rocket range. In straight pursuit
they could not hold him on speed and altitude,
but they were on an intercept course, cutting the
corner from their flight path to his.
If I thought they were escorts, he said to Munro, Id let the bastards come close. But I just never
did trust Rooshians.
Munro was sticky with sweat beneath his thermal clothing. He had read the Nightingale file; the
colonel had not.
Theyre not escorts, he said. They have orders to see me dead.
You dont say, came the drawl in his ear. Goddam conspiring
bastards. President of the U.S. of
A. wants you alive, Limey. In Moscow.
The Blackbird pilot threw on the whole battery of his electronic
countermeasures. Rings of invisible
jamming waves radiated
out from the speeding black jet, filling the atmosphere for miles around
with the radar equivalent of a bucket of sand in the eyes.
The small screen in front of Major Kuznetsov became a seething snowfield, like a television set
when the main tube blows out. The digital display showing him he was closing with his victim and
when to fire his rockets was still fifteen seconds short of firing time. Slowly it began to unwind,
telling
him he had lost his target somewhere up there in the freezing stratosphere.
Thirty seconds later the two hunters keeled onto their wing tips and dropped away down the sky to
their Arctic base.
Of the five airports that surround Moscow, one of them, Vnukovo II, is never seen by foreigners. It is
reserved for the Party elite and their fleet of jets maintained at peak readiness by the Air Force. It
was here, at fiveA.M. local time, that Colonel OSullivan put the Blackbird onto Russian soil.
When the cooling jet reached the parking bay, it was surrounded
by a group of officers wrapped in
thick coats and fur hats, for early April is still bitter in Moscow before dawn. The Arizonan lifted the
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cockpit canopy on its hydraulic struts and gazed at the surrounding crowd with horror.
Rooshians, he breathed. Messing all over my bird. He unbuckled and stood up. Hey, get your
mother−loving hands off this machine, ya hear?
Adam Munro left the desolate colonel trying to prevent the Russian Air Force from finding the flush
caps leading to the refueling valves, and was whisked away in a black limousine, accompanied by
two bodyguards from the Kremlin staff. In the car he was allowed to peel off his g−suit and dress
again in his trousers and jacket, both of which had spent the journey rolled up between his knees and
looked as if they had just been machine−washed.
Forty−five minutes later the Zil, preceded by the two motorcycle
outriders who had cleared the
roads into Moscow, shot through the Borovitsky Gate into the Kremlin, skirted the Great Palace, and
headed for the side door to the Arsenal Building. At two minutes to six, Adam Munro was shown
into the private apartment of the leader of the USSR, to find an old man in a dressing gown, nursing
a cup of warm milk. He was waved to an upright chair. The door closed behind him.
So you are Adam Munro, said Maxim Rudin. Now, what is this proposal from President
Matthews?
Munro sat in the straight−backed chair and looked across the desk at Maxim Rudin. He had seen him
several times at state functions, but never this close. The old man looked weary and strained.
There was no interpreter present, Rudin spoke no English. In the hours while he had been in the air,
Munro realized, Rudin had checked his name and knew perfectly well he was a diplomat from the
British Embassy who spoke Russian.
The proposal, Mr. Secretary−General, Munro began in fluent Russian, is a possible way
whereby the terrorists on the supertankerFreya can be persuaded to leave that ship without having
secured what they came for.
Let me make one thing clear, Mr. Munro. There is to be no more talk of the liberation of Mishkin
and Lazareff.
Indeed not, sir. In fact, I had hoped we might talk of Yuri Ivanenko.
Rudin stared back at him, face impassive. Slowly he lifted his glass of milk and took a sip.
You see, sir, one of those twohas let something slip already,
 said Munro. He was forced, to
strengthen his argument,
to let Rudin know that he, too, was aware of what had happened to
Ivanenko. But he could not indicate he had learned it from someone inside the Kremlin hierarchy,
just in caseValentina was still free.
Fortunately, he went on, it was to one of our people, and the matter has been taken care of.
Your people? mused Rudin. Ah, yes, I think I know who your people are. How many others
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know?
The Director General of my organization, the British Prime Minister, President Matthews, and
three of his senior advisers. No one who knows has the slightest intention of revealing
this for
public consumption. Not the slightest.
Rudin seemed to ruminate for a while.
Can the same be said for Mishkin andLazareff? he asked.
That is the problem, said Munro. That has always been the problem since the terroristswho are
Ukrainianémigrés, by the waystepped onto theFreya.
I told William Matthews, the only way out of this is to destroy theFreya. It would cost a handful of
lives, but save a lot of trouble.
It would have saved a lot of trouble if the airliner in which those two young killers escaped had
been shot down, rejoined Munro.
Rudin looked at him keenly from under beetle eyebrows.
That was a mistake, he said flatly.
Like the mistake tonight in which two MIG−twenty−fives almost shot down the plane in which I
was flying?
The old Russians head jerked up.
I did not know, he said. For the first time, Munro believed
him.
I put it to you, sir, that destroying theFreya would not work. That is, it would not solve the
problem. Three days ago Mishkin and Lazareff were two insignificant escapees and hijackers,
serving fifteen years in jail. Now they are already celebrities.
But it is assumed their freedom is
being sought for its own sake. We know different.
If theFreya were destroyed, Munro went on, the entire world would wonder why it had been so
vital to keep them in jail. So far, no one realizes that it is not their imprisonment that is vital, it is
their silence. With theFreya, her cargo, and her crew destroyed in order to keep them in jail, they
would have no further reason to stay silent. And because of theFreya, the world would believe them
when they spoke about what they had done. So simply keeping them in jail is no use anymore.
Rudin nodded slowly.
You are right, young man, he said. The West Germans would give them their audience; they
would have their press conference.
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 295
Precisely, said Munro. This, then, Is my suggestion.
He outlined the same train of events that he had described to Mrs. Carpenter and President Matthews
over the previous twelve hours. The Russian showed neither surprise nor horror,
just interest.
Would it work? he asked at last.
It has to work, said Munro. It is the last alternative. They have to be allowed to go to Israel.
Rudin looked at the clock on the wall. It was past six−forty−fiveA.M. Moscow time. In fourteen
hours he would have to face Vishnayev and the rest of the Politburo. This time there would be no
oblique approach; this time the Party theoretician would put down a formal motion of no
confidence.
His grizzled head nodded.
Do it, Mr. Munro, he said. Do it and make it work. For if it doesnt, there will be no more
Treaty of Dublin, and no moreFreya, either.
He pressed the bell push, and the door opened immediately.
An immaculate major of the Kremlin
praetorian guard stood there.
I shall need to deliver two signals: one to the Americans, one to my own people, said Munro. A
representative of each embassy is waiting outside the Kremlin walls.
Rudin issued his orders to the guard major, who nodded and escorted Munro out. As they were
passing through the doorway, Maxim Rudin called:
Mr. Munro.
Munro turned. The old man was as he had found him, hands cupped around his glass of milk.
Should you ever need another job, Mr. Munro, he said grimly, come and see me. There is always
a place here for men of talent.
As the Zil limousine left the Kremlin by the Borovitsky Gate at sevenA.M., the morning sun was just
tipping the spire of St. Basils Cathedral. Two long black cars waited by the curb. Munro descended
from the Zil and approached each in turn. He passed one message to the American diplomat and one
to the British. Before he was airborne for Berlin, the instructions
would be in London and
Washington.
On the dot of eight oclock the bullet nose of the SR−71 lifted from the tarmac of Vnukovo II
Airport and turned due west for Berlin, a thousand miles away. It was flown by a thoroughly
disgusted Colonel OSullivan, who had spent three hours watching his precious bird being refueled
by a team of Soviet Air Force mechanics.
Where do you want to go now? he called through the intercom. I cant bring this
intoTempelhof,ya know. Not enough room.
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 296
Make a landing at the British base at Gatow, said Munro.
First Rooshians, now Limeys, grumbled the Arizonan. Dunno why we dont put this bird on
public display. Seems everyone is entitled to have a good look at her today.
If this mission is successful, said Munro, the world may not need the Blackbird anymore.
Colonel OSullivan, far from being pleased, regarded the suggestion as a disaster.
Know what Im going to do if that happens? he called.Im going to become a goddam
cabdriver. Im sure getting enough practice.
Far below, thecity of Vilnius in Lithuania went by. Flying at twice the speed of the rising sun, they
would be in Berlin at sevenA.M. local time.
It was half past five on theFreya, while Adam Munro was in a car between the Kremlin and the
airport, that the intercom from the bridge rang in the day cabin.
Drake answered it, listened for a while, and replied in Ukrainian. From across the tableThor Larsen
watched him through half−closed eyes.
Whatever the call was, it perplexed the terrorist leader, who sat with a frown, staring at the table,
until one of his men came to relieve him in the guarding of the Norwegian skipper.
Drake left the captain under the barrel of the submachine gun in the hands of his masked subordinate
and went up to the bridge. When he returned ten minutes later, he seemed angry.
Whats the matter? asked Larsen. Something gone wrong again?
The West German Ambassador on the line from The Hague, said Drake. It seems the Russians
have refused to allow any West German jet, official or private, to use the air corridors out of West
Berlin.
Thats logical, said Larsen. Theyre hardly likely to assist
in the escape of the two men who
murdered their airline captain.
Drake dismissed his colleague, who closed the door behind him and returned to the bridge. The
Ukrainian resumed his seat.
The British have offered to assist ChancellorBusch by putting a communications jet from the Royal
Air Force at their disposal to fly Mishkin and Lazareff from Berlin to Tel Aviv.
Id accept, said Larsen. After all, the Russians arent above diverting a German jet, even
snooting it down and claiming an accident. Theyd never dare fire on an RAF military
jet in one of
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the air corridors. Youre on the threshold of victory; dont throw it away for a technicality. Accept
the offer.

Bleary−eyed from weariness, slow from lack of sleep, Drake regarded the Norwegian.
Youre right, he conceded. They might shoot down a German plane. In fact, I have accepted.
Then its all over but the shouting, said Larsen, forcing a smile. Lets celebrate.
He had two cups of coffee in front of him, poured while he was waiting for Drake to return. He
pushed one halfway down the long table; the Ukrainian reached for it. In a well−planned operation it
was the first mistake he had made. ...
ThorLarsen came at him down the length of the table with all the pent−up rage of the past fifty hours
unleashed in the violence of a maddened bear.
The partisan recoiled, reached for his gun, had it in his hand and was about to fire. A fist like a log of
cut spruce caught him on the left temple, flung him out of his chair and backward across the cabin
floor.
Had he been less fit, he would have been out cold. He was very fit, and younger than the seaman. As
he fell, the gun slipped from his hand and skittered across the floor. He came up empty−handed,
fighting, to meet the charge of the Norwegian,
and the pair of them went down again in a tangle of
arms and legs, fragments of a shattered chair, and two broken
coffee cups.
Larsen was trying to use his weight and strength, the Ukrainian his youth and speed. The latter won.
Evading the grip of the big mans hands, Drake wriggled free and went for the door. He almost
made it; his hand was reaching for the knob when Larsen launched himself across the carpet and
brought both his ankles out from under him.
The two men came up again together, a yard apart, the Norwegian between Drake and the door. The
Ukrainian lunged with a foot, caught the bigger man in the groin with a kick that doubled him over.
Larsen recovered, rose again, and threw himself at the man who had threatened to destroy his ship.
Drake must have recalled that the cabin was virtually soundproof. He fought in silence, wrestling,
biting, gouging, kicking, and the pair rolled over the carpet amid the broken furniture and crockery.
Somewhere beneath them was the gun that could have ended it all; in Drakes belt was the
oscillator,
which, if the red button on it was pressed, would certainly
end it all.
In fact it ended after two minutes;Thor Larsen pulled one hand free, grasped the head of the
struggling Ukrainian, and slammed it into the leg of the table. Drake went rigid for half a second,
then slumped limply. From just below his hairline a thin trickle of blood seeped down his forehead.
Panting with weariness,Thor Larsen raised himself from the floor and looked at the unconscious
man. Carefully he eased the oscillator from the Ukrainians belt, held it in his left hand, and crossed
to the one window in the starboard side of his cabin that was secured closed with butterfly−headed
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bolts. One−handed, he began to unwind them. The first one flicked open; he started on the second. A
few more seconds, a single long throw, and the oscillator would sail out of the porthole, across the
intervening ten feet of steel deck, and into the North Sea.
On the floor behind him, the young terrorists hand inched over the carpet to where his discarded
gun lay. Larsen had the second bolt undone and was swinging the brass−framed window inward
when Drake lined himself painfully onto one shoulder, reached around the table, and fired.
The crash of the gun in the enclosed cabin was earsplitting.Thor Larsen reeled back against the wall
by the open window and looked first at his left hand, then at Drake. From the floor the Ukrainian
stared back in disbelief.
The single shot had hit the Norwegian captain in the palm of his left handthe hand that held the
oscillatordriving shards of plastic and glass into the flesh. For ten seconds both men stared at each
other, waiting for the series of rumbling explosions that would mark the end of theFreya.
They never came. The soft−nosed slug had fragmented the detonator device into small pieces, and, in
shattering, it had not had time to reach the tonal pitch needed to trigger the detonators in the bombs
below decks.
Slowly the Ukrainian climbed to his feet, holding onto the table for support.Thor Larsen looked at
the steady stream of blood running from his broken hand down to the carpet. Then he looked across
at the panting terrorist.
I have won, Mr. Svoboda. I have won. You cannot destroy my ship and my crew.
You may know that, Captain Larsen, said the man with the gun, and I may know that. But
theyhe gestured to the open porthole and the lights of the NATO warships in the predawn gloom
across the waterthey dont know that. The game goes on. Mishkin and Lazareffwill reach Israel.