The Devil's Alternative

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 six A.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 eight A.M. had been reconsidered.

Instead, the statement continued, the Federal Republic’s government would do all in its power to enter into negotia­tions with the captors of the Freya, 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 government’s 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 the Freya, 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 they’re up to?”

“Something has gone wrong,” said Thor Larsen flatly. “They’ve changed their minds. It’s not going to work.”

For answer, Drake leaned far across the table and pointed his handgun straight at the Norwegian’s face.

“Don’t you gloat!” he shouted. “It’s not just my friends in Berlin they’re playing silly games with. It’s not just me. It’s your precious ship and crew they’re playing with. And don’t you forget it.”

He went into deep thought for several minutes, then used the captain’s 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 the Freya’s skipper to accompany him to the bridge.

The call came in to Maas Control just a minute before seven. Channel 20 was still reserved for the Freya alone, and the duty operator was expecting something, for he, too, had heard the news from Bonn. When the Freya called, he had the tape spinning.

Larsen’s 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 the Freya announce the following: in the event that Mishkin and Lazareff are not released and airborne on their way to Tel Aviv by noon today, the Freya 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 the Freya, 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 Matthews’s 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 Drake’s 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 take.”

“Do you think he’ll really do it, whoever he is?” asked Secretary of State David Lawrence.

“He’s done everything else he’s promised so far, damn him,” replied Stanislaw Poklewski.

“I assume Mishkin and Lazareff are under extra-heavy guard in Tegel,” said Lawrence.

“They’re not in Tegel anymore,” replied Benson. “They were moved just before midnight, Berlin time, to Moabit. It’s more modern and more secure.”

“How do you know, Bob?” asked Poklewski.

“I’ve had Tegel and Moabit under surveillance since the Freya’s 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. “We’ve always done it.”

“Why the change of jail, Bob?” asked Matthews. “Does Dietrich 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 hadn’t thought of,” interposed Poklewski. “If the terrorists on the Freya 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 on Busch 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 doesn’t know that the price of such an action would be the destruc­tion of the Treaty of Dublin.”

There was silence for several seconds.

“There’s 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 couldn’t give that order,” said the President.

“It’s a pretty terrible thing to do,” agreed Benson, “but it’s the only way to preempt Chancellor Busch. And we will know if he tries to make secret plans to release the pair pre­maturely. Never mind how; we will know. Let’s 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 that is his reaction, and until we know why, we can’t judge how crazy he is,” Benson resumed. “Un­til we do know, Chancellor Busch’s 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 Busch’s head?” asked Matthews hopefully. “We might never actually have to do it?”