The Devil's Alternative

“You,” he said. “You will represent me. You are the best person I can think of to convince them I am not joking—not about the ship, or the crew, or the cargo. And that my pa­tience is running short.”

The phone in Premier Grayling’s hand crackled to life.

“I am informed it will be me,” said Larsen, and the line was cut.

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.

“You’ll be going out to the Argyll by helicopter,” he told the Dutch Premier without preamble. “I’d be grateful if you would take Mrs. Lisa Larsen with you.”

“Well, I don’t know—” began Grayling.

“For pity’s sake, man,” boomed the Swede, “the terrorists will never know. And if this business isn’t 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. Carpenter’s study at 10 Downing Street. The Israeli Ambassador in Bonn was urgently asking Chancellor Busch 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 five P.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 to Thor Larsen, the jet airliner carrying Adam Munro from Mos­cow touched the tarmac of Runway 1 at London’s Heathrow Airport.

Barry Ferndale’s 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.

“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 that’s the trade we’re in, Adam. That’s 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. Shouldn’t 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 to Mrs. Carpenter’s question,” said Munro grimly. “Yes, I got it.”

“And it is?”

“She asked it,” said Munro. “She’ll get the answer. I hope she’ll like it. It cost a life to get it.”

“That might not be wise, Adam old son,” said Ferndale. “You can’t 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.

“I’m afraid I’ll 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. “Isn’t that rather unusual?”

“Extremely so, ma’am. In fact, it’s unheard of. I fear it has to mean Mr. Munro and the service’s 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, he’s lost an agent who seems to have become a personal friend over the past nine months, and he’s 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 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, you’ll have it. But it’ll be your last. After that, it’s pas­tures new for you. Can’t have prima 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 Simon Fallon would steal aboard the Freya with three companions and wipe out the terrorists. After that, Mishkin and Lazareff would stay where they were for fifteen years.

At two o’clock, back in the day cabin, Drake leaned forward toward Thor Larsen and told him:

“You’re probably wondering why I set up this conference on the Argyll. 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, “I’ll 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 fo’c’sle. Approaching from the seaward side, very slowly and carefully, was the Wessex helicopter from the Argyll, 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, Captain Thor 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 world’s 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.

1500 to 2100

SIR NIGEL IRVINE’S personal limousine, bearing Barry Ferndale and Adam Munro, arrived at 10 Downing Street a few seconds before three o’clock. When the pair were shown into the anteroom leading to the Prime