The Devil's Alternative

Minister’s study, Sir Nigel himself was already there. He greeted Munro coolly.

“I do hope this insistence on delivering your report to the P.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 Matthews’s question was of truly international importance, and I do not use that phrase lightly.”

“Thank you for saying so, ma’am,” replied Munro.

She went on to explain that, even as they talked, the cap­tain of the Freya, Thor Larsen, was landing on the afterdeck of the cruiser Argyll for a conference; and that, scheduled for ten that evening, a team of SBS frogmen was going to attack the Freya in an attempt to wipe out the terrorists and their detonator.

Munro’s face was set like granite when he heard.

“If, ma’am,” 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 the Freya 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, “They’re coming on patch-through now, ma’am.”

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 the Argyll is beginning. Let us listen to it, and then we will learn from Mr. Munro the reason for Maxim Rudin’s extraordinary ultimatum.”

As Thor Larsen stepped from the harness onto the afterdeck 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 bosun’s pipes.

The Argyll’s 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. Captain Desmoulins 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 Si­mon Fallon of the Royal Marine commandos.”

Larsen looked down at the short, burly Marine and felt the man’s hard fist in his own. So, he thought, Svoboda was right after all.

At Captain Preston’s 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.”

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, three A.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 the Freya 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 the Freya no one knew who the hijackers were.

“No,” he said. They’re 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, it’s Slavic.”

“Then why the hell are they seeking the liberation of two Russian Jews in Berlin?” asked Jan Grayling in exasperation.

“I don’t 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.

“I don’t know,” said Larsen. “Svoboda won’t 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, Major Fallon here and a group of his colleagues are going to approach the Freya underwater, scale her sides, and wipe out Svoboda and his men.”

He sat back to watch the effect.

“No,” said Thor Larsen slowly, “they are not.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“There will be no underwater attack unless you wish to have the Freya blown up and sunk. That is what Svoboda sent me here to tell you.”

Item by item, Captain Larsen spelled out Svoboda’s message to the West. Before sundown every single