The Devil's Alternative

floodlight on the Freya would be switched on. The man in the fo’c’sle would be withdrawn; the entire foredeck from the bow to the base of the superstructure would be bathed in light.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 the Freya with powerful flashlights, scanning the sur­face of the sea. At the first trace of a stream of bubbles, or someone climbing the vessel’s 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 group’s eyes swiveled to Major Fallon, who stared unblinkingly at Larsen.

“Well, Major?” asked Grayling.

“We could come aboard at the bow instead,” said Fallon.

Larsen shook his head.

“The bridge watch would see you in the floodlights,” he said. “You wouldn’t get halfway down the foredeck.”

“We’ll have to booby-trap their escape launch, anyway,” said Fallon.

“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.”

Fallon shrugged.

“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 wouldn’t be over the rail before Svoboda had heard you and blown us all to kingdom come.”

“I’m afraid I have to agree with Captain Larsen,” said Jan Grayling. “I don’t believe the Dutch government would agree to a suicide mission.”

“Nor the West German government,” said Voss.

Fallon tried 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, don’t bother. On my return I am to be skin-searched, well out of Svoboda’s reach. Any weapon found, and another of my seamen is executed. I’m not taking any­thing back on board. Not weapons, not poison.”

“I’m afraid it’s over, Major Fallon,” said Captain Preston gently. “The hard option won’t 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.”

Thor Larsen 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 Fallon’s party now brought back to terrible possibility the order he had been given that morning from Washington.

The steward showed the Norwegian captain through the door of Preston’s 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 the Freya.

“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 Minister’s private office on Downing Street, the transmission from the Argyll 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, ma’am, 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.”

“Ma’am, 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, ma’am, 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.”

Sir Nigel Irvine and Barry Ferndale sat bolt-upright, as if stung.

“So that’s 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 Rudin’s 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.

Ferndale’s handkerchief whirled in circles across the lenses of his glasses as he polished them furiously.

“Perfect sense, ma’am,” 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 appalling—seen 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 the Freya affair, and the time is running out.”

“Then why cannot Chancellor Busch be told of Rudin’s ul­timatum?” asked Munro. “He’d realize that the Treaty of Dublin, which affects his country traumatically, is more important than the Freya.”

“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 Chancellor Busch to release Mishkin and Lazaren, and lose the treaty. Require these two men to remain in jail, and lose the Freya while gaining the loathing of nearly a dozen European governments and the condemnation of the