The Devil's Alternative

her two execu­tioners to finish her off.

While Thor Larsen was speaking on the Freya’s radiotele­phone to Maas 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.

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 Seconds later the gangway was withdrawn, the door closed, and the apologetic captain an­nounced that they would take off at once for Boston.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.

“You’re 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 Munro’s 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 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.

“I’m Bob Benson,” he said. He drew Munro toward the desk. William Matthews leaned across and shook hands. Munro was introduced to David Lawrence and Stanislaw Poklewski, both of whom he recognized from their newspaper pictures.

“So,” said President Matthews, looking with curiosity at the English agent across his desk, “you’re the man who runs the Nightingale.”

“Ran the Nightingale, Mr. President,” said Munro. “As of twelve hours ago, I believe that asset has been blown to the KGB.”

“I’m 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 doesn’t 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 don’t 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. “You’ve 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. That’s why you’re here, right?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

At that point, the phone rang. Benson listened for several seconds, then put it down.

“We’re moving toward the crunch,” he said. “That man Svoboda on the Freya has just announced he is venting one hundred thousand tons of oil tomorrow morning at nine Eu­ropean time—that’s four A.M. our time. Just over twelve hours from now.”

“So what’s 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 Dublin; or they stay where they are, in which case the Freya 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 the Moran, 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 the Freya 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 won’t. Sorry, it’s 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 President’s 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 Devil’s 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?”