The Devil's Alternative

“I don’t know,” shouted the exasperated Berlin official. “The British say they are nearly finished with their damn en­gine. Why the hell they can’t use a British Airways airliner from the civil airport I don’t understand. We would pay for the extra cost of taking one out of service to fly to Israel with two passengers only.”

“Well, I’m telling you that in one hour those madmen on the Freya are going to vent a hundred thousand tons of oil,” said Jan Grayling, “and my government will hold the British responsible.”

“I entirely agree with you,” said the voice from Berlin. “The whole affair is madness.”

At eleven-thirty Warrant Officer Barker closed the cowling of the engine and climbed down. He went to a wall phone and called the officers’ mess. The base commander came on the line.

“She’s ready, sir,” said the technician.

The RAF officer turned to the men grouped around him, including the governor of Moabit Prison and four radio re­porters holding telephones linked to their offices.

“The fault has been put right,” he said. “She’ll be taking off in fifteen minutes.”

From the windows of the mess they watched the sleek little executive jet being towed out into the sunshine. The pilot and copilot climbed aboard and started both engines.

The prison governor entered the cells of the prisoners and informed them they were about to take off. His watch said eleven-thirty-five. So did the wall clocks.

Still in silence, the two prisoners were marched to the MP Land Rover and driven with the German prison official across the tarmac to the waiting jet. Followed by the air quartermaster sergeant who would be the only other occupant of the Dominie on its flight to Ben-Gurion, they went up the steps without a backward glance and settled into their seats.

At eleven-forty-five, Wing Commander Peter Jarvis opened both the throttles and the Dominie climbed away from the runway of Gatow airfield. On instructions from the air-traffic controller, it swung cleanly into the southbound air corridor from West Berlin to Munich and disappeared into the blue sky.

Within two minutes, all four radio reporters were speaking to their audiences live from the officers’ mess at Gatow. Their voices went out across the world to inform their listeners that forty-eight hours after the demands were originally made from the Freya, Mishkin and Lazareff were airborne and on their way to Israel and freedom.

In the homes of thirty officers and seamen from the Freya the broadcasts were heard; in thirty houses across Scandina­via, mothers and wives broke down and children asked why Mummy was crying.

In the small armada of tugs and emulsifier-spraying vessels lying in a screen west of the Argyll the news came through, and there were sighs of relief. Neither the scientists nor the seamen had ever believed they could cope with a hundred thousand tons of crude oil spilling into the sea.

In Texas, oil tycoon Clint Blake caught the news from NBC over his Sunday morning breakfast in the sun and shouted “About goddam time, too!”

Harry Wennerstrom heard the BBC broadcast in his pent­house suite high over Rotterdam and grinned with satisfac­tion.

In every newspaper office from Ireland to the Iron Curtain the Monday morning editions of the dailies were in prepara­tion. Teams of writers were putting together the whole story from the first invasion of the Freya in the small hours of Fri­day until the present moment. Space was left for the arrival of Mishkin and Lazareff in Israel, and the freeing of the Freya herself. There would be time before the first editions went to press at ten P.M. to include most of the end of the story.

At twenty minutes past twelve, European time, the State of Israel agreed to abide by the demands made from the Freya for the public reception and identification of Mishkin and Laz­areff at Ben-Gurion Airport in four hours’ time.

In his sixth-floor room at the Avia Hotel, three miles from Ben-Gurion Airport, Miroslav Kaminsky heard the news on the piped-in radio. He leaned back with a sigh of relief. Hav­ing arrived in Israel late Friday afternoon, he had expected to see his fellow partisans arrive on Saturday. Instead, he had listened by radio to the change of heart by the German gov­ernment in the small hours, the delay through the morning, and the venting of the oil at noon. He had bitten his finger­nails down, helpless to assist, unable to rest, until the final de­cision to release them after all. Now for him, too, the hours were ticking away until touchdown of the Dominie at four-fifteen European time, six-fifteen in Tel Aviv.

On the Freya, Andrew Drake heard the news of the takeoff with a satisfaction that cut through his weariness. The agree­ment of the State of Israel to his demands thirty-five minutes later was by way of a formality.

“They’re on their way,” he told Larsen. “Four hours to Tel Aviv and safety. Another four hours after that—even less if the fog closes down—and we’ll be gone. The Navy will come on board and release you. You’ll have proper medical help for that hand, and you’ll have your crew and your ship back. ... You should be happy.”

The Norwegian skipper was leaning back in his chair, deep black smudges under his eyes, refusing to give the younger man the satisfaction of seeing him fall asleep. For him it was still not over—not until the poisonous explosive charges had been removed from his holds, not until the last terrorist had left his ship. He knew he was close to collapse. The searing pain from his hand had settled down to a dull, booming throb that thumped up the arm to the shoulder, and the waves of exhaustion swept over him until he was dizzy. But still he would not close his eyes.

He raised his eyes to the Ukrainian with contempt.

“And Tom Keller?” he asked.

“Who?”

“My third officer, the man you shot out on the deck on Friday morning.”

Drake laughed.

“Tom Keller is down below with the others,” he said. “The shooting was a charade. One of my own men in Keller’s clothes. The bullets were blanks.”

The Norwegian grunted. Drake looked across at him with interest.

“I can afford to be generous,” he said, “because I have won. I brought against the whole of Western Europe a threat they could not face, and an exchange they could not wriggle out of. In short, I left them no alternative. But you nearly beat me; you came within an inch of it.

“From six o’clock this morning when you destroyed the detonator, those commandos could have stormed this ship any time they pleased. Fortunately, they don’t know that. But they might have done if you’d signaled to them. You’re a brave man, Thor Larsen. Is there anything you want?”

“Just get off my ship,” said Larsen.

“Soon now, very soon, Captain.”

High over Venice, Wing Commander Jarvis moved the con­trols slightly and the speeding silver dart turned a few points east of south for the long run down the Adriatic.

“How are the clients?” he asked the quartermaster ser­geant.

“Sitting quietly, watching the scenery,” said the QMS over his shoulder.

“Keep ’em like that,” said the pilot. “The last time they took a plane trip, they ended up shooting the captain.”

The QMS laughed.

“I’ll watch ’em,” he promised.

The copilot tapped the flight plan on his knee.

“Three hours to touchdown,” he said.

The broadcasts from Gatow had also been heard elsewhere in the world. In Moscow the news was translated into Russian and brought to a table in a private apartment at the privi­leged end of Kutuzovsky Prospekt where two men sat at lunch shortly after two P.M. local time.

Marshal Nikolai Kerensky read the typed message and slammed a meaty fist onto the table.

“They’ve let them go!” he shouted. “They’ve given in. The Germans and the British have caved in. The two