The Devil's Alternative (41 page)

By agreement among the NATO allies concerned, the RAF Nimrod remained the only aircraft in the sky above the
Freya
, circling endlessly, watching and noting, sending pictures back to base whenever there was anything to show—pictures that went immediately to London and to the capitals of the concerned countries.

At five P.M. the lookouts were changed, the men from the fo’c’sle and funnel top, who had been there for ten hours, being allowed to return, chilled and stiff, to the crew’s quarters for food, warmth, and sleep. For the night watch, they were replaced by others, equipped with walkie- talkies and powerful flashlights.

But the allied agreement on the Nimrod did not extend to surface ships. Each coastal nation wanted an on-site observer from its own Navy. During the late afternoon the French light cruiser
Montcalm
stole quietly out of the south and hove lo, just over five nautical miles from the
Freya
. Out of the north, where she had been cruising off the Frisians, came the Dutch missile frigate
Breda
, which stopped six nautical miles to the north of the helpless tanker.

She was joined by the German missile frigate
Brunner
, and the frigates lay five cable lengths away from each other, both watching the dim shape on the southern horizon. From the Scottish port of Leith, where she had been on a courtesy visit, H.M.S.
Argyll
put to sea, and as the first evening star appeared in the cloudless sky, she took up her station due west of the
Freya.

She was a guided-missile light cruiser, known as a DLG, of just under six thousand tons, armed with batteries of Exocet missiles. Her modern gas-turbine and steam engines had enabled her to put to sea at a moment’s notice, and deep in her hull the Data Link computer she carried was tapped into the Data Link of the Nimrod circling fifteen thousand feet above in the darkening sky. Toward her stern, one step up from the afterdeck, she carried her own Westland Wessex helicopter.

Beneath the water, the sonar ears of the warships surrounded the
Freya
on three sides; above the water, the radar scanners swept the ocean constantly. With the Nimrod above,
Freya
was cocooned in an invisible shroud of electronic surveillance. She lay silent and inert as the sun prepared to fall

over the English coast.

It was five o’clock in Western Europe but seven in Israel when the West German Ambassador asked for a personal audience with Premier Benyamin Golen. It was pointed out to him at once that the Sabbath had started one hour before and that as a devout Jew the Premier was at rest in his own home. Nevertheless, the message was relayed because neither the Prime Minister’s private office nor he himself was unaware of what was happening in the North Sea. Indeed, since the 0900 broadcast from Thor Larsen, the Israeli intelligence service, Mossad, had been keeping Jerusalem informed, and following the demands made at noon concerning Israel, the most copious position papers had been prepared. Before the official start of the Sabbath at six o’clock, Premier Golen had read them all.

“I am not prepared to break
Shabbat
and drive to the office,” he told his aide, who telephoned him with the news, “even though I am now answering this telephone. And it is rather a long way to walk. Ask the Ambassador to call on me personally.”

Ten minutes later the German Embassy car drew up outside the Premier’s ascetically modest house in the suburbs of Jerusalem. When the envoy was shown in, he was apologetic.

After the traditional greetings of “Shabbat Shalom,” the Ambassador said:

“Prime Minister, I would not have disturbed you for all the world during the hours of the Sabbath, but I understand it is permitted to break the Sabbath if human life is at stake.”

Premier Golen inclined his head.

“It is permitted if human life is at stake or in danger,” he conceded.

“In this case, that is very much so,” said the Ambassador. “You will be aware, sir, of what has been happening on board the supertanker
Freya
in the North Sea these past twelve hours.”

The Premier was more than aware; he was deeply concerned, for since the noon demands, it had become plain that the terrorists, whoever they were, could not be Palestinian Arabs, and might even be Jewish fanatics. But his own agencies, the external Mossad and the internal Sherut Bitachon, called from its initials Shin Bet, had not been able to find any trace of such fanatics being missing from their usual haunts.

“I am aware, Ambassador, and I join in sorrow for the murdered seaman. What is it that the Federal Republic wants of Israel?”

“Prime Minister, my country’s cabinet has considered all the issues for several hours. Though it regards the prospect of acceding to terrorist blackmail with utter repugnance, and though if the affair were a completely internal German matter it might be prepared to resist, in the present case it feels it must yield.

“My government’s request is therefore that the State of Israel agree to accept Lev Mishkin and David Lazareff, with the guarantees of nonprosecution and nonextradition that the terrorists demand.”

Premier Golen had in fact been considering the reply he would make to such a request for several hours. It came as no surprise to him. He had prepared his position. His government was a finely balanced coalition, and privately he was aware that many if not most of his own people were so incensed by the continuing persecution of Jews and the Jewish religion inside the USSR that for them Mishkin and Lazareff were hardly to be considered terrorists in the same class as the Baader-Meinhof gang or the PLO. Indeed, some sympathized with them for seeking to escape by hijacking a Soviet airliner, and accepted that the gun in the cockpit had gone off by accident.

“You have to understand two things, Ambassador. One is that although Mishkin and Lazareff may be Jews, the State of Israel had nothing to do with their original offenses, nor with the demand for their freedom now made.”

If the terrorists themselves turn out to be Jewish, how many people are going to believe that? he thought.

“The second thing is that the State of Israel is not directly affected by the plight of the
Freya’s
crew, nor by the effects of her possible destruction. It is not the State of Israel that is under pressure here, or being blackmailed.”

“That is understood, Prime Minister,” said the German.

“If, therefore, Israel agrees to receive these two men, it must be clearly and publicly understood that she does so at the express and earnest request of the government of the Federal Republic of Germany.”

“That request is being made, sir, by me, now, on behalf of my government.”

Fifteen minutes later the format was arranged. West Germany would publicly announce that it had made the request to Israel on its own behalf. Immediately afterward, Israel would announce that she had reluctantly agreed to the request. Following that, West Germany could announce the release of the prisoners at 0800 hours the following morning, European time. The announcements would come from Bonn and Jerusalem, and would be synchronized at ten-minute intervals, starting one hour hence. It was seven-thirty in Israel, five-thirty in Europe.

Across the continent the last editions of the afternoon newspapers whirled onto the streets, to be snapped up by a public of three hundred million who had followed the drama since midmorning. The latest headlines gave details of the murder of the unidentified seaman and the arrest of a free- lance French photographer and a pilot at Le Touquet.

Radio bulletins carried the news that the West German Ambassador to Israel had visited Premier Golen in his private house during the Sabbath, and had left thirty-five minutes later. There was no news from the meeting, and speculation was rife. Television had pictures of anyone who would pose for them, and quite a few who preferred not to. The latter were the ones who knew what was going on. No pictures taken by the Nimrod of the seaman’s body were released by the authorities.

The daily papers, preparing for issue starting at midnight, were holding front pages for the chance of a statement from Jerusalem or Bonn, or another transmission from the
Freya
. The learned articles on the inside pages about the
Freya
herself, her cargo, the effects of its spillage, speculation on the identity of the terrorists, and editorials urging the release of the two hijackers, covered many columns of copy.

A mild and balmy dusk was ending a glorious spring day when Sir Julian Flannery completed his report to the Prime Minister in her office at 10 Downing Street. It was comprehensive and yet succinct, a masterpiece of draftsmanship.

“We have to assume, then, Sir Julian,” she said at length, “that they certainly exist, that they have undoubtedly taken complete possession of the
Freya
, that they could well be in a position to blow her apart and sink her, that they would not stop at doing so, and that the financial, environmental, and human consequences would constitute a catastrophe of appalling dimensions.”

“That, ma’am, might seem to be the most pessimistic interpretation, yet the crisis management committee feels it would be rash to assume a more hopeful tone,” the Secretary to the Cabinet replied. “Only four have been seen: the two lookouts and their replacements. We feel we must assume another on the bridge, one watching the prisoners, and a leader; that makes a minimum of seven. They might be too few to stop an armed boarding party, but we cannot assume so. They might have no dynamite on board, or too little, or have placed it wrongly, but we cannot assume so. Their triggering device might fail, they might have no second device, but we cannot assume so. They might not be prepared to kill any more seamen, but we cannot assume so. Finally, they might

not be prepared actually to blow the
Freya
apart and die with her, but we cannot assume so. Your committee feels it would be wrong to assume less than the possible, which is the worst.”

The telephone from her private staff tinkled, and she answered it. When she replaced the receiver, she gave Sir Julian a fleeting smile.

“It looks as if we may not face the catastrophe after all,” she said. “The West German government has just announced it has made the request to Israel. Israel has replied that she accedes to the German request. Bonn countered by announcing the release of these two men at eight tomorrow morning.”

It was twenty to seven.

The same news came over the transistor radio in the day cabin of Captain Thor Larsen. Keeping him covered all the time, Drake had switched the cabin lights on an hour earlier and drawn the curtains. The cabin was well-lit, warm, almost cheery. The percolator of coffee had been exhausted and replenished five times. It was still bubbling. Both men, the mariner and the fanatic, were stubbled and tired. But one was filled with grief for the death of a friend, and anger; the other triumphant.

“They’ve agreed,” said Drake. “I knew they would. The odds were too long, the consequences too bad.”

Thor Larsen might have been relieved at the news of the pending reprieve of his ship. But the controlled anger was burning too hot even for this comfort.

“It’s not over yet,” he growled.

“It will be. Soon. If my friends are released at eight, they will be in Tel Aviv by one P.M., or two at the latest. With an hour for identification and the publication of the news by radio, we should know by three or four o’clock tomorrow. After dark, we will leave you safe and sound.”

“Except Tom Keller out there,” snapped the Norwegian.

“I’m sorry about that. The demonstration of our seriousness was necessary. They left me no alternative.”

The Soviet Ambassador’s request was unusual, highly so, in that it was repeated, tough, and insistent Although representing a supposedly revolutionary country, Soviet ambassadors are usually meticulous in their observance of diplomatic procedures, originally devised by Western capitalist nations.

David Lawrence repeatedly asked over the telephone whether Ambassador Konstantin Kirov could not talk to him, as U.S. Secretary of State. Kirov replied that his message was for President Matthews personally, extremely urgent, and finally that it concerned matters Chairman Maxim Rudin personally wished to bring to President Matthews’s attention.

The President granted Kirov his face-to-face, and the long black limousine with the hammer- and-sickle emblem swept into the White House grounds during the lunch hour.

It was a quarter to seven in Europe, but only a quarter to two in Washington. The envoy was shown straight to the Oval Room by the Secretary of State, to face a President who was puzzled, intrigued, and curious. The formalities were observed, but neither party’s mind was on them.

“Mr. President,” said Kirov, “I am instructed by a personal order from Chairman Maxim Rudin to seek this urgent interview with you. I am instructed to relay to you his personal message, without variation. It is:

“In the event that the hijackers and murderers Lev Mishkin and David Lazareff are freed from jail and released from their just deserts, the USSR will not be able to sign the Treaty of Dublin in the week after next, or at any time at all. The Soviet Union will reject the treaty permanently.”

President Matthews stared at the Soviet envoy in stunned amazement. It was several seconds before he spoke.

“You mean, Maxim Rudin will just tear it up?” Kirov was ramrod-stiff, formal, unbending.

“Mr. President, that is the first part of the message I have been instructed to deliver to you. It goes on to say that if the nature or contents of this message are revealed, the same reaction from the USSR will apply.”

When he was gone, William Matthews turned helplessly to Lawrence.

“David, what the hell is going on? We can’t just bully the West German government into reversing its decision without explaining why.”

“Mr. President, I think you are going to have to. With respect, Maxim Rudin has just left you no alternative.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

1900 to Midnight

PRESIDENT WILLIAM MATTHEWS sat stunned by the suddenness, the unexpectedness, and the brutality of the Soviet reaction. He waited while his CIA Director, Robert Benson, and his national security adviser, Stanislaw Poklewski, were sent for.