The Devil's Alternative (47 page)

“No, sir. I’ve tried every way of getting down to the paint locker, if they are indeed in the paint locker. To attempt to get down through the deck housing would give the game away: the bolts could well squeak; the opening of the steel door would flood the poop deck with light. To go down through the main superstructure to the engine room and try to get them that way would split my force. Moreover, the engine room is vast: three levels of it, vaulted like a cathedral. One single man down there, in communication with his leader before we could silence him, and everything would be lost. I believe getting the man with the detonator is our best chance.”

“If she does blow up with you and your men topside, I suppose you can dive over the side and swim for the
Argyll
?” suggested another of the ministry civil servants.

Major Fallon looked at the man with anger in his suntanned face.

“Sir, if she blows up, any swimmer within two hundred yards of her will be sucked down into the currents of water pouring into her holes.”

“I’m sorry, Major Fallon,” interposed the Cabinet Secretary hurriedly. “I am sure my colleague

was simply concerned for your own safety. Now the question is this. The percentage chance of your hitting the holder of the detonator is a highly problematical figure. Failure to stop the man from setting off his charges would provoke the very disaster we are trying to avoid—”

“With the greatest respect, Sir Julian,” cut in Colonel Hohnes, “if the terrorists threaten during the course of the day to blow up the
Freya
at a certain hour tonight, and Chancellor Busch will not weaken in the matter of releasing Mishkin and Lazareff, surely we will have to try Major Fallon’s way. We’ll be in a no-win situation then, anyway. We’ll have no alternative.”

The meeting murmured assent. Sir Julian conceded.

“Very well. Defense Ministry will please make to
Argyll:
she should turn herself broadside to the
Freya
and provide a lee shelter for Major Fallon’s assault boats when they arrive. Environment will instruct air-traffic controllers to spot and turn back all aircraft trying to approach the
Argyll
at any altitude; various responsible departments will instruct the tugs and other vessels near the
Argyll
not to betray Major Fallon’s preparations to anyone. What about you personally, Major Fallon?”

The Marine commando glanced at his watch. It was five-fifteen.

“The Navy is lending me a helicopter from the Battersea Heliport to the afterdeck of the
Argyll
,” he said. “I’ll be there when my men and equipment arrive by sea if I leave now. ...”

“Then be on your way, and good luck to you, young man.”

The men at the meeting stood up in tribute as a somewhat embarrassed major gathered his model ship, his plans and photographs, and left with Colonel Holmes for the helicopter pad beside the Thames Embankment.

A weary Sir Julian Flannery left the smoke-charged room to ascend to the chill of the predawn of another spring day and report to his Prime Minister.

At six A.M. a simple statement from Bonn was issued to the effect that after due consideration of all the factors involved, the government of the Federal Republic of Germany had come to the conclusion that it would after all be wrong to accede to blackmail and that therefore the policy of releasing Mishkin and Lazareff at eight A.M. had been reconsidered.

Instead, the statement continued, the Federal Republic’s government would do all in its power to enter into negotiations with the captors of the
Freya
, with a view to seeking the release of the ship and its crew by alternative proposals.

The European allies of West Germany were informed of this statement just one hour before it was issued. Each and every premier privately asked the same question: “What the hell is Bonn up to?”

The exception was Joan Carpenter in London, who knew already. But unofficially, each government was informed that the reversal of position stemmed from urgent American pressure on Bonn during the night, and informed, moreover, that Bonn had agreed to delay the release only pending further and, it was hoped, more optimistic developments.

With the breaking of the news, the Bonn government spokesman had a brief and very private working breakfast with two influential German journalists, during which the newsmen were given to understand in oblique terms that the change of policy stemmed only from brutal pressure from Washington.

The first radio newscasts of the day carried the fresh statement out of Bonn even as the listeners were picking up their newspapers, which confidently announced the release at breakfast time of the two hijackers. The newspaper editors were not amused and bombarded the government’s press office for an explanation. None was forthcoming that satisfied anyone. The Sunday papers, due for preparation that Saturday, geared themselves for an explosive issue the following morning.

On the
Freya
, the news from Bonn came over the BBC World Service, to which Drake had tuned his portable radio, at six-thirty. Like many another interested party in Europe that morning, the Ukrainian listened to the news in silence, then burst out:

“What the hell do they think they’re up to?”

“Something has gone wrong,” said Thor Larsen flatly. “They’ve changed their minds. It’s not going to work.”

For answer, Drake leaned far across the table and pointed his handgun straight at the Norwegian’s face.

“Don’t you gloat!” he shouted. “It’s not just my friends in Berlin they’re playing silly games with. It’s not just me. It’s your precious ship and crew they’re playing with. And don’t you forget it.”

He went into deep thought for several minutes, then used the captain’s intercom to summon one of his men from the bridge. The man, when he came to the cabin, was still masked, and spoke to his chief in Ukrainian, but the tone sounded worried. Drake left him to guard Captain Larsen and was away for fifteen minutes. When he returned, he brusquely beckoned the
Freya’s
skipper to accompany him to the bridge.

The call came in to Maas Control just a minute before seven. Channel 20 was still reserved for the
Freya
alone, and the duty operator was expecting something, for he, too, had heard the news from Bonn. When the
Freya
called, he had the tape spinning.

Larsen’s voice sounded tired, but he read the statement from his captors in an unemotional tone. “ ‘Following the stupid decision of the government in Bonn to reverse its decision to release Lev Mishkin and David Lazareff at oh-eight-hundred hours this morning, those who presently hold the
Freya
announce the following: in the event that Mishkin and Lazareff are not released and airborne on their way to Tel Aviv by noon today, the
Freya
will, on the stroke of noon, vent twenty thousand tons of crude oil into the North Sea. Any attempt to prevent this, or interfere with the process, and any attempt by ships or aircraft to enter the area of clear water around the
Freya
, will

result in the immediate destruction of the ship, her crew, and her cargo.’ ”

The transmission ceased, and the channel was cut off. No questions were asked. Almost a hundred listening posts heard the message, and it was contained in news flashes on the breakfast radio shows across Europe within fifteen minutes.

President Matthews’s Oval Office was beginning to adopt the aspect of a council of war by the small hours of the morning.

All four men in it had taken their jackets off and loosened ties. Aides came and went with messages from the communications room for one or another of the presidential advisers. The corresponding communication rooms at Langley and the State Department had been patched through to the White House. It was seven-fifteen European time but two-fifteen in the small hours when the news of Drake’s ultimatum was brought into the office and handed to Robert Benson. He passed it without a word to President Matthews.

“I suppose we should have expected it,” said the President wearily, “but that makes it no easier to take.”

“Do you think he’ll really do it, whoever he is?” asked Secretary of State David Lawrence. “He’s done everything else he’s promised so far, damn him,” replied Stanislaw Poklewski. “I assume Mishkin and Lazareff are under extra-heavy guard in Tegel,” said Lawrence.

“They’re not in Tegel anymore,” replied Benson. “They were moved just before midnight, Berlin time, to Moabit. It’s more modern and more secure.”

“How do you know, Bob?” asked Poklewski.

“I’ve had Tegel and Moabit under surveillance since the
Freya’s
noon broadcast,” said Benson. Lawrence, the old-style diplomat, looked exasperated.

“Is it the new policy to spy even on our allies?” he snapped. “Not quite,” replied Benson. “We’ve always done it.”

“Why the change of jail, Bob?” asked Matthews. “Does Dietrich Busch think the Russians would try to get at Mishkin and Lazareff?”

“No, Mr. President He thinks I will,” said Benson.

“There seems to me a possibility here that maybe we hadn’t thought of,” interposed Poklewski. “If the terrorists on the
Freya
go ahead and vent twenty thousand tons of crude, and, say, threaten to vent a further fifty thousand tons later in the day, the pressures on Busch could become over- whelming. ...”

“No doubt they will,” observed Lawrence.

“What I mean is, Busch might simply decide to go it alone and release the hijackers unilaterally. Remember, he doesn’t know that the price of such an action would be the destruction of the Treaty of Dublin.”

There was silence for several seconds.

“There’s nothing I can do to stop him,” said President Matthews quietly.

“There is, actually,” said Benson. He had the instant attention of the other three. When he described what it was, the faces of Matthews, Lawrence, and Poklewski showed disgust.

“I couldn’t give that order,” said the President.

“It’s a pretty terrible thing to do,” agreed Benson, “but it’s the only way to preempt Chancellor Busch. And we will know if he tries to make secret plans to release the pair prematurely. Never mind how; we
will
know. Let’s face it; the alternative would be the destruction of the treaty, and the consequences in terms of a resumed arms race that this must bring. If the treaty is destroyed, presumably we will not go ahead with the grain shipments to Russia. In that event, Rudin may fall. ...”

“Which makes his reaction over this business so crazy,” Lawrence pointed out.

“Maybe so, but that
is
his reaction, and until we know why, we can’t judge how crazy he is,” Benson resumed. “Until we do know, Chancellor Busch’s private knowledge of the proposal I have just made should hold him in check awhile longer.”

“You mean we could just use it as something to hold over Busch’s head?” asked Matthews hopefully. “We might never actually have to do it?”

At that moment a personal message arrived for the President from Prime Minister Carpenter in London.

“That’s some woman,” he said when he had read it. “The British think they can cope with the first oil slick of twenty thousand tons, but no more. They’re preparing a plan to storm the
Freya
with specialist frogmen after sundown and silence the man with the detonator. They give themselves a better than even chance.”

“So we only have to hold the German Chancellor in line for another twelve hours,” said Benson. “Mr. President, I urge you to order what I have just proposed. The chances are it will never have to be activated.”

“But if it must be, Bob? If it must be?” “Then it must be.”

William Matthews placed the palms of his hands over his face and rubbed tired eyes with his fingertips.

“Dear God, no man should be asked to give orders like that,” he said. “But if it must ... Bob, give

the order.”

The sun was just clear of the horizon, away to the east over the Dutch coast. On the afterdeck of the cruiser
Argyll
, now turned broadside to where the
Freya
lay, Major Fallon stood and looked down at the three fast assault craft tethered to her lee side. From the lookout on the Freda’s funnel top, all three would be out of vision. So, too, the activity on their decks, where Fallon’s team of Marine commandos were preparing their kayaks and unpacking their unusual pieces of equip- ment. It was a bright, clear sunrise, giving promise of another warm and sunny day. The sea was a flat calm. Fallon was joined by the
Argyll’s
skipper, Captain Richard Preston.

They stood side by side, looking down at the three sleek sea greyhounds that had brought the men and equipment from Poole in eight hours. The boats rocked in the swell of a warship passing several cables to the west of them. Fallon looked up.

“Who’s that?” he asked, nodding toward the gray warship flying the Stars and Stripes that was moving to the south.

“The American Navy has sent an observer,” said Captain Preston. “The U.S.S.
Moran
. She’ll take up station between us and the
Montcalm
.” He glanced at his watch. “Seven-thirty. Breakfast is being served in the wardroom, if you’d care to join us.”

It was seven-fifty when there was a knock at the door of the cabin of Captain Michael Manning, commanding the
Moran.

She was at anchor after her race through the night, and Manning, who’d been on the bridge throughout the night, was running a razor over the stubble on his chin. When the radioman entered. Manning took the proffered message and gave it a glance, still shaving. He stopped and turned to the sailor.

“It’s still in code,” he said.

“Yes, sir. It’s tagged for your eyes only, sir.”

Manning dismissed the man, went to his wall safe and took out his personal decoder. Such an occurrence was unusual, but not unheard of. He began to run a pencil down columns of figures, seeking the groups on the message in front of him and their corresponding letter combinations. When he had finished decoding, he just sat at his table and stared at the message, searching for any error. He rechecked the beginning of the message, hoping it was a practical joke. But there was no joke. It was for him, via STANFORLANT through the Navy Department, Washington. And it was a presidential order, personal to him from the Commander in Chief, U.S. Armed Forces, White House, Washington.