The Devil's Alternative (51 page)

Ukrainian. Certainly, it’s Slavic.”

“Then why the hell are they seeking the liberation of two Russian Jews in Berlin?” asked Jan Grayling in exasperation.

“I don’t know,” said Larsen. “The leader claims they are friends of his.”

“One moment,” said Ambassador Voss. “We have all been mesmerized by the fact that Mishkin and Lazareff are Jews and wish to go to Israel. But of course they both come from the Ukraine, the city of Lvov. It did not occur to my government that they could be Ukrainian partisan fighters as well.”

“Why do they think the liberation of Mishkin and Lazareff will help their Ukrainian nationalist cause?” asked Preston.

“I don’t know,” said Larsen. “Svoboda won’t say. I asked him; he nearly told me, but then shut up. He would say only that the liberation of those two men would cause such a blow to the Kremlin, it could start a widespread popular uprising.”

There was blank incomprehension on the faces of the men around him. The final questions about the layout of the ship, where Svoboda and Larsen stayed, the deployment of the terrorists, took a further ten minutes. Finally, Preston looked around at the other captains and the representatives of Holland and Germany. The men nodded. Preston leaned forward.

“Now, Captain Larsen, I think it is time to tell you. Tonight, Major Fallon here and a group of his colleagues are going to approach the
Freya
underwater, scale her sides, and wipe out Svoboda and his men.”

He sat back to watch the effect.

“No,” said Thor Larsen slowly, “they are not.” “I beg your pardon.”

“There will be no underwater attack unless you wish to have the
Freya
blown up and sunk. That is what Svoboda sent me here to tell you.”

Item by item, Captain Larsen spelled out Svoboda’s message to the West. Before sundown every single 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 The man in the fo’c’sle would be withdrawn; the entire foredeck from the bow to the base of the superstructure would be bathed in light.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 world.

“So far, he has tried a third alternative, that of asking Prime Minister Golen to return the two men to jail in Germany after the release of the
Freya
. The idea was to seek to satisfy Maxim Rudin. It might have; it might not. In fact, Benyamin Golen refused. So that was that.

“Then
we
proposed a third alternative, that of storming the
Freya
and liberating her. Now that has become impossible. I fear there are no more alternatives, short of doing what we suspect the Americans have in mind.”

“And what is that?” asked Munro.

“Blowing her apart by shellfire,” said Sir Nigel Irvine. “We have no proof of it, but the guns of the
Moran
are trained right on the
Freya
.”

“Actually, there
is
a third alternative. It might satisfy Maxim Rudin, and it should work,” suggested Munro.

“Then please explain it,” commanded the Prime Minister. Munro did so. It took barely five minutes. There was silence. “I find it utterly repulsive,” said Mrs. Carpenter at last.

“Ma’am, with all respect, so did I when I was forced to expose my agent to the KGB,” Munro replied stonily. Ferndale shot him a warning look.

“Do we have such devilish equipment available?” Mrs. Carpenter asked Sir Nigel. He studied his fingertips.

“I believe the specialist department may be able to lay its hands on that sort of thing,” he said quietly.

Joan Carpenter inhaled deeply.

“It is not, thank God, a decision I would need to make. It is a decision for President Matthews. I suppose it has to be put to him. But it should be explained person-to-person. Tell me, Mr. Munro, would you be prepared to carry out this plan?”

Munro thought of Valentina walking out into the street, to the waiting men in gray trench coats. “Yes,” he said, “without a qualm.”

“Time is short,” she said briskly, “if you are to reach Washington tonight. Sir Nigel, have you any ideas?”

“There is the five o’clock Concorde, the new service to Boston,” he said. “It could be diverted to Washington if the President wanted it.”

Mrs. Carpenter glanced at her watch. It read four P.M.

“On your way, Mr. Munro,” she said. “I will inform President Matthews of the news you have brought from Moscow, and ask him to receive you. You may explain to him personally your somewhat ... macabre proposal. If he will see you at such short notice.”

Lisa Larsen was still holding her husband five minutes after he entered the cabin. He asked her about home and the children. She had spoken to them two hours earlier; there was no school on Saturday, so they were staying with the Dahl family. They were fine, she said. They had just come back from feeding the rabbits at Bogneset. The small talk died away.

“Thor, what is going to happen?”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand why the Germans will not release those two men. I don’t understand why the Americans will not allow it. I sit with prime ministers and ambassadors, and they can’t tell me, either.”

“If they don’t release the men, will that terrorist ... do it?” she asked.

“He may,” said Larsen thoughtfully. “I believe he will try. And if he does, I shall try to stop him.

I have to.”

“Those fine captains out there, why won’t they help you?”

“They can’t, snow mouse. No one can help me. I have to do it myself, or no one else will.”

“I don’t trust that American captain,” she whispered. “I saw him when I came on board with Mr.

Grayling. He would not look me in the face.”

“No, he cannot. Nor me. You see, he has orders to blow the
Freya
out of the water.” She pulled away from him and looked up, eyes wide.

“He couldn’t,” she said. “No man would do that to other men.”

“He will if he has to. I don’t know for certain, but I suspect so. The guns of his ship are obviously

trained on us. If the Americans thought they had to do it, they would do it Burning up the cargo would lessen the ecological damage, destroy the blackmail weapon.”

She shivered and clung to him. She began to cry. “I hate him,” she said.

Thor Larsen stroked her hair, his great hand almost Governing her small head.

“Don’t hate him,” he rumbled. “He has his orders. They all have their orders. They will all do what the men far away in the chancelleries of Europe and America tell them to do.”

“I don’t care. I hate them all.”

He laughed as he stroked her, gently reassuring. “Do something for me, snow mouse.” “Anything.”