The Devil's Alternative

DETSKY MIR means “Children’s World” and is Moscow’s premier toyshop—four stories of dolls and playthings, pup­pets and games. Compared to a Western equivalent, the lay­out is drab and the stock shabby, but it is the best the Soviet capital has, apart from the hard-currency Beriozka shops, where mainly foreigners go.

By an unintended irony it is across Dzerzhinsky Square from the KGB headquarters, which is definitely not a chil­dren’s world. Adam Munro was at the ground-floor soft-toys counter just before ten A.M. Moscow time, two hours later than North Sea time. He began to examine a nylon bear as if debating whether to buy it for his offspring.

Two minutes after ten, someone moved to the counter beside him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that she was pale, her normally full lips drawn, tight, the color of cigarette ash.

She nodded. Her voice was pitched, like his own, low, con­versational, uninvolved.

“I managed to see the transcript, Adam. It’s serious.”

She picked up a hand puppet shaped like a small monkey in artificial fur, and told him quietly what she had discovered.

“That’s impossible,” he muttered. “He’s still convalescing from a heart attack.”

“No. He was shot dead last October thirty-first in the middle of the night on a street in Kiev.”

Two salesgirls leaning against the wall twenty feet away eyed them without curiosity and returned to their gossip. One of the few advantages of shopping in Moscow is that one is guaranteed complete privacy from assistance by the sales staff.

“And those two in Berlin were the ones?” asked Munro.

“It seems so,” she said dully. “The fear is that if they escape to Israel they will hold a press conference and inflict an intolerable humiliation on the Soviet Union.”

“Causing Maxim Rudin to fall,” breathed Munro. “No wonder he will not countenance their release. He cannot. He, too, has no alternative. And you—are you safe, darling?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. There were suspicions. Un­spoken, but they were there. Soon there will be a report from the man on the telephone switchboard about your call; the gateman will report about my drive in the small hours. It will come together.”

“Listen, Valentina, I will get you out of here. Quickly, in the next few days.”

For the first time, she turned and faced him. He saw that her eyes were brimming.

“It’s over, Adam. I’ve done what you asked of me, and now it’s too late.” She reached up and kissed him briefly, be­fore the astonished gaze of the salesgirls. “Good-bye, Adam, my love. I’m sorry.”

She turned, paused for a moment to collect herself, and walked away, through the glass doors to the street, back through the gap in the Wall into the East. From where he stood with a plastic-faced milkmaid doll in his hand, he saw her reach the pavement and turn out of sight. A man in a gray trench coat, who had been wiping the windshield of a car, straightened, nodded to a colleague behind the wind­shield, and strolled after her.

Adam Munro felt the grief and the anger rising in his throat like a ball of sticky acid. The sounds of the shop muted as a roaring invaded his ears. His hand closed around the head of the doll, crushing, cracking, splintering the smiling pink face beneath the lace cap. A salesgirl appeared rapidly at his side.

“You’ve broken it,” she said. That will be four rubles.”

Compared with the whirlwind of public and media concern that had concentrated on the West German Chancellor the previous afternoon, the recriminations that poured upon Bonn that Saturday morning were more like a hurricane.

The Foreign Ministry received a continual stream of re­quests couched in the most urgent terms from the embassies of Finland, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, France, Holland, and Belgium, asking that their ambassadors be received. Each wish was granted, and each ambassador asked in the courteous phraseology of diplomacy the same question: What the hell is going on?

Newspapers, television, and radio operations called in all their staffers from weekend leave and tried to give the affair saturation coverage, which was not easy. There were no pic­tures of the Freya since the hijacking, save those taken by the French free-lance, who was under arrest and his pictures con­fiscated. In fact the same pictures were under study in Paris, but the shots from the successive Nimrods were just as good, and the French government was receiving them, anyway.

For lack of hard news, the papers hunted anything they could go for. Two enterprising Englishmen bribed the Hilton Hotel staff in Rotterdam to lend them their uniforms, and tried to reach the penthouse suite where Harry Wennerstrom and Lisa Larsen were under siege.

Others sought out former prime ministers, cabinet office­holders, and tanker captains for their views. Extraordinary sums were waved in the faces of the wives of the crewmen, almost all of whom had been traced, to be photographed praying for their husbands’ deliverance.

One former mercenary commander offered to storm the Freya alone for a million-dollar fee; four archbishops and seventeen parliamentarians of varying persuasions and ambi­tions offered themselves as hostages in exchange for Captain Larsen and his crew.

“Separately, or in job lots?” snapped Dietrich Busch when he was informed. “I wish William Matthews were on board instead of those good sailors. I’d hold out till Christmas.”

By midmorning, the leaks to the two German stars of press and radio were beginning to have their effect. Their respec­tive comments on German radio and television were picked up by the news agencies and Germany-based correspondents and given wider coverage. The view began to percolate that Dietrich Busch had in fact been acting in the hours before dawn under massive American pressure.

Bonn declined to confirm this, but refused to deny it, ei­ther. The sheer evasiveness of the government spokesman there told the press its own story.

As dawn broke over Washington, five hours behind Eu­rope, the emphasis switched to the White House. By six A.M. in Washington the White House press corps was clamoring for an interview with the President himself. They had to be satisfied, but were not, with a harassed and evasive official spokesman. The spokesman was evasive only because he did not know what to say; his repeated appeals to the Oval Office brought only further instructions that he tell the newshounds the matter was a European affair and the Europeans must do as they thought best. Which threw the affair back into the lap of an increasingly outraged German Chancellor.

“How much longer can this go on?” shouted a thoroughly shaken William Matthews to his advisers as he pushed away a plate of scrambled eggs just after six A.M. Washington time.

The same question was being asked, but not answered, in a score of offices across America and Europe that unquiet Sat­urday morning.

From his office in Texas, the owner of the one million tons of Mubarraq crude lying dormant but dangerous beneath the Freya’s deck was on the line to Washington.

“I don’t care what the hell time of the morning it is,” he shouted to the party campaign manager’s secretary. “You get him on the line and tell him this is Clint Blake, you hear?”

When the campaign manager of the political party to which the President belonged finally came on the line, he was not a happy man. When he put the receiver back in its cradle, he was downright morose. A man who all but controls more than a hundred delegates to the national convention is no small potatoes, and Clint Blake’s threat to do a John Connelly and switch parties was no joke.

It seemed to matter little to Blake that the cargo was fully insured against loss by Lloyd’s. He was one very angry Texan that morning.

Harry Wennerstrom was on the line most of the morning to Stockholm, calling every one of his friends and contacts in shipping, banking, and government to bring pressure on the Swedish Premier. The pressure was effective, and it was passed on to Bonn.

In London, the chairman of Lloyd’s, Sir Murray Kelso, found the Permanent Under Secretary to the Department of the Environment still at his desk in Whitehall. Saturday is not normally a day when the senior members of Britain’s civil service are to be found at their desks, but this was no normal Saturday. Sir Rupert Mossbank had driven hastily back from his country home before dawn when the news came from Downing Street that Mishkin and Lazareff were not to be re­leased. He showed his visitor to a chair.

“Damnable business,” said Sir Murray.

“Perfectly appalling,” agreed Sir Rupert.

He preferred the Butter Osbornes, and the two knights sipped their tea.

“The thing is,” said Sir Murray at length, “the sums in­volved are really quite vast. Close to a billion dollars. Even if the victim countries of the oil spillage if the Freya blows up were to sue West Germany rather than us, we’d still have to carry the loss of the ship, cargo, and crew. That’s about four hundred million dollars.”

“You’d be able to cover it, of course,” said Sir Rupert anx­iously. Lloyd’s was more than just a company, it was an insti­tution, and as Sir Rupert’s department covered merchant shipping, he was concerned.

“Oh, yes, we would cover it. Have to,” said Sir Murray. “Thing is, it’s such a sum it would have to be reflected in the country’s invisible earnings for the year. Probably tip the bal­ance, actually. And what with the new application for an­other International Monetary Fund Loan ...”

“It’s a German question, you know,” said Mossbank. “Not really up to us.”

“Nevertheless, one might press the Germans a bit over this one. Hijackers are bastards, of course, but in this case, why not just let those two blighters in Berlin go? Good riddance to them.”

“Leave it to me,” said Mossbank. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Privately, he knew he could do nothing. The confidential file locked in his safe told him Major Fallon was going in by kayak in eleven hours, and until then the Prime Minister’s or­ders were that the line had to hold.

Chancellor Dietrich Busch received the news of the intended underwater attack in a midmorning face-to-face interview with the British Ambassador. He was slightly mollified.

“So that’s what it’s all about,” he said when he had exam­ined the plan unfolded before him. “Why could I not have been told of this before?”

“We were not sure whether it would work before,” said the Ambassador smoothly. Those were his instructions. “We were working on it through the afternoon of yesterday and last night. By dawn we were certain it was perfectly feasible.”

“What chance of success do you give yourselves?” asked Dietrich Busch.

The Ambassador cleared his throat.

“We estimate the odds at three to one in our favor,” he said. “The sun sets at seven-thirty. Darkness is complete by nine. The men are going in at ten tonight.”

The Chancellor looked at his watch. Twelve hours to go. If the British tried and succeeded, much of the credit would go to their frogmen, but much also to him for keeping his nerve. If they failed, theirs would be the responsibility.

“So it all depends now on this Major Fallon. Very well, Ambassador, I will continue to play my part until ten tonight.”

Apart from her batteries of guided missiles, the U.S.S. Moran was armed with two five-inch Mark 45 naval guns, one for­ward, one aft. They were of the most modern type available, radar-aimed and computer-controlled.

Each could fire a complete magazine of twenty shells in rapid succession without reloading, and the sequence of vari­ous types of shell could be preset on the computer.

The old days when naval guns’ ammunition had to be manually hauled out of the deep magazine, hoisted up to the gun turret by steam power, and rammed into the breech by sweating gunners, were long gone. On the Moran the shells would be selected by type and performance from the stock in the magazine by the computer, the shells brought to the firing turret automatically, the five-inch guns loaded, fired, voided, reloaded, and fired again, without a human hand.

The aiming was by radar; the invisible eyes of the ship would seek out the target according to the programmed in­structions, adjust for wind, range, and the movement of ei­ther target or firing platform, and once locked on, hold that aim until given fresh orders. The computer would work to­gether with the eyes of radar, absorbing within fractions of a second any tiny shift of the Moran herself, the target, or the wind strength between them. Once locked on, the target could begin to move, the Moran could go anywhere she liked; the guns would simply move on silent bearings, keeping their deadly muzzles pointed to just where the shells should go. Wild seas could force the Moran to pitch and roll; the target could yaw and swing; it made no difference, the computer compensated. Even the pattern in which the homing shells should fall could be preset.

As a backup, the gunnery officer could scan the target visually with the aid of a camera mounted high aloft, and issue fresh instructions to both radar and computer when he wished to change target.

With grim concentration, Captain Mike Manning surveyed the Freya from where he stood by the rail. Whoever had ad­vised the President must have done his homework well. The environmental hazard in the death of the Freya lay in the es­cape in crude-oil form of her million-ton cargo. But if that cargo were ignited while still in the holds, or within a few seconds of the ship’s rupture, it would burn. In fact it would more than burn—it would explode.

Normally, crude oil is exceptionally difficult to burn, but if heated enough, it will inevitably reach its flashpoint and take fire. The Mubarraq crude the Freya carried was the lightest of them all, and to plunge lumps of blazing magnesium, burning at more than a thousand degrees Centigrade, into her hull would do the trick with margin to spare. Up to ninety percent of her cargo would never reach the ocean in crude-oil form; it would flame, making a fireball over ten thousand feet high.

What would be left of the cargo would be scum, drifting on the sea’s surface, and a black pall of smoke as big as the cloud that once hung over Hiroshima. Of the ship herself, there would be nothing left, but the environmental problem would have been reduced to manageable proportions. Mike Manning summoned his gunnery officer, Lieutenant Com­mander Chuck Olsen, to join him by the rail.

“I want you to load and lay the forward gun,” he said flatly. Olsen began to note the commands.

“Ordnance: three semi-armor-piercing, five magnesium starshell, two high explosive. Total: ten. Then repeat that se­quence. Total: Twenty.”

“Yes, sir. Three SAP, five star, two HE. Fall pattern?”

“First shell on target; next shell two hundred meters far­ther; third shell two hundred meters farther still. Backtrack in forty-meter drops with the five starshells. Then forward again with the high explosive, one hundred meters each.”

Lieutenant Commander Olsen noted the fall pattern his captain required. Manning stared over the rail. Five miles away, the bow of the Freya was pointing straight at the Moran. The fall pattern he had dictated would cause the shells to drop in a line from the forepeak of the Freya to the base of her superstructure, then back to the bow, then back again with the explosive toward the superstructure. The semi-armor-piercing shells would cut open her tanks through the deck metal as a scalpel opens skin; the starshells would drop in a line of five down the cuts; the high explosive would push the blazing crude oil outward into all the port and star­board holds.

“Got it, Captain. Fall point for first shell?”

“Ten meters over the bow of the Freya.”

Olsen’s pen halted above the paper of his clipboard. He started at what he had written, then raised his eyes to the Freya, five miles away.

“Captain,” he said slowly, “if you do that, she won’t just sink; she won’t just burn; she won’t just explode. She’ll va­porize.”

“Those are my orders, Mr. Olsen,” said Manning stonily. The young Swedish-American by his side was pale.

“For Christ’s sake, there are twenty-nine Scandinavian seamen on that ship.”

“Mr. Olsen, I am aware of the facts. You will either carry out my orders and lay that gun, or announce to me that you refuse.”

The gunnery officer stiffened to attention.

“I’ll load and lay your gun for you, Captain Manning,” he said, “but I will not fire it. If the fire button has to be pressed, you must press it yourself.”

He snapped a perfect salute and marched away to the fire-control station below decks.

You won’t have to, thought Manning, and I couldn’t charge you with mutiny. If the President himself orders me, I will fire it. Then I will resign my commission.

An hour later the Westland Wessex from the Argyll came overhead and winched a Royal Navy officer to the deck of the Moran. He asked to speak to Captain Manning in private and was shown to the American’s cabin.

“Compliments of Captain Preston, sir,” said the ensign, and handed Manning a letter from Preston. When he had fin­ished reading it, Manning sat back like a man reprieved from the gallows. It told him that the British were sending in a team of armed frogmen at ten that night, and all govern­ments had agreed to undertake no independent action in the meantime.

While Manning was thinking the unthinkable aboard the U.S.S. Moran, the airliner bearing Adam Munro back to the West was clearing the Soviet-Polish border.

From the toyshop on Dzerzhinsky Square, Munro had gone to a public call box and telephoned the head of Chancery at his embassy. He had told the amazed diplomat in coded language that he had discovered what his masters wanted to know, but would not be returning to the embassy. Instead, he was heading straight for the airport to catch the noon plane.

By the time the diplomat had informed the Foreign Office of this, and the FO had told the SIS, the message back to the effect that Munro should cable his news was too late. Munro was boarding.

“What the devil’s he doing?” asked Sir Nigel Irvine of Barry Ferndale in the SIS head office in London when he learned his stormy petrel was flying home.

“No idea,” replied the controller of Soviet Section. “Per­haps the Nightingale’s been blown and he needs to get back urgently before the diplomatic incident blows up. Shall I meet him?”

“When does he land?”

“One-forty-five London time,” said Ferndale. “I think I ought to meet him. It seems he has the answer to President Matthews’s question. Frankly, I’m curious to find out what the devil it can be.”

“So am I,” said Sir Nigel. “Take a car with a scrambler phone and stay in touch with me personally.”

At a quarter to twelve, Drake sent one of his men to bring the Freya’s pumpman back to the cargo-control room on A deck. Leaving Thor Larsen under the guard of another ter­rorist, Drake descended to cargo control, took the fuses from his pocket, and replaced them. Power was restored to the cargo pumps.

“When you discharge cargo, what do you do?” he asked the crewman. “I’ve still got a submachine gun pointing at your captain, and I’ll order it to be used if you play any tricks.”

“The ship’s pipeline system terminates at a single point, a cluster of pipes that we call the manifold,” said the pump­man. “Hoses from the shore installation are coupled to the manifold. After that, the main gate valves are opened at the manifold, and the ship begins to pump.”

“What’s your rate of discharge?”

“Twenty thousand tons per hour,” said the man. “During discharge, the ship’s balance is maintained by venting several tanks at different points on the ship simultaneously.”

Drake had noted that there was a slight, one-knot tide flowing past the Freya, northeast toward the West Frisian Is­lands. He pointed to a tank amidships on the Freya’s star­board side.

“Open the master valve on that one,” he said. The man paused for a second, then obeyed.

“Right,” said Drake. “When I give the word, switch on the cargo pumps and vent the entire tank.”

“Into the sea?” asked the pumpman incredulously.

“Into the sea,” said Drake grimly. “Chancellor Busch is about to learn what international pressure really means.”

As the minutes ticked away to midday of Saturday, April 2, Europe held its breath. So far as anyone knew, the terrorists had already executed one seaman for a breach of the airspace above them, and had threatened to do it again, or vent crude oil, on the stroke of noon.

The Nimrod that had replaced Squadron Leader Latham’s aircraft the previous midnight had run short of fuel by eleven A.M., so Latham was back on duty, cameras whirring as the minutes to noon ticked away.

Many miles above him, a Condor spy satellite was on sta­tion, bouncing its continuous stream of picture images across the globe to where a haggard American President sat in the Oval Office watching a television screen. On the TV the Freya inched gently into the frame from the bottom rim, like a pointing finger.

In London, men of rank and influence in the Cabinet Of­fice briefing room grouped around a screen on which was presented what the Nimrod was seeing. The Nimrod was on continuous camera roll from five minutes before twelve, her pictures passing to the Data Link on the Argyll beneath her, and from there to Whitehall.

Along the rails of the Montcalm, Breda, Brunner, Argyll, and Moran, sailors of five nations passed binoculars from hand to hand. Their officers stood as high aloft as they could get, with telescopes to eye.

On the BBC World Service, the bell of Big Ben struck noon. In the Cabinet Office two hundred yards from Big Ben and two floors beneath the street, someone shouted, “Christ, she’s venting!” Three thousand miles away, four shirt-sleeved Americans in the Oval Office watched the same spectacle.

From the side of the Freya, midships to starboard, a column of sticky, ocher-red crude oil erupted.

It was thick as a man’s torso. Impelled by the power of the Freya’s mighty pumps, the oil leaped the starboard rail, dropped twenty-five feet, and thundered into the sea. Within seconds, the blue-green water was discolored, putrefied. As the oil bubbled back to the surface, a stain began to spread, moving out and away from the ship’s hull on the tide.

For sixty minutes the venting went on, until the single tank was dry. The great stain formed the shape of an egg, broad nearest the Dutch coast and tapering near to the ship. Finally the mass of oil parted company with the Freya and began to drift. The sea being calm, the oil slick stayed in one piece, but it began to expand as the light crude ran across the sur­face of the water. At two P.M., an hour after the venting ended, the slick was ten miles long and seven miles wide at its broadest.

The Condor passed on, and the slick moved off the screen in Washington. Stanislaw Poklewski switched off the set.

“That’s just one fiftieth of what she carries,” he said. “Those Europeans will go mad.”

Robert Benson took a telephone call and turned to President Matthews.

“London just checked in with Langley,” he said. “Their man from Moscow has cabled that he has the answer to our question. He claims he knows why Maxim Rudin is threaten­ing to tear up the Treaty of Dublin if Mishkin and Lazareff go free. He’s flying personally with the news from Moscow to London, and he should land in one hour.”

Matthews shrugged.

“With this man Major Fallon going in with his divers in nine hours, maybe it doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, “but I’d sure be interested to know.”

“He’ll report to Sir Nigel Irvine, who will tell Mrs. Carpen­ter. Maybe you could ask her to use the hot line the moment she knows,” suggested Benson.

“I’ll do that thing,” said the President.

It was just after eight A.M. in Washington but past one P.M. in Europe when Andrew Drake, who had been pensive and withdrawn while the oil was being vented, decided to make contact again.

By twenty past one, Captain Thor Larsen was speaking again to Maas Control, from whom he asked at once to be patched through to the Dutch Premier, Jan Grayling. The patch-through to The Hague took no time; the possibility had been foreseen that sooner or later the Premier might get a chance to talk to the leader of the terrorists personally and appeal for negotiations on behalf of Holland and Germany.

“I am listening to you, Captain Larsen,” said the Dutch­man to the Norwegian in English. “This is Jan Grayling speaking.”

“Prime Minister, you have seen the venting of twenty thou­sand tons of crude oil from my ship?” asked Larsen, the gun barrel an inch from his ear.

“With great regret, yes,” said Grayling.

“The leader of the partisans proposes a conference.”

The captain’s voice boomed through the Premier’s office in The Hague. Grayling looked up sharply at the two senior civil servants who had joined him. The tape recorder rolled impassively.

“I see,” said Grayling, who did not see at all but was stall­ing for time. “What kind of conference?”

“ ‘A face-to-face conference with the representatives of the coastal nations and other interested parties,’ ” said Larsen, reading from the paper in front of him.

Jan Grayling clapped his hand over the mouthpiece.

“The bastard wants to talk,” he said excitedly. And then, into the telephone, he said, “On behalf of the Dutch govern­ment, I agree to be host to such a conference. Please inform the partisan leader of this.”

On the bridge of the Freya, Drake shook his head and placed his hand over the mouthpiece. He had a hurried dis­cussion with Larsen.

“Not on land,” said Larsen into the phone. “Here at sea. What is the name of that British cruiser?”

“She’s called the Argyll,” said Grayling.

“She has a helicopter,” said Larsen at Drake’s instruction. “The conference will be aboard the Argyll. At three P.M. Those present should include yourself, the West German Am­bassador, and the captains of the five NATO warships. No one else.”

“That is understood,” said Grayling. “Will the leader of the partisans attend in person? I would need to consult the British about a guarantee of safe-conduct.”

There was silence as another conference took place on the bridge of the Freya. Captain Larsen’s voice came back.

“No, the leader will not attend. He will send a representa­tive. At five minutes before three, the helicopter from the Ar­gyll will be permitted to hover over the helipad of the Freya. There must be no soldiers or Marines on board. Only the pi­lot and the winchman, both unarmed. The scene will be ob­served from the bridge. There will be no cameras. The helicopter will not descend lower than twenty feet The winch­man will lower a harness, and the emissary will be lifted off the main deck and across to the Argyll. Is that under­stood?”

“Perfectly,” said Grayling. “May I ask who the representa­tive will be?”

“One moment,” said Larsen, and the line went dead. On the Freya, Larsen turned to Drake and asked:

“Well, Mr. Svoboda, if not yourself, whom are you sending?”

Drake smiled briefly.

“You,” he said. “You will represent me. You are the best person I can think of to convince them I am not joking—not about the ship, or the crew, or the cargo. And that my pa­tience is running short.”

The phone in Premier Grayling’s hand crackled to life.

“I am informed it will be me,” said Larsen, and the line was cut.

Jan Grayling glanced at his watch.

“One-forty-five,” he said. “Seventy-five minutes to go. Get Konrad Voss over here. Prepare a helicopter to take off from the nearest point to this office. And I want a direct line to Mrs. Carpenter in London.”

He had hardly finished speaking before his private secre­tary told him Harry Wennerstrom was on the line. The old millionaire in the penthouse above the Hilton in Rotterdam had acquired his own radio receiver during the night and had mounted a permanent watch on Channel 20.

“You’ll be going out to the Argyll by helicopter,” he told the Dutch Premier without preamble. “I’d be grateful if you would take Mrs. Lisa Larsen with you.”

“Well, I don’t know—” began Grayling.

“For pity’s sake, man,” boomed the Swede, “the terrorists will never know. And if this business isn’t handled right, it may be the last time she ever sees him.”

“Get her here in forty minutes,” said Grayling. “We take off at half past two.”

The conversation on Channel 20 had been heard by every in­telligence network and most of the media. Lines were already buzzing between Rotterdam and nine European capitals. The National Security Agency in Washington had a transcript clat­tering off the White House teleprinter for President Mat­thews. An aide was darting across the lawn from the Cabinet Office to Mrs. Carpenter’s study at 10 Downing Street. The Israeli Ambassador in Bonn was urgently asking Chancellor Busch to ascertain for Prime Minister Golen from Captain Larsen whether the terrorists were Jews or not, and the West German government chief promised to do this.

The afternoon newspapers and radio and TV shows across Europe had their headlines for the five P.M. edition, and fran­tic calls were made to four Navy ministries for a report on the conference if and when it took place.

As Jan Grayling put down the telephone after speaking to Thor Larsen, the jet airliner carrying Adam Munro from Mos­cow touched the tarmac of Runway 1 at London’s Heathrow Airport.

Barry Ferndale’s Foreign Office pass had brought him to the foot of the aircraft steps, and he ushered his bleak-faced colleague from Moscow into the back seat. The car was bet­ter than most that the Firm used; it had a screen between driver and passengers, and a telephone linked to the head of­fice.

As they swept down the tunnel from the airport to the M4 motorway, Ferndale broke the silence.

“Rough trip, old boy?” He was not referring to the air­plane journey.

“Disastrous,” snapped Munro. “I think the Nightingale is blown. Certainly followed by the Opposition. May have been picked up by now.”

Ferndale clucked sympathy.

“Bloody bad luck,” he said. “Always terrible to lose an agent. Damned upsetting. Lost a couple myself, you know. One died damned unpleasantly. But that’s the trade we’re in, Adam. That’s part of what Kipling used to call the Great Game.”

“Except this is no game,” said Munro, “and what the KGB will do to the Nightingale is no joke.”

“Absolutely not. Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that.” Ferndale paused expectantly as their car joined the M4 traffic stream. “But you did get the answer to our question: Why is Rudin so pathologically opposed to the release of Mishkin and Lazareff?”

“The answer to Mrs. Carpenter’s question,” said Munro grimly. “Yes, I got it.”

“And it is?”

“She asked it,” said Munro. “She’ll get the answer. I hope she’ll like it. It cost a life to get it.”

“That might not be wise, Adam old son,” said Ferndale. “You can’t just walk in on the P.M., you know. Even the Master has to make an appointment.”

“Then ask him to make one,” said Munro, gesturing to the telephone.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to,” said Ferndale quietly. It was a pity to see a talented man blow his career to bits, but Munro had evidently reached the end of his tether. Ferndale was not going to stand in his way; the Master had told him to stay in touch. He did exactly that.

Ten minutes later, Mrs. Joan Carpenter listened carefully to the voice of Sir Nigel Irvine on the scrambler telephone.

“To give the answer to me personally, Sir Nigel?” she asked. “Isn’t that rather unusual?”

“Extremely so, ma’am. In fact, it’s unheard of. I fear it has to mean Mr. Munro and the service’s parting company. But short of asking the specialists to require the information out of him, I can hardly force him to tell me. You see, he’s lost an agent who seems to have become a personal friend over the past nine months, and he’s just about at the end of his tether.”

Joan Carpenter thought for several moments.

“I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of so much distress,” she said. “I would like to apologize to your Mr. Munro for what I had to ask him to do. Please ask his driver to bring him to Number Ten. And join me yourself, immedi­ately.”

The line went dead. Sir Nigel Irvine stared at the receiver for a while. That woman never ceases to surprise me, he thought. All right Adam, you want your moment of glory, son, you’ll have it. But it’ll be your last. After that, it’s pas­tures new for you. Can’t have prima donnas in the Firm.

As he descended to his car, Sir Nigel reflected that how­ever interesting the explanation might be, it was academic, or soon would be. In seven hours Major Simon Fallon would steal aboard the Freya with three companions and wipe out the terrorists. After that, Mishkin and Lazareff would stay where they were for fifteen years.

At two o’clock, back in the day cabin, Drake leaned forward toward Thor Larsen and told him:

“You’re probably wondering why I set up this conference on the Argyll. I know that while you are there you will tell them who we are and how many we are. What we are armed with and where the charges are placed. Now listen carefully because this is what you must also tell them if you want to save your crew and ship from instant destruction.”

He talked for over thirty minutes. Thor Larsen listened im­passively, drinking in the words and their implications.

When he had finished, the Norwegian captain said, “I’ll tell them. Not because I aim to save your skin, Mr. Svoboda, but because you are not going to kill my crew and my ship.”

There was a trill from the intercom in the soundproof cabin. Drake answered it and looked out through the win­dows to the distant fo’c’sle. Approaching from the seaward side, very slowly and carefully, was the Wessex helicopter from the Argyll, the Royal Navy markings clear along her tail.

Five minutes later, under the eyes of cameras that beamed their images across the world, watched by men and women in subterranean offices hundreds and even thousands of miles away, Captain Thor Larsen, master of the biggest ship ever built, stepped out of her superstructure into the open air. He had insisted on donning his black trousers, and over his white sweater had buttoned his merchant navy jacket with the four gold rings of a sea captain. On his head was the braided cap with the Viking helmet emblem of the Nordia Line. He was in the uniform he would have worn the previous evening to meet the world’s press for the first time. Squaring his broad shoulders, he began the long, lonely walk down the vast ex­panse of his ship to where the harness and cable dangled from the helicopter a third of a mile in front of him.