The Stockholm syndicate

Chapter Twenty-One

"Put Regula over the side,"

This had been Beaurain's first order and was the opening phase. The large launch, flying the Danish flag, had been lowered into the sea and released. Her engines — far more powerful than anyone would expect inside such a vessel — started up and she disappeared into the distance, heading after Kometa at a speed and on a course which would soon bring her up on the port side of the Soviet hydrofoil. And it was no coincidence that Regula 's size, shape and colour was very similar to that of a Danish coast guard vessel.

"Launch Smithy,"

Beaurain had given this command when Firestorm 's radar scanner showed that the coast guard vessel Regula would shortly overhaul Kometa. The float plane hauled out of the same cavernous hold which had carried Regula, was winched over the side and gently lowered onto the calm black Baltic. From the bridge Beaurain watched with field glasses as Smithy took off on a course which would take him precisely between the stern of Kometa and the bow of Firestorm.

Beaurain had worked out the whole plan on the back of an old envelope. He now gave his third order.

"Launch Anderson."

Captain Buckminster gave his own order, briefly slowing down the speed of Firestorm while Anderson, the pilot of the giant Sikorsky, lifted off from the helipad aft of the bridge. Alongside him sat his copilot, a Frenchman from Rheims, Pierre Cartier. Thirty-one years old, small, lightly-built with a pencil moustache, Cartier nursed a sub-machine gun in his lap as the chopper climbed vertically and flew on an easterly course. Like Smithy in his float-plane, their course was aimed for the stern of Kometa.

"You think I get a chance to use my weapon?" Cartier asked.

"Don't be so bloodthirsty," Anderson replied, his eyes on the controls. "That's just for emergencies,"

"Then I must hope for emergencies!"

On the bridge of the motor vessel Captain Buck-minster watched his radar screen as Beaurain walked a few paces to the huge bridge window and peered into the night. They had picked up speed as soon as Anderson had taken off and he thought he could just discern the lights of the Soviet hydrofoil.

"You think it's going to work?" Buckminster enquired.

"If I was in command of Kometa I would be as confused as hell within the next fifteen minutes. And we need only about ten minutes for Henderson and his underwater team to hit Kometa."

"Let's hope to God it doesn't start moving and rear up on its foils. Henderson will never board her if that happens."

"Which is why Phase One concerns a convincing-looking Danish coast guard launch," Beaurain replied.

Captain Andrei Livanov swore silently as Viktor Rashkin appeared. The latter wore a dark blue naval blazer ornamented with gold buttons and pale grey slacks. His step was springy, his manner brisk. He established a sense of his supreme authority with his opening words.

"Our guests are now comfortable in the main dining-room, so our meeting is about to start. Please proceed at full speed round Bornholm as planned. Get this thing up onto its skis or whatever you call them."

"Surface piercing foils."

Livanov, a thin-faced man of fifty who hated having so many Germans aboard, was staring out to the port side where his First Officer, Glasov, was making notes on a pad. Rashkin glanced in the same direction and then his look riveted on what he saw in the distance. The lights of another vessel, and the flashing of a signal lamp.

"What the hell is that?" he demanded.

"Danish coast guard vessel," Livanov replied, keeping his words to a minimum. It was one safe way he could express his intense dislike.

Tell it to go away."

"You do not tell coast guard vessels to go away," "Why Danish?" rasped Rashkin irritably.

"Because the island of Bornholm, which we are approaching, happens to belong to Denmark. What is the signal, Glasov?"

"We are to heave to and identify ourselves,"

Without referring to Rashkin, the captain gave the order and the former only realised what was happening when he felt the vessel slowing down, noticed the absence of vibrations beneath his feet and realised Kometa was now stationary. Glasov was using a lamp to signal their reply when Viktor Rashkin blew his top.

"Who gave the order to stop the engines? I shall report this act of sabotage to Moscow,"

"Report away!" Livanov snapped. "If you want our brief voyage to attract no attention we must adhere to international law, we are already in Danish territorial waters, we must comply with the coast guard requests,"

He broke off and walked rapidly to the window on the port side. Out of nowhere a float-plane had appeared, had landed on the calm black sea between the Soviet vessel and the coast guard ship. With its navigation lights on it had the appearance of a firefly and its actions were extraordinary. And now that Glasov had completed his reply to the Danish coast guard the lamp was flashing again, sending Kometa a new signal.

"What's that thing out there?" Rashkin asked.

"A sea-plane. I think the pilot must be drunk. Let's just hope he doesn't head our way."

The tiny plane did indeed appear to be in the control — if that was the word — of someone who had imbibed too generously. The machine, scudding over the dark sheet of water, was now zigzagging. It was crazy, quite crazy. And so many things were beginning to happen at once.

That was the moment when Anderson lowered his Sikorsky over the bridge of Kometa. His arrival was heralded by a steadily increasing roar. Livanov pressed his face against the glass and stared up into the night. What he saw astounded him.

"Look above us, for God's sake!" he shouted at Rashkin.

The belly of the chopper, which seemed enormous in the night, was almost touching the top of the bridge. Livanov couldn't see any sign of how many men might be aboard the machine. Livanov could only see that if the pilot came down a few feet more there was going to be a holocaust on his bridge. To add to his agitation the din churned up by the Sikorsky's rotors was deafening. A hand grasped his arm; his First Officer, Glasov, was pulling him gently towards the rear of the bridge so he could get a better view of the Danish coast guard vessel. A searchlight slowly began to sweep the sea from aboard the coast guard ship. Glasov shouted in his captain's ear.

"That searchlight from the coast guard vessel is searching for a floating mine."

" Oh, my God! "

Another voice shouted in his other ear, the voice of Viktor Rashkin, but Livanov detected for the first time a note of uncertainty in the Russian's voice. "Start up the engines! Immediately!"

"You have seen what is happening just ahead of us and directly in our way?"

Rashkin followed the line of Livanov's stabbing finger. For the first time he noticed the fresh tactics of the drunken pilot with his bloody float-plane. The machine was crisscrossing over the course Kometa would be taking if the ship did start moving, moving at right-angles to the Soviet hydrofoil.

" And," Livanov took great delight in informing this swine of a party boss, 'that searchlight is looking for a floating mine. You wish us to move before they have located it? You look forward to the outcome? BOOM,"

Rashkin was suspicious. Too much was happening at once. But he found the appalling din of the chopper's rotors made it hard to think straight. What was happening? He watched the probing finger of light, fighting to detach himself from his present surroundings, from the noise and the activity which was overwhelming his brain. Never permit the enemy to disorientate you. During the time when he had trained with the KGB his mentor, a veteran, had drilled the advice into his brain. But where was the enemy?

*

On the 'coast guard' vessel Regula there were very few lights — no more than the orthodox navigation lights. Harry Johnson, who had monitored the arrival of the KGB security squads in Trelleborg aboard the ferries from Sassnitz in East Germany, commanded Regula.

A lean, tense man of thirty, his face had a scowl of concentration as he stood close to the helmsman inside the wheelhouse and held his wrist-watch in his right hand. The chronometer on the bridge of Regula was accurate, God knew but it was his wrist-watch he had used to synchronise with all the other timepieces before he had left Firestorm.

Alongside him stood Jock Henderson clad in his wet suit, oxygen cylinder on his back, face-mask pulled up on his forehead, his automatic weapon clasped in its waterproof sheath. The explosives were inside a separate container strapped to his lower back.

"You'll be leaving soon, Jock," Johnson said.

"I know." Henderson was watching the sweep hand of his waterproof watch. He glanced up and checked again: the lights of the Sikorsky which appeared to be sitting on Kometa 's bridge; the flitting back and forth of Smithy in his float-plane across the path of the Soviet vessel to discourage any movement. Then the searchlight beam shone out from Regula 's stern.

"Go!" said Johnson.

Henderson led the twenty-man team over the port side of Regula. Once in the water, his face-mask in position, he passed under the keel of Regula before swimming underwater direct for the hydrofoil. The magnetic compass attached to his left wrist showed him the precise course to follow and this was very important considering what Johnson was going to activate in the near future. It was also the aspect of the assault that had most worried Johnson when discussing it with Henderson earlier.

"The underwater vibrations will be terrific," he had warned.

"So we make sure we're far enough away, we get the timing right and we don't feel a thing — or very little," Henderson had replied.

"Bloody tricky. I wouldn't like to be coming with you."

"You'd manage."

"Then there are the bubbles from your breathing apparatus — from the apparatus of twenty men. Those damned bubbles could easily be spotted by lookouts aboard that Soviet hydrofoil."

"Which is where Jules Beaurain's scenario comes in — to make them look in the wrong place — or places — at the crucial moment of our approach."

"There's always the unexpected factor," the dour Johnson had replied. "Like the sonar room on the Soviet vessel."

Alone inside the sonar room aboard Kometa the Pole, Peter Sobieski, who had agreed to co-operate with Telescope, was studying the screen which clearly showed the approach of Henderson's assault team. On such a calm night it was impossible that they should not show up on one of the screens.

Peter Sobieski, a thin, nervous but intelligent man in his early forties, was worried. He had taken all possible precautions. The door behind him was locked so no-one could walk in and surprise him. As he continued staring at the screen, one thing above all else preyed on his nerves. The presence of Gunther Baum aboard as head of security. Sobieski knew he could turn a dial which would fog the scanner, obliterating all tell-tale trace of what was moving steadily closer to the hydrofoil second by second. But, try as he might, he was unable to stifle his anxiety about Gunther Baum.

Gunther Baum was suspicious. As he patrolled the open deck on the port side he tried to work it out: the combination of that ridiculous float-plane, the Danish coast guard ship and the large helicopter hanging over the bridge like a time-bomb. He had suggested to Viktor Rashkin that six of his men riddled the machine with automatic fire.

"Very clever," Rashkin had commented. "Positively brilliant."

Baum had basked in the glow of apparent approval. He was totally unprepared for Rashkin's next statement. "Suppose the chopper is also Danish coast guard which seems likely since there is an airfield on Bornholm. We don't want an international incident with the guests we have below! And if I had said, yes, where would the chopper have crashed? Right on top of our bridge! So could you please return to your duties of patrolling the ship and overseeing its defences

All this had been taken into account when Beaurain worked out his original plan: if the helicopter hovered low enough no-one aboard would dare open fire for fear of causing a conflagration to break out on Kometa. And Baum returned to the open deck fuming, with his companion at his heels, still carrying the brief-case holding the silenced Luger.

Checking that his men were on the alert, he wandered slowly along the port side staring at the inky blackness of the water. Standing by the rail he found First Officer Glasov, a mean-faced man whose every action was based on how it would advance potential promotion.

"Everything does not seem to go according to plan," Baum said.

"If you had been at sea as long as I have that is what you would expect," Glasov replied rudely.

Baum was under the distinct impression that the rudeness was calculated, that Glasov wished to get rid of him. Shrugging his shoulders he moved over to the starboard side to check the position there. Glasov watched him go and then turned back to stare at the sea. In the distance a searchlight aboard the coast guard ship was probing for something, but immediately underneath where he stood Glasov saw the light from a porthole reflecting on the water. Glasov clenched the rail tight with both hands and stared again to make sure his eyes had not played him a trick. Then he saw it again. A circle of bubbles…

First Officer Glasov practically threw open the door into the sonar room — at least that was his intention. Unexpectedly the door, locked from the inside, refused to budge and he slammed into what felt like a brick wall. When he had recovered he began hammering his clenched fist against the upper panel. Sobieski took his time about unlocking the door quietly, turning the handle and opening it suddenly. He confronted Glasov, fist raised in mid-air for a fresh onslaught.

"Have you gone mad?" Sobieski enquired calmly.

Glasov stared at him in sheer disbelief. He outranked the controller of the sonar room and Sobieski was a Pole which, in Glasov's view, made him a member of an inferior race.

"You cannot speak to me like that!" Glasov snapped and pushed past the Pole who closed the door and quietly locked it again. Glasov swung round. "Why was the door locked?"

"Security," Sobieski replied with a wooden expression. "On the instructions of Gunther Baum," he lied.

To hell with Baum. I think skin-divers are at this very moment approaching us and you should have detected them on the sonar by now."

Sobieski had returned to his seat in front of his screens and controls and he folded his arms over a half-closed drawer. He had to play for time.

"These skin-divers," the Pole replied in a flippant tone, 'you have seen them riding across the sea blowing trumpets?"

"I have seen the bubbles which rise to the surface from their breathing apparatus," Glasov told him between clenched teeth. "So you also must have seen them on your sonar." He stared for the first time at the screen. "What is wrong with the sonar screen?"

It was the question the Pole had been waiting for and had been dreading. Since he had deliberately fogged the reception with a turn of a switch nothing showed but static. The Russian walked a few paces further and stood in front of the equipment, the corners of his mouth turned down as he glared at the meaningless image. And Glasov knew enough to work the switches — Sobieski surreptitiously checked the time. This was the very moment when the screen must not be clear. And still the ship vibrated with the roar of the Sikorsky's rotors.

"It is interference," Sobieski explained.

"We are being jammed? Enemy interference!"

"Nothing of the sort." Sobieski sounded weary. "No machine is perfect and they all develop bugs. It is likely that there is a…"

But then Glasov turned the switch, the static vanished and a clear image showed of an unknown number of swimmers approaching Kometa.

"You bloody traitor! You will be shot! And your family will be

…"

Sobieski raised his right hand out of the half-open drawer holding a Walther PPK and fired two shots at point-blank range. Glasov staggered, spun round in a semi-circle and crashed to the deck. The Pole dragged Glasov by the ankles across the planks and bundled him into a huddled heap which fitted the inside of the bottom of a cupboard. Fetching Glasov's cap, which had fallen off, he crammed it over his slumped head, closed both doors and locked the cupboard, then ran to the sonar screen and turned the switch again in case of fresh visitors. The invading force would be aboard within minutes or less provided they were not sported by Gunther Baum's security patrols.

In the large dining-room of Kometa many small tables had been brought together to create one huge and impressive table around which were seated the guests from so many nations. Even aboard the Titanic there was less power and influence than was gathered that night aboard the Soviet hydrofoil in the Baltic.

At the head of the table, as befitted his status, was the American industrialist, Leo Gehn, occasionally drinking mineral water, while the rest of the guests consumed ever larger quantities of champagne, encouraged by Viktor Rashkin who made frequent visits from the bridge to soothe his guests.

"A little local difficulty… concerning some officious Danish coast guard Doubtless he knows who we have aboard… it is his brief hour of glory… briefly to detain with his minor authority such a distinguished gathering…"

Then the mine detonated.

From this moment on the terror started terror for those who had themselves used their money and their power to terrorise so many in different countries to do their bidding.

" Explode the mine! "

Aboard the coast guard vessel Regula, its captain, Johnson, was still holding his wrist-watch in his hand when he gave the order. He spoke into the small microphone slung round his neck so the message reached not only the man who detonated the mine let loose to float with the current but was also transmitted to the members of the crew operating the mobile searchlight and the swivel-mounted machine-gun.

The trio receiving the order knew precisely the sequence of events they must bring about. First, the man with the searchlight swung its beam to light on the mine itself; not too difficult a feat since he was wearing infrared glasses.

The moment that happened the second man — controlling the swivel-mounted machine-gun — swung its muzzle, being careful not to aim his gunsight at the mine but only in its general direction, and opened fire. He was using tracer bullets and the Baltic was suddenly illuminated with a miniature fireworks display.

The man whose job was to set off the detonation by remote radio control waited for the first two events to take place. Only when the mine was visible in the searchlight beam, only when a curve of tracer bullets was streaming through the night did he operate the switch. The result was spectacular.

The mine exploded with a dull resounding boom suggesting enormous power. An eruption of water like the Yellowstone Park geyser was superbly illuminated in the searchlight beam. The machine-gun ceased firing. The searchlight went out. Aboard Kometa everyone was temporarily stunned. At that moment — on schedule — Sergeant Jock Henderson passed under the hull of the still-stationary hydrofoil.

Kometa was a 'surface-piercing hydrofoil' — a kind of craft invented in Messina, Sicily, a fact not advertised inside Soviet Russia. A large vessel of 2,000 tons, its top speed was thirty knots, which could only be achieved when it was skimming over the surface of the water so that no 'drag' factor any longer applied. Basically the entire vessel, at the pull of a single lever on the bridge, reared up out of the water on what were really massive steel wings.

By careful checking of his waterproof watch Henderson had timed the boarding of Kometa to coincide with Johnson's detonation of his mine the moment of maximum distraction for those aboard the Soviet vessel. A large number of his underwater team were still in the sea, concealed now beneath Kometa 's hull, when the mine exploded. They felt a sharp push in the back as the shock wave of the blast reached them. By now Henderson was perched on the starboard surface-piercing foil at the stern.

Half out of the water and just behind him Palme stared upwards at the overhang of the ship's rail, holding a harpoon-gun in his right hand. Using the rope and drag-hook like a lasso, Henderson had swung it round his head until the momentum was strong enough, then hurled it upwards and heard the gentle thunk as the rubber-covered hooks took a firm hold on the rail.

It was very bad luck — but in Henderson's view they had used up their share of luck — that one of Gunther Baum's East German security men happened to be patrolling the stern as the ladder took hold. He was taken aback for a few seconds when the grapple appeared out of nowhere, then he unlooped his automatic weapon from his shoulder and peered over the rail. Henderson was a perfect target, silhouetted in his frogman's suit. The security man raised his weapon and took swift aim.

There was a hiss of compressed air, no other sound at all, as the spear released from Palme's harpoon-gun thudded into the German's chest. He slumped forward over the rail, dropping his weapon into the sea. Henderson climbed the ladder, reached the rail, glanced along the deserted deck. Using one hand, he tumbled the man over the side. Palme had already climbed the ladder and a file of men were appearing, their heads bobbing in the water like sea-monsters. Henderson, now over the rail and standing on the deck with Palme, glanced at his watch.

"Less than two minutes before Johnson signals the Russian captain he can get moving."

"We have just made it."

Before the engines of Kometa began throbbing underfoot, all the twenty men were aboard the hydrofoil. Advance scouts had been sent a short distance forward to deal with any fresh patrols. And Henderson had been very explicit in his instructions regarding this stage.

"According to Sobieski, the Polish sonar controller aboard, we'll be out-numbered by the East German security guards — and those johnnies are trained to prime condition. There are thirty of them. So for as long as possible we use the silent kill."

The advance scouts — under Palme's command on the port side, under Max Kellerman's command to starboard — were armed with knives and wire garottes. Their instructions were to use firearms and grenades only as a last resort — and preferably not until one of the two section commanders gave permission.

On the port side a second security guard in a leather jacket took a step forward and then stopped, staring in disbelief. He was still trying to decide whether he had seen the outline of men in frog suits when one of them stepped out behind him from between two lifeboats and plunged a razor-edged stiletto with a savage upward thrust just below the left shoulder-blade. The East German grunted. He was dead before he hit the deck.

His executioner reported the incident and then cautiously moved again towards the bridge. The head count of guards eliminated was important: it told both Palme and Kellerman how many of the opposition were still alive. As the hydrofoil began to get under way Henderson's task was quite different and exceptionally hazardous.

Several times Jules Beaurain had emphasised the danger of the mission Henderson had suggested for himself. "You could be very exposed," the Belgian had warned, 'if they start the vessel up while you're still working on the main foil."

"I have allowed for that," Henderson had assured his chief. "It is a chance I have to take. It is the only way I can attach timer-and-impact explosives to the most vulnerable part of Kometa."

Timer-and-impact explosives were a new device which the mild-mannered boffins at Chateau Wardin had recently invented. The device worked initially like time-bombs. But the refinement covered the possibility that the timing mechanism might not work.

Independent of the timer, the explosive detonated instantaneously on impact with another object, and the force of the impact needed for detonation could be varied by setting a meter which was an essential part of the device.

Henderson's objective was now to reach the bow of Kometa in the shortest possible time, attach the special explosives to the giant foils in the shortest possible time, and, assuming he survived what Beaurain had called 'a real Russian-roulette risk', he would then make himself available for the final assault against the bridge.

The Sikorsky had been lifted high into the night. In his float-plane the pilot, Smithy, had suddenly adopted more sober behaviour and was flying across the Baltic away from the Soviet ship prior to taking off — leaving the sea clear for Captain Livanov to resume his course. On the bridge the Russian had received the signal from the coast guard vessel informing him that the floating mine had been destroyed, that it was safe to proceed.

Both Livanov and Viktor Rashkin now felt confident that all was well that the extraordinary behaviour of the helicopter pilot was simply the Danes taking every precaution to ensure Kometa obeyed instructions until the danger was past.

"After all," Livanov pointed out, 'we did see the mine explode! I would not like the bow of this ship to have collided with that."

"You are, of course, right," Rashkin agreed. "And now I suggest we proceed at top speed round Bornholm which means demonstrating to our guests the thrill of skimming the wavetops. And I must now return to the dining-room."

Livanov gave the order to increase speed and Kometa began to move, a dart of glowing light shooting towards the flashing lamp which was the lighthouse close to The Hammer on the island of Bornholm. " Skimming the wavetops ' was not the phrase Livanov would have used but it did describe the sensation of travelling aboard the hydrofoil at full power. Reaching out a hand, Livanov personally pulled at the lever which operated the foils. The ship rose up until its whole length of hull was clear of the Baltic supported only by its immense blades of steel.

As Rashkin left the bridge the two teams of invaders, one led by Palme, the other by Max Kellerman, had silently despatched five of the thirty East Germans guarding the ship. They were also putting into effect the second part of Beaurain's plan — which involved stationing men at the head of all companionways and exits leading to the main deck. Anyone attempting to mount the steps from a lower deck would immediately feel the impact of a harpoon. Both to port and starboard Stig and Max were now in control of the rear half of the ship. Only one man was facing problems: Henderson was in danger of losing his life.

*

The magnetic clamps Henderson had activated held him by the forearms and legs to the huge steel blade as he fought to complete his task. He was now lifted clear of the Baltic which was flashing past below at incredible speed. And the forward movement of the hydrofoil was creating a powerful wind which blew in his face, half-blinding his face-mask with spume and surf, tearing at his body in its attempt to rip him free from the blade and hurl him down into the water where the stern foils of Kometa would pass over him, cutting him to mince.

" God damn them! "

He had hoped to finish attaching the explosives and to have hauled himself over the rail and onto the ship's deck before the vessel continued its cruise. Cruise? This was more like a bloody race he thought, and when he wiped his face-mask free of surf smears he could see in the distance a flashing lamp. The lighthouse above The Hammer, the dreaded cliffs at the northern tip of the island of Bornholm which they were approaching fast.

As he positioned the second device underneath the foil — out of sight from anyone looking down from the deck above — the vibrations of the engines pounded his body as though he were operating half-a-dozen road drills. Henderson literally found he was shaking like a jelly. Only by making a supreme effort was he able to position the second device, activate first the magnetic clamps which attached it to the blade, then turn the switch which activated both timer and impact systems.

To negotiate the steep-angled support he had to repeat his earlier performance, switching off the magnetic clamps strapped round his left leg and arm, supported only by the other two holding his right forearm and leg. He then had to haul himself higher with his free left leg and arm. The process then had to be reversed so he could climb higher still up the prop, closer to the hull, this time employing his right leg and arm. His progress was not helped by the wind plucking furiously at him, by the roar of the hydrofoil thundering through the dark, by the engine vibrations which were rapidly weakening his remaining physical reserves.

Don't give up or you're finished!

It was the first time Henderson could remember having felt compelled to consider the possibility, and now he was realising it would be wiser never to look down. In his weakened state he was beginning to suffer from vertigo. The sight of the surf-edged water sheeting past below was dizzy-making. Every movement was a reflex of will-power. He didn't really care whether he made it or not — and the thought galvanised him with self-contempt.

A million years later he hauled himself over the rail and collapsed on the deck, lying still while he waited for his natural resilience to assert itself. That was when the machine-gun fire started, punctuated by the crack of stun and fragment grenades.

*

"Give me the gun, Oscar."

Gunther Baum reached out a hand without looking and Oscar gave him the Luger immediately. The East German was standing on the port side and had no reason at all to suspect anything out of the ordinary. Ahead of him stretched the open deck. He could see dimly the sway of the lifeboats slung from their davits as Kometa showed her honoured guests what she was capable of, moving like a bird. Behind Gunther Baum his companion, Oscar, took a tighter grip on his own automatic weapon now he was no longer concerned with the brief-case.

"Is there something wrong?" Oscar shouted. It was the last sentence he ever uttered. The words were hardly out of his mouth when a missile hurtled towards him. He screamed and staggered back, Palme's harpoon protruding from his chest. Swiftly Baum, who was concealed in the darkness, aimed at a moving shadow and fired. The shadow dropped. Baum shouted in German at the top of his voice.

"Mass on the bridge! Withdraw from the deck!" Then he unscrewed his silencer and fired into the air twice.

Theoretically it was sound strategy, as Palme was the first to recognise. Baum was planning on assembling his men on the ship's equivalent of the high ground the bridge from where they could pour a hail of gunfire down onto the intruders approaching from the deck below.

Baum reached the bridge because of the swiftness of his movements, running crouched up the steps and pressing himself upright against the rear of the bridge. From here he could see exactly what was happening. He witnessed a massacre — of his own troops.

On the port side Palme projected the beam of a powerful lamp on his staircase; on the starboard side Kellerman employed the same tactic. Caught in the glare of the two lights, the MfS men jammed on the staircases were targets which could not be missed. There was a continuous rattle of automatic fire from the Telescope men and Baum saw his guards collapsing and tumbling over each other as they went back down the staircases. He raised his Luger and aimed it at the glaring lamp. As though anticipating he had pushed his luck far enough, Palme turned off the lamp at that moment and jumped to one side. Two bullets from Baum's Luger thudded harmlessly into the woodwork beside him.

It was Henderson, emerging on the rear of the bridge from the starboard side, who saw the almost invisible Gunther Baum pressed close to the woodwork. A brief glimpse, he pinpointed his position when the German fired his two bullets. Taking a grenade from his pocket, Henderson removed the pin, counted and then rolled it along the deck. The grenade stopped rolling a few inches from the feet of Gunther Baum. There was a flash which illuminated the whole of the rear of the bridge, showing Baum as its sole occupant, a thunder-crack as the grenade detonated. Baum fell forward, arms out-stretched, slithered over the rail and hit the deck below.

It was time to storm the interior of the bridge, take complete control of the vessel — and destroy it.