Frederick Forsyth - The Devil's Alternative

“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.