Frederick Forsyth - The Devil's Alternative

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It was just after eight A.M. in Washington but past one P.M. in Europe when Andrew Drake, who had been pensive and withdrawn while the oil was being vented, decided to make contact again.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