Frederick Forsyth - The Devil's Alternative

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.”