Frederick Forsyth - The Devil's Alternative

“So,” said President Matthews, looking with curiosity at the English agent across his desk, “you’re the man who runs the Nightingale.”

“ Ran the Nightingale, Mr. President,” said Munro. “As of twelve hours ago, I believe that asset has been blown to the KGB.”

“I’m sorry,” said Matthews. “You know what a hell of an ultimatum Maxim Rudin put to me over this tanker affair, I had to know why he was doing it.”

“Now we know,” said Poklewski, “but it doesn’t seem to change much, except to prove that Rudin is backed right into a corner, as we are here. The explanation is fantastic: the murder of Yuri Ivanenko by two amateur assassins in a street in Kiev. But we are still on that hook. ...”

“We don’t have to explain to Mr. Munro the importance of the Treaty of Dublin, or the likelihood of war if Yefrem Vishnayev comes to power,” said David Lawrence. “You’ve read all those reports of the Politburo discussions that the Nightingale delivered to you, Mr. Munro?”

“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” said Munro. “I read them in the original Russian just after they were handed over. I know what is at stake on both sides.”

“Then how the hell do we get out of it?” asked President Matthews. “Your Prime Minister asked me to receive you be­cause you had some proposal she was not prepared to discuss over the telephone. That’s why you’re here, right?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

At that point, the phone rang. Benson listened for several seconds, then put it down.

“We’re moving toward the crunch,” he said. “That man Svoboda on the Freya has just announced he is venting one hundred thousand tons of oil tomorrow morning at nine Eu­ropean time—that’s four A.M. our time. Just over twelve hours from now.”

“So what’s your suggestion, Mr. Munro?” asked President Matthews.

“Mr. President, there are two basic choices here. Either Mishkin and Lazareff are released to fly to Israel, in which case they talk when they arrive there and destroy Maxim Rudin and the Treaty of Dublin; or they stay where they are, in which case the Freya will either destroy herself or will have to be destroyed with all her crew on board her.”

He did not mention the British suspicion concerning the real role of the Moran , but Poklewski shot the impassive Ben­son a sharp glance.

“We know that, Mr. Munro,” said the President.

“But the real fear of Maxim Rudin does not concern the geographical location of Mishkin and Lazareff. His real concern is whether they have the opportunity to address the world on what they did in that street in Kiev five months ago.”

William Matthews sighed.

“We thought of that,” he said. “We have asked Prime Min­ister Golen to accept Mishkin and Lazareff, hold them incom­municado until the Freya is released, then return them to Moabit Prison, even hold them out of sight and sound inside an Israeli jail for another ten years. He refused. He said if he made the public pledge the terrorists demanded, he would not go back on it. And he won’t. Sorry, it’s been a wasted jour­ney, Mr. Munro.”

“That was not what I had in mind,” said Munro. “During the flight, I wrote the suggestion in memorandum form on airline notepaper.”

He withdrew a sheaf of papers from his inner pocket and laid them on the President’s desk.

President Matthews read the memorandum with an ex­pression of increasing horror.

“This is appalling,” he said when he had finished. “I have no choice here. Or rather, whichever option I choose, men are going to die.”

Adam Munro looked across at him with no sympathy. In his time he had learned that, in principle, politicians have little enough objection to loss of life, provided that they per­sonally cannot be seen publicly to have had anything to do with it.

“It has happened before, Mr. President,” he said firmly, “and no doubt it will happen again. In the Firm we call it ‘the Devil’s Alternative.’ ”

Wordlessly, President Matthews passed the memorandum to Robert Benson, who read it quickly.

“Ingenious,” he said. “It might work. Can it be done in time?”

“We have the equipment,” said Munro. “The time is short, but not too short. I would have to be back in Berlin by seven A.M. Berlin time, ten hours from now.”

“But even if we agree, will Maxim Rudin go along with it?” asked the President. “Without his concurrence the Treaty of Dublin would be forfeit.”

“The only way is to ask him,” said Poklewski, who had fin­ished the memorandum and passed it to David Lawrence. The Boston-born Secretary of State put the papers down as if they would soil his fingers.

“I find the idea cold-blooded and repulsive,” Lawrence said. “No United States government could put its imprimatur to such a scheme.”

“Is it worse than sitting back as twenty-nine innocent seamen in the Freya are burned alive?” asked Munro.

The phone rang again. When Benson replaced it he turned to the President.

“I feel we may have no alternative but to seek Maxim Rudin’s agreement,” he said. “Chancellor Busch has just announced Mishkin and Lazareff are being freed at oh-eight-hundred hours, European time. And this time he will not back down.”

“Then we have to try it,” said Matthews. “But I am not taking sole responsibility. Maxim Rudin must agree to permit the plan to go ahead. He must be forewarned. I shall call him personally.”

“Mr. President,” said Munro. “Maxim Rudin did not use the hot line to deliver his ultimatum to you. He is not sure of the loyalties of some of his inner staff inside the Kremlin. In these faction fights, even some of the small fry change sides and support the opposition with classified information. I be­lieve this proposal should be for his ears alone or he will feel bound to refuse it.”

“Surely there is not the time for you to fly to Moscow through the night and be back in Berlin by dawn?” objected Poklewski.

“There is one way,” said Benson. “There is a Blackbird based at Andrews that would cover the distance in the time.”

President Matthews made up his mind.

“Bob, escort Mr. Munro to Andrews Air Force Base. Alert the crew of the Blackbird there to prepare for takeoff in one hour. I will personally call Maxim Rudin and ask him to per­mit the airplane to enter Soviet airspace, and to receive Adam Munro as my personal envoy. Anything else, Mr. Munro?”

Munro took a single sheet from his pocket.

“I would like the Company to get this message urgently to Sir Nigel Irvine so that he can take care of the London and Berlin ends,” he said.

“It will be done,” said the President. “Be on your way, Mr. Munro. And good luck to you.”

WHEN THE HELICOPTER rose from the White House lawn, the Secret Service agents were left behind. An amazed pilot found himself bearing the mysterious Englishman in the rumpled clothes, and the Director of the CIA. To their right, as they rose above Washington, the Potomac River glittered in the late-afternoon sun. The pilot headed due southeast for Andrews Air Force Base.

Inside the Oval Office, Stanislaw Poklewski, invoking the personal authority of President Matthews in every sentence, was speaking to the base commander there. That officer’s pro­testations died slowly away. Finally, the national security ad­viser handed the phone to William Matthews.

“Yes, General, this is William Matthews and those are my orders. You will inform Colonel O’Sullivan that he is to prepare a flight plan immediately for a polar route direct from Washington to Moscow. Clearance to enter Soviet air­space unharmed will be radioed to him before he quits Greenland.”