She went on to explain that, even as they talked, the captain of the Freya, Thor Larsen, was landing on the afterdeck of the cruiser Argyll for a conference; and that, scheduled for ten that evening, a team of SBS frogmen was going to attack the Freya in an attempt to wipe out the terrorists and their detonator.
Munro’s face was set like granite when he heard.
“If, ma’am,” he said clearly, “these commandos are successful, then the hijacking will be over, the two prisoners in Berlin will stay where they are, and the probable exposure of my agent will have been in vain.”
She had the grace to look thoroughly uncomfortable.
“I can only repeat my apology, Mr. Munro. The plan to storm the Freya was only devised in the small hours of this morning, ten hours after Maxim Rudin delivered his ultimatum to President Matthews. By then you were already consulting the Nightingale. It was impossible to call that agent back.”
Sir Julian entered the room and told the Premier, “They’re coming on patch-through now, ma’am.”
The Prime Minister asked her three guests to be seated. A box speaker had been placed in the corner of her office, and wires led from it to a neighboring anteroom.
“Gentlemen, the conference on the Argyll is beginning. Let us listen to it, and then we will learn from Mr. Munro the reason for Maxim Rudin’s extraordinary ultimatum.”
As Thor Larsen stepped from the harness onto the afterdeck of the British cruiser at the end of his dizzying five-mile ride through the sky beneath the Wessex, the roar of the engines above his head was penetrated by the shrill welcome of the bosun’s pipes.
The Argyll’s captain stepped forward, saluted, and held out his hand.
“Richard Preston,” said the Royal Navy captain. Larsen returned the salute and shook hands.
“Welcome aboard, Captain,” said Preston.
“Thank you,” said Larsen.
“Would you care to step down to the wardroom?”
The two captains descended from the fresh air into the largest cabin in the cruiser, the officers’ wardroom. There Captain Preston made the formal introductions.
“The Right Honorable Jan Grayling, Prime Minister of the Netherlands. You have spoken on the telephone already, I believe. ... His Excellency Konrad Voss, Ambassador of the Federal Republic of Germany. Captain Desmoulins of the French Navy, de Jong of the Dutch Navy, Hasselmann of the German Navy, and Manning of the United States Navy.”
Mike Manning put out his hand and stared into the eyes of the bearded Norwegian.
“Good to meet you, Captain.” The words stuck in his throat. Thor Larsen looked into his eyes a fraction longer than he had into those of the other naval commanders, and passed on.
“Finally,” said Captain Preston, “may I present Major Simon Fallon of the Royal Marine commandos.”
Larsen looked down at the short, burly Marine and felt the man’s hard fist in his own. So, he thought, Svoboda was right after all.
At Captain Preston’s invitation they all seated themselves at the expansive dining table.
“Captain Larsen, I should make plain that our conversation has to be recorded, and will be transmitted in uninterceptible form directly from this cabin to Whitehall, where the British Prime Minister will be listening.”
Larsen nodded. His gaze kept wandering to the American; everyone else was looking at him with interest; the U.S. Navy man was studying the mahogany table.
“Before we begin, may I offer you anything?” asked Preston. “A drink, perhaps? Food? Tea or coffee?”
“Just a coffee, thank you. Black, no sugar.”
Captain Preston nodded to a steward by the door, who disappeared.
“It has been agreed that, to begin with, I shall ask the questions that interest and concern all our governments,” continued Captain Preston. “Mr. Grayling and Mr. Voss have graciously conceded to this. Of course, anyone may pose a question that I may have overlooked. Firstly, may we ask you, Captain Larsen, what happened in the small hours of yesterday morning.”
Was it only yesterday? Larsen thought. Yes, three A.M. in the small hours of Friday morning; and it was now five past three on Saturday afternoon. Just thirty-six hours. It seemed like a week.
Briefly and clearly he described the takeover of the Freya during the night watch, how the attackers came so effortlessly aboard and herded the crew down to the paint locker.
“So there are seven of them?” asked the Marine major. “You are quite certain there are no more?”
“Quite certain,” said Larsen. “Just seven.”
“And do you know who they are?” asked Preston. “Jews? Arabs? Red Brigades?”
Larsen stared at the ring of faces in surprise. He had forgotten that outside the Freya no one knew who the hijackers were.
“No,” he said. They’re Ukrainians. Ukrainian nationalists. The leader calls himself simply Svoboda. He said it means ‘freedom’ in Ukrainian. They always talk to each other in what must be Ukrainian. Certainly, it’s Slavic.”
“Then why the hell are they seeking the liberation of two Russian Jews in Berlin?” asked Jan Grayling in exasperation.
“I don’t know,” said Larsen. “The leader claims they are friends of his.”
“One moment,” said Ambassador Voss. “We have all been mesmerized by the fact that Mishkin and Lazareff are Jews and wish to go to Israel. But of course they both come from the Ukraine, the city of Lvov. It did not occur to my government that they could be Ukrainian partisan fighters as well.”
“Why do they think the liberation of Mishkin and Lazareff will help their Ukrainian nationalist cause?” asked Preston.
“I don’t know,” said Larsen. “Svoboda won’t say. I asked him; he nearly told me, but then shut up. He would say only that the liberation of those two men would cause such a blow to the Kremlin, it could start a widespread popular uprising.”
There was blank incomprehension on the faces of the men around him. The final questions about the layout of the ship, where Svoboda and Larsen stayed, the deployment of the terrorists, took a further ten minutes. Finally, Preston looked around at the other captains and the representatives of Holland and Germany. The men nodded. Preston leaned forward.
“Now, Captain Larsen, I think it is time to tell you. Tonight, Major Fallon here and a group of his colleagues are going to approach the Freya underwater, scale her sides, and wipe out Svoboda and his men.”
He sat back to watch the effect.
“No,” said Thor Larsen slowly, “they are not.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“There will be no underwater attack unless you wish to have the Freya blown up and sunk. That is what Svoboda sent me here to tell you.”
Item by item, Captain Larsen spelled out Svoboda’s message to the West. Before sundown every single floodlight on the Freya would be switched on. The man in the fo’c’sle would be withdrawn; the entire foredeck from the bow to the base of the superstructure would be bathed in light.
Inside the superstructure, every door leading outside would be locked and bolted on the inside. Every interior door would also be locked, to prevent access via a window.
Svoboda himself, with his detonator, would remain inside the superstructure, but would select one of the more than fifty cabins to occupy. Every light in every cabin would be switched on, and every curtain drawn.
One terrorist would remain on the bridge, in walkie-talkie contact with the man atop the funnel. The other four men would ceaselessly patrol the taffrail around the entire stern area of the Freya with powerful flashlights, scanning the surface of the sea. At the first trace of a stream of bubbles, or someone climbing the vessel’s side, the patrol would fire a shot. The man atop the funnel would alert the bridge watch, who would shout a warning on the telephone to the cabin where Svoboda hid. This telephone line would be kept open all night. On hearing the word of alarm, Svoboda would press his red button.