ras. 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.”
“That might not be wise, Adam old son,” said Ferndale. “You can’t just walk in on the P.M., you know. Even the Master has to make an appointment.”