Andrew Drake threw himself back in his chair with a shout.
“We’ve done it!” he yelled at Thor Larsen. “They’re in Israel!”
Larsen nodded slowly. He was trying to close his mind to the steady agony from his wounded hand.
“Congratulations,” he said sardonically. “Now perhaps you can leave my ship and go to hell.”
The telephone from the bridge rang. There was a rapid exchange in Ukrainian, and Larsen heard a whoop of joy from the other end.
“Sooner than you think,” said Drake. “The lookout on the funnel reports a thick bank of fog moving toward the whole area from the north. With luck we won’t even have to wait until dark. The fog will be even better for our purpose. But when we do leave, I’m afraid I’ll have to handcuff you to the table leg. The Navy will rescue you in a couple of hours.”
At five o’clock the main newscast brought a dispatch from Tel Aviv to the effect that the demands of the hijackers of the Freya in the matter of the reception at Ben-Gurion Airport of Mishkin and Lazareff had been abided by. Meanwhile, the Israeli government would keep the two from Berlin in custody until the Freya was released, safe and unharmed. In the event that she was not, the Israeli government would regard its pledges to the terrorists as null and void, and return Mishkin and Lazareff to jail.
In the day cabin on the Freya, Drake laughed.
“They won’t need to,” he told Larsen. “I don’t care what happens to me now. In twenty-four hours those two men are going to hold an international press conference. And when they do, Captain Larsen, when they do, they are going to blow the biggest hole ever made in the walls of the Kremlin.”
Larsen looked out of the windows at the thickening mist.
“The commandos might use this fog to storm the Freya,” he said. “Your lights would be of no use. In a few minutes you won’t be able to see any bubbles from frogmen underwater.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore,” said Drake. “Nothing matters anymore. Only that Mishkin and Lazareff get their chance to speak. That was what it was all about. That is what makes it all worthwhile.”
The two Jewish-Ukrainians had been taken from Ben-Gurion Airport in a police van to the central police station in Tel Aviv and locked in separate cells. Prime Minister Golen was prepared to abide by his part of the bargain—the exchange of the two men for the safety of the Freya, her crew, and her cargo. But he was not prepared to have Svoboda trick him.
For Mishkin and Lazareff it was the third cell in a day, but both knew it would be the last. As they parted in the corridor, Mishkin winked at his friend and called in Ukrainian, “Not next year in Jerusalem—but tomorrow.”
From an office upstairs, t
he chief superintendent in charge of the station made a routine call to the police doctor to give the pair a medical examination, and the doctor promised to come at once. It was half past seven Tel Aviv time.
The last thirty minutes before six o’clock dragged by like years on the Freya. In the day cabin, Drake had tuned his radio to the BBC World Service and listened impatiently for the six o’clock newscast.
Azamat Krim, assisted by three of his colleagues, shinnied down a rope from the taffrail of the tanker to the sturdy fishing launch that had bobbed beside the hull for the past two and half days. When the four of them were standing in the launch’s open waist, they began preparations for the departure of the group from the Freya.
At six o’clock the chimes of Big Ben rang out from London, and the evening news broadcast began.
“This is the BBC World Service. The time is six o’clock in London, and here is the news, read to you by Peter Chalmers.”
A new voice came on. It was heard in the wardroom of the Argyll, where Captain Preston and most of his officers were grouped around the set. Captain Mike Manning tuned in on the Moran; the same newscast was heard at 10 Downing Street, in The Hague, Washington, Paris, Brussels, Bonn, and Jerusalem. On the Freya. Andrew Drake sat motionless, watching the radio unblinkingly.
“In Jerusalem today. Prime Minister Benyamin Golen said that following the arrival earlier from West Berlin of the two prisoners David Lazareff and Lev Mishkin, he would have no alternative but to abide by his pledge to free the two men, provided the supertanker Freya was freed with her crew unharmed. ...”
“No alternative!” shouted Drake. “That’s the phrase! Miroslav has done it!”
“Done what?” asked Larsen.
“Recognized them. It’s them, all right. No switching has taken place.”
He slumped back in his chair and exhaled a deep sigh.
“It’s over, Captain Larsen. We’re leaving, you’ll be glad to hear.”
The captain’s personal locker contained one set of handcuffs, with keys, in case of the necessity physically to restrain someone on board. Cases of madness have been known on ships. Drake slipped one of the cuffs around Larsen’s right wrist and snapped it shut. The other went around the table leg. The table was bolted to the floor. Drake paused in the doorway and laid the keys to the handcuffs on top of a shelf.
“Good-bye, Captain Larsen. You may not believe this, but I’m sorry about the oil slick. It would never have happened if the fools out there had not tried to trick me. I’m sorry about your hand, but that, too, need not have happened. We’ll not see each other again, so good-bye.”
He closed and locked the cabin door behind him and ran down the three flights of stairs to A deck and outside to where his men were grouped on the afterdeck. He took his transistor radio with him.