“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.”