The Devil's Alternative

He left for the bridge; two men remained to cover the Freya’s captain, slumped in his chair at the table, struggling with an exhausted brain against the waves of pain from his bleeding and broken hand.

The armored van, preceded by motorcycle outriders with howling sirens, swept through the twelve-foot-high steel-mesh gates of the British base at Gatow, and the pole barrier descended fast as the first car bulging with newsmen tried to follow it through. The car stopped with a squeal of tires. The double gates swung to. Within minutes a crowd of protesting reporters and photographers were at the wire clamoring for admittance.

Gatow contains not only an air base; it has an Army unit as well, and the commandant was an Army brigadier. The men on the gate were from the Military Police, four giants with red-topped caps, peaked down to the bridge of the nose, immovable and immune.

“You cannot do this.” yelled an outraged photographer from Der Spiegel. “We demand to see the prisoners take off.”

“That’s all right, Fritz,” said Staff Sergeant Brian Farrow comfortably. “I’ve got my orders.”

Reporters rushed to public telephones to complain to their editors. They complained to the Governing Mayor, who sympathized earnestly and promised to contact the base commander at Gatow immediately. When the phone was quiet, he leaned back and lit a cigar.

Inside the base, Adam Munro, accompanied by the wing commander in charge of aircraft maintenance, walked into the hangar where the Dominie stood.

“How is she?” Munro asked of the warrant officer (technical) in charge of the fitters and riggers.

“Hundred percent, sir,” said the veteran mechanic.

“No, she’s not,” said Munro. “I think if you look under one of the engine cowlings, you’ll find an electrical malfunction that needs quite a bit of attention.”

The warrant officer looked at the stranger in amazement, then across to his superior officer.

“Do as he says, Mr. Barker,” said the wing commander. “There has to be a technical delay. The Dominie must not be ready for takeoff for a while. But the German authorities must believe the malfunction is genuine. Open her up and get to work.”

Warrant Officer James Barker had spent thirty years maintaining aircraft for the Royal Air Force. Wing commanders’ orders were not to be disobeyed, even if they did originate with a scruffy civilian who ought to be ashamed of the way he was dressed, not to mention that he badly needed a shave.

The prison governor, Alois Bruckner, had arrived in his own car to witness the handover of his prisoners to the British, and their takeoff for Israel. When he heard the aircraft was not yet ready, he was incensed and demanded to see it for himself.

He arrived in the hangar, escorted by the RAF base commander, to find Warrant Officer Barker head and shoulders into the starboard engine of the Dominie.

“What is the matter?” he asked in exasperation.

Warrant Officer Barker pulled his head out.

“Electrical short circuit, sir,” he told the official. “Spotted it during a test run of the engines just now. Shouldn’t be too long.”

“These men must take off at eight o’clock, in ten minutes’ time,” said the German. “At nine o’clock the terrorists on the Freya are going to vent a hundred thousand tons of oil.”

“Doing my best, sir. Now, if I could just get on with my job?” said the warrant officer.

The base commander steered Herr Bruckner out of the hangar. He had no idea what the orders from London meant, either, but orders they were, and he intended to obey them.

“Why don’t we step across to the officers’ mess for a nice cup of tea?” he suggested.

“I don’t want a nice cup of tea,” said the frustrated Herr Bruckner. “I want a nice takeoff for Tel Aviv. But first I must telephone the Governing Mayor.”

“Then the officers’ mess is just the place,” said the wing commander. “By the way, since the prisoners can’t really remain in that van much longer, I’ve ordered them to the Military Police station cells in Alexander Barracks. They’ll be nice and comfortable there.”

It was five to eight when the BBC radio correspondent was given a personal briefing by the RAF base commander about the technical malfunction in the Dominie, and his report cut clean into the eight A.M. news as a special flash seven minutes later. It was heard on the Freya.

“They’d better hurry up,” said Drake.

Adam Munro and the two civilians entered the Military Police cells just after eight o’clock. It was a small unit, used only for the occasional Army prisoner, and there were four cells in a row. Mishkin was in the first, Lazareff in the fourth. The Junior civilian let Munro and his colleague enter the corridor leading to the cells, then closed the corridor door and stood with his back to it.

“Last-minute interrogation,” he told the outraged MP sergeant in charge. “Intelligence people.” He tapped the side of his nose. The MP sergeant shrugged and went back to the orderly room.

Munro entered the first cell. Lev Mishkin, in civilian clothes, was sitting on the edge of the bunk bed, smoking a cigarette. He had been told he was going to Israel at last, but he was still nervous and uninformed about most of what had been going on these past three days.

Munro stared at him. He had almost dreaded meeting him. But for this man and his crazy schemes to assassinate Yuri Ivaneriko in pursuit of some far-off dream, his beloved Valentina would even now be packing her bags, preparing to leave for Rumania, the Party conference, the holiday at Mamaia Beach, and the boat that would take her to freedom. He saw again the back of the woman he loved going through the plate-glass doors to the Moscow street, the man in the trench coat straightening up and beginning to follow her.