On the BBC World Service, the bell of Big Ben struck noon. In the Cabinet Office two hundred yards from Big Ben and two floors beneath the street, someone shouted, “Christ, she’s venting!” Three thousand miles away, four shirt-sleeved Americans in the Oval Office watched the same spectacle.
From the side of the Freya, midships to starboard, a column of sticky, ocher-red crude oil erupted.
It was thick as a man’s torso. Impelled by the power of the Freya’s mighty pumps, the oil leaped the starboard rail, dropped twenty-five feet, and thundered into the sea. Within seconds, the blue-green water was discolored, putrefied. As the oil bubbled back to the surface, a stain began to spread, moving out and away from the ship’s hull on the tide.
For sixty minutes the venting went on, until the single tank was dry. The great stain formed the shape of an egg, broad nearest the Dutch coast and tapering near to the ship. Finally the mass of oil parted company with the Freya and began to drift. The sea being calm, the oil slick stayed in one piece, but it began to expand as the light crude ran across the surface of the water. At two P.M., an hour after the venting ended, the slick was ten miles long and seven miles wide at its broadest.
The Condor passed on, and the slick moved off the screen in Washington. Stanislaw Poklewski switched off the set.
“That’s just one fiftieth of what she carries,” he said. “Those Europeans will go mad.”
Robert Benson took a telephone call and turned to President Matthews.
“London just checked in with Langley,” he said. “Their man from Moscow has cabled that he has the answer to our question. He claims he knows why Maxim Rudin is threatening to tear up the Treaty of Dublin if Mishkin and Lazareff go free. He’s flying personally with the news from Moscow to London, and he should land in one hour.”
Matthews shrugged.
“With this man Major Fallon going in with his divers in nine hours, maybe it doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, “but I’d sure be interested to know.”
“He’ll report to Sir Nigel Irvine, who will tell Mrs. Carpenter. Maybe you could ask her to use the hot line the moment she knows,” suggested Benson.
“I’ll do that thing,” said the President.
It was just after eight A.M. in Washington but past one P.M. in Europe when Andrew Drake, who had been pensive and withdrawn while the oil was being vented, decided to make contact again.
By twenty past one, Captain Thor Larsen was speaking again to Maas Control, from whom he asked at once to be patched through to the Dutch Premier, Jan Grayling. The patch-through to The Hague took no time; the possibility had been foreseen that sooner or later the Premier might get a chance to talk to the leader of the terrorists personally and appeal for negotiations on behalf of Holland and Germany.
“I am listening to you, Captain Larsen,” said the Dutchman to the Norwegian in English. “This is Jan Grayling speaking.”
“Prime Minister, you have seen the venting of twenty thousand tons of crude oil from my ship?” asked Larsen, the gun barrel an inch from his ear.
“With great regret, yes,” said Grayling.
“The leader of the partisans proposes a conference.”
The captain’s voice boomed through the Premier’s office in The Hague. Grayling looked up sharply at the two senior civil servants who had joined him. The tape recorder rolled impassively.
“I see,” said Grayling, who did not see at all but was stalling for time. “What kind of conference?”
“ ‘A face-to-face conference with the representatives of the coastal nations and other interested parties,’ ” said Larsen, reading from the paper in front of him.
Jan Grayling clapped his hand over the mouthpiece.
“The bastard wants to talk,” he said excitedly. And then, into the telephone, he said, “On behalf of the Dutch government, I agree to be host to such a conference. Please inform the partisan leader of this.”
On the bridge of the Freya, Drake shook his head and placed his hand over the mouthpiece. He had a hurried discussion with Larsen.
“Not on land,” said Larsen into the phone. “Here at sea. What is the name of that British cruiser?”
“She’s called the Argyll,” said Grayling.
“She has a helicopter,” said Larsen at Drake’s instruction. “The conference will be aboard the Argyll. At three P.M. Those present should include yourself, the West German Ambassador, and the captains of the five NATO warships. No one else.”
“That is understood,” said Grayling. “Will the leader of the partisans attend in person? I would need to consult the British about a guarantee of safe-conduct.”
There was silence as another conference took place on the bridge of the Freya. Captain Larsen’s voice came back.
“No, the leader will not attend. He will send a representative. At five minutes before three, the helicopter from the Argyll will be permitted to hover over the helipad of the Freya. There must be no soldiers or Marines on board. Only the pilot and the winchman, both unarmed. The scene will be observed from the bridge. There will be no came