by Jay Garnet
The captain nodded.
‘Besides,’ Mike added quietly, ‘you’ve got nothing to lose by ’earing me out. Everything to lose if you don’t.’
‘All right. Tell me this crazy thing.’
‘As I said before, not so bloody quick. I want a guarantee first.’
‘Yes?’
‘Ten bars of gold.’
‘Ten bars?’ Kohlmeyer’s eyes widened and he shrugged. ‘We would all like ten bars of gold. You think that’s possible with English and Russian officials here?’
‘That’s exactly why you need to make contact. Everyone must agree. But I’ve not finished. I want a direct flight to Zurich from Murmansk. A new passport and a new name, issued there. I want to vanish. I ’ave to. My life will depend on it. Now, for God’s sake, let’s move. If there’s an attack now, or at dawn, and I’ve told you, and nobody’s taken any action . . .’
‘All right. True, I have nothing to lose. After all, if there is no hijack . . .’
‘Right. So move.’
‘This is not so easy. We must speak in code. The communications officer must know.’
‘So tell him, if that’s what it takes.’
Both men paused. Then Kohlmeyer made his decision.
‘Very well.’ He pushed an intercom button and asked the communications officer, Jerry Finlay, to join him.
When Finlay arrived, Kohlmeyer explained the situation. As he spoke, Mike avoided Finlay’s eyes. He’d got to know him quite well.
‘Mike,’ said Finlay at the end, ‘how’d you get into this?’
‘It’s a long story, Jerry. But like the captain said, we don’t ’ave time to talk now.’
‘Ten bars of gold? That’s what you want us to say?’
‘That’s right. And all the rest.’
The three men went to the communications room, situated in a curtained-off area beside the bridge. By now it was eight p.m. There was no contact planned and no other officer in the communications area.
Mike watched in silence. The captain scribbled out a message and passed it to Finlay, who made a few pencilled changes and handed it to Mike. It read:
‘URGENT. Deck supervisor Michael Cox advises hijack attempt imminent with death of all on board a probability. He is part of scheme, but ready to reveal details in exchange for ten bars of gold, flight to Zurich from Murmansk and new passport under new name. Remind that we have on board already two hundred and fifty-seven bars gold. Suggest we comply a.s.a.p. on understanding that if no details forthcoming Cox charged with attempted piracy. Meanwhile suggest contact both MoD and Soviet authorities to get joint agreement and begin preparation of suitable response. Cox also has own ideas about suitable response. Message ends.’
Coding the message took time. Each letter had to be matched to a number in a pre-designated page in a random-number book, only two copies of which existed – one in Finlay’s hand at the moment, the other in Ocean Pioneers’ HQ in Aberdeen. Transmission, too, was a slow business – the list of numbers had to be read out one by one, and copied down by whoever was on duty at the other end. Whoever it was knew by the length and complexity of the message that it was not standard information. Even before it was over, someone would be on the phone to his colleagues, and to the Ministry of Defence in London.
There was a pause of ten minutes, the radio equivalent of stunned silence.
Then, in clear, came two words: ‘Please repeat.’ Finlay repeated the string of numbers and ended by saying, in clear: ‘Confirming, confirming.’
Kohlmeyer ordered coffee. The time began to stretch out.
Fifteen minutes.
Twenty minutes.
Half an hour.
An hour.
Then came a voice reading back a string of numbers. Finlay scribbled them down and then laboriously translated:
‘Sorry delay. This is Sunday evening. London and Moscow give outline approval. Insist agreement must depend details from Cox leading to successful foiling of plot and landing of gold. Any failure renders agreement null. Urgently await your response. Message ends.’
Mike nodded and began to talk.
He told Kohlmeyer about his own scheme, his involvement with Krassnik, the American’s Middle East contacts, the arrangement with the single rose, his own theory about the nature of the hijack, and his contact with the SBS.
Finlay said: ‘So let’s get one thing clear – you don’t really know, do you?’
‘Know what?’
‘That there’s a sub down there?’
‘I know there’s a hijack planned. You can guess the rest as well as I can.’
‘Guess. We can’t deal in guesses.’
‘Yes, you can. You ’ave to. Then maybe the people in London can find something to confirm them.’
None of the men had noticed during the negotiations that for perhaps half an hour now the Stephaniturm had begun to roll. Kohlmeyer glanced out of the porthole. ‘The weather is not looking so good,’ he said. ‘Perhaps we have not so much time.’
The message from the Stephaniturm had been telephoned from Aberdeen to a private number in London, at the home of a man we shall call Sir Anthony Grey, who reported to the Foreign Minister and was known in the corridors of the Ministry of Defence and Century House (the headquarters of MI6), and would even have been recognized at the barracks of the SAS in Bradbury Lines, Herefordshire.
Why such things had to happen on Sunday evenings was beyond him – presumably in accordance with the same natural laws that compelled toast to fall buttered side downwards. It had taken him two hours to gather together the five men he needed to form his ‘crisis committee’ and all five, haggard and resigned, were gathered around a large rosewood table in a Whitehall office. On the table were telephones, paper, maps and a litter of polystyrene cups. It was approaching midnight. All five men had been dragged from comfortable evenings with families or friends, or – in the case of the Russian – a mistress. Each knew they had a working night and probably the whole of the next day ahead of them.
They were a diverse bunch – Sir Anthony from the Foreign Office, two senior representatives from the MoD, two men from the higher ranks of the two Intelligence services, MI5 and MI6, and a lugubrious first secretary from the Russian Embassy. The two MoD men knew each other, as did the two Intelligence representatives. But the Foreign Office, MoD and Intelligence men all harboured suspicions towards each other, and all five regarded the Russian, Igor Tschernik, with distaste.
Tschernik was tired, frustrated and unhappy. He’d been told by Sir Anthony that the Intelligence men were from the Foreign Office, but he knew better. He had known nothing of the gold, let alone the hijack attempt, until an hour ago, and had only a few minutes’ briefing from his ambassador to go on. He could make no decisions himself, and was in effect the go-between for Whitehall, the embassy and Moscow.
‘Gentlemen,’ Sir Anthony was saying, ‘you’ve seen the latest message. I suggest that the sooner we know what’s in that flat in Albemarle Street the better. I suppose, Mr Tschernik, you know nothing of this?’
The Russian looked up glumly. He said nothing, but closed his eyes in suffering ignorance and shook his head.
‘I think the police can offer the most discreet approach,’ Sir Anthony said, raising an eyebrow at his MoD colleague, who nodded. Sir Anthony reached for the telephone, called Scotland Yard, explained about the address and asked for an urgent response ‘in the national interest’. He did not say why he made the request.
‘What of this man Krassnik, John?’ he then asked.
‘Do we really want the Americans in on all this?’
‘No. At least, not at this stage. Perhaps a general query to Langley might raise something. Can you handle?’
Tschernik broke in: ‘Sir Anthony, I’m instructed by my ambassador to ask how a criminal came to be aboard the’ – he glanced down at some notes in front of him – ‘the Stephaniturm.’
‘Mr Tschernik.’ Sir Anthony Grey was in no mood to accept any implie
d criticism. ‘The Stephaniturm is a German vessel contracted to an English company contracted to both our governments. There was an official decision to play down security. Any fault – and I do not believe there is any – is borne equally by both governments.’
‘We shall see.’
‘No doubt, Mr Tschernik, no doubt. But I must remind you that any investigation will only intensify the embarrassment. Our task at present is to work together to solve the problem, not allot blame.’
They began to talk about the possible identity of the hijackers, assuming they actually existed. At this stage a number of Britons and Russians in London and Moscow had a strong suspicion that the other partner was somehow implicated. But there were numerous other possibilities to be considered – the IRA, the Red Brigades, the Palestinians, some group of freelance pirates. All seemed equally unlikely.
The two calls came through within minutes of each other. The CIA in Langley, Virginia, reported that Krassnik was a known arms dealer, a middleman who supplied any number of Middle Eastern groups and countries. He had never worked overtly against American interests. Various of his Eastern bloc contacts were questionable, but he had brought so much cash to US arms firms that no one had seen fit to clamp down on him. Besides, he had friends in high places.
The police commissioner who telephoned informed Sir Anthony that the flat in Albemarle Street was empty, totally empty, stripped bare, except for the telephone, on which there was no number, some cellophane wrapping and a withered red rose. The telephone company had been bullied by Scotland Yard into tracing the line, checking the number and finding the order form which had been signed several months previously by a Mr Habib Hassani. By the early hours of Monday morning the Home Office computer had provided the information that a Habib Hassani had entered the country two months earlier as a tourist. He was a Libyan.
Other calls were made to the head of the Institute of Strategic Studies, to the SAS in Herefordshire, to the Russian Embassy, to the MoD and to the West German police computer centre in Wiesbaden, the world’s best source of information on international terrorism. Scenarios emerged, were discussed, then vanished.
Early breakfast arrived. That Monday a number of offices around London were occupied unusually early. Information began to flow into the Whitehall office.
By nine o’clock the bleary-eyed team had begun to see the problem for what it was. According to Wiesbaden, Hassani was one of several pseudonyms used by Major Abdel Moneim el Huni, one of the two members of Libya’s Revolutionary Command Council who were responsible both for the five thousand non-Libyan terrorists training in Libya and for Libyan terrorists abroad. Libya had enough sophisticated hardware to stage a hijack almost anywhere on earth; but an airborne approach demanded a base, which on NATO’s northern flank would have been easily detected. She also had ships and submarines.
A number of possibilities were checked.
By a process of elimination, the most likely hypothesis was that the hijack would be carried out by a Libyan submarine. Checks were run. Enquiries, via NATO computers, revealed two unidentified traces: one recorded in Gibraltar soon after the Stephaniturm’s departure, another on file in the US base outside Reykjavik. They could have been made by the same submarine, which could now be in the vicinity of the Stephaniturm.
‘So,’ Sir Anthony summarized, ‘the next problem that faces us is to find out where this hypothetical submarine is.’
‘I think I know,’ said the MI6 man. ‘The Edinburgh has been pretty useful strategically. She’s just over six hundred feet long, almost exactly the same length as a nuclear sub. We’ve made use of that factor on several occasions, because a submarine can sit alongside in the wreck’s sonar shadow. Both sides do it’ – he glanced at Tschernik – ‘and now the Libyans have got in on the act. Except they obviously haven’t chosen the Edinburgh. If they’re anywhere, they’re down by the Hermann Schoemann.’
It took another half an hour to sketch a likely scenario for the assault. Clearly it wouldn’t be a matter of a sudden torpedo attack. The Stephaniturm would have to be approached and boarded if the gold was to be taken off safely. Only then would the crew be killed and the vessel sunk.
‘But there’ll be plenty of time for the ship to call for help,’ said one of the MoD men.
‘Time enough to call for it,’ Sir Anthony responded. ‘Not enough time for it to come. Am I right, James?’
‘Right, Tony.’
Both men knew of Cox’s plans, of course. Both knew, without even discussing the matter, that the response would represent a high-level risk. The trouble with these operations was that they had to work. Of course, the PM would be informed before the event, and it wouldn’t go ahead without her approval, but both knew the rules in the event of failure. The interview would be only the beginning. Their heads would roll. Others would follow. An inquiry. Press criticism. Goodbye to politics.
Better, perhaps, if direct responsibility could be avoided.
Sometime around midday Sir Anthony turned tired eyes to Tschernik and said: ‘We are agreed on the most likely nature of the opposition. Time to devise a response. I suggest, Mr Tschernik, since your country is so close, that you assume responsibility.’
‘How?’
‘Mr Tschernik, really, do you need us to tell you how to deploy your forces? You have nuclear submarines, aeroplanes, ships. Please make appropriate arrangements.’
Tschernik asked for time. He went out to call the embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens, returning after ten long minutes.
‘Sir Anthony, we have no submarines nearby. The weather is becoming worse. It will take twenty-four hours or more to get ships to the area. We suggest that since it is well known that NATO maintains permanent watch on our northern flanks, you should arrange the necessary protection.’
Sir Anthony put a thumb and forefinger to his eyelids. The games these people played.
‘We must consider our options, Mr Tschernik. Will you be good enough . . . ?’ Tschernik was already rising. ‘You’ll find a waiting room opposite.’
When he was gone, Sir Anthony placed a call to Aberdeen. As Tschernik said, the weather north of Murmansk was deteriorating. The Stephaniturm reported that the divers were exhausted, and it would soon no longer be practical to continue with the operation.
Time was running out.
Sir Anthony addressed the MI6 man: ‘James?’
‘We know they have nuclear subs working out of Murmansk. They know we know. We have subs up there. They know. We know they know. We monitor each other all the time. But neither of us is going to admit it, even if it means losing the gold.’
‘Mm. Let’s be clear about this. We stand to get £8 million, give or take a bit. The Russians stand to get £16 million. And yet you’re saying . . .’
‘Frankly, it’s not worth the candle. Neither side is going to negotiate a change of grand strategic policy, certainly not in the time available, on the off-chance of gaining pocket money.’
Sir Anthony knew enough of the machiavellian politics of his colleague to know that he was serious.
‘So we just leave things to run their course?’
The MI6 man nodded.
‘I understand. But a bit harsh, James, all the same. And, if I may say so, a bit narrow-minded. I think the PM would back me on this one. True, the gold alone may not be all that important. But if this chap Cox is right, and the ship gets blown sky-high, the political cost would be unacceptable. Damn it, there are journalists on board.’
‘Doomed journalists.’
There was a brief silence while each of them contemplated the political consequences of inaction. Inaction was merely failure by another name. Action, then, was necessary, even inevitable. Better look on the bright side, and contemplate the consequences of success.
Sir Anthony, who had long believed he should be ambassador in Washington, felt the mood, and summed it up with a decision. ‘It’s too risky. We have to do something.’ He turned to one of the MoD men. ‘George?’
‘We could have a sub there in a few hours.’
‘What’s a few?’
‘Twelve. Give or take.’
‘Too slow.’
There was a long silence, marked by the slow tick of a wall clock. Options were running out. ‘Well,’ said Sir Anthony, raising the thought that was in all minds. ‘This chap Cox seems to be ahead of us on several counts.’
The MI6 man picked up the hint. ‘No point having a unit trained for this sort of op and not using it. I’m sure the PM will back you.’
‘Us, James, us.’
‘Of course. Shall I make the call?’
‘Please do.’
On the Stephaniturm, the conditions had gone from bad to worse. The gale had increased to Force Eleven. The ship swung and tossed in mountainous seas. Few people slept. Diving halted. The Stephaniturm hove to. The divers were utterly exhausted. There were a number of minor injuries, and an increase in ear infections. Only the success of the operation so far sustained morale – three hundred and eighty-six ingots raised – £40 million worth – with seventy-nine still to go. Privately, the diving supervisor had advised Kohlmeyer that there could be no more diving. Even seventy-nine bars – with a value of nearly £8 million – were not worth going for if that meant endangering lives, especially when the project had already been over eighty per cent successful. The two agreed that as soon as the storm abated the Stephaniturm would make for Murmansk.
The two-day pause, 5 and 6 October, was welcomed by both Russia and Britain. For one thing, in that screaming, icy wind, not even the Libyans would be foolhardy enough to risk an assault. They, too, would have to wait for the gale to die.
Towards the end of 5 October the ship received a radio message, which was decoded by Finlay and handed to Kohlmeyer – the only two men other than Mike who were aware of the true situation. It read:
‘Advise the probable hijacker is Libyan sub at present hove to in sonar shadow of Hermann Schoemann. No knowledge of plans, but clearly departure from site is last possible moment for attack. Suggest delay as long as possible. British response underway along lines proposed by Cox. Also advise events now covered by Official Secrets Act and D notice.’
