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DON'T MISS THESE

GRIPPING BOOKS

BY FREDERICKFORSYTH

THE DAY OF THE JACKAL

THE ODESSA FILE

THE DOGS OF WAR

THE DEVIL?S ALTERNATIVE

NO COMEBACKS

THE FOURTH PROTOCOL

THE NEGOTIATOR

THE DECEIVER

THE FIST OF GOD

AVAILABLE WHEREVER

BANTAM BOOKS ARE SOLD

The Master of the Thriller Is Back!

"QUINN IS ONE OF FORSYTH?S MOST ENGAGING HEROES ... A COMPLETELY SATISFYING TANGLE."

-The Wall Street Journal

"FORSYTHIS A SUPERB STORYTELLER AND ENTER-TAINER ... THE NEGOTIATOR IS A TYPICALLY SEAMLESS PRESENTATION SET IN THE IMMEDIATE FUTURE, WILL NOT DISAPPOINT HIS MANY FANS."

-Toronto Star

“THROUGH EVERY ZIGZAG OF THE PLOT,FORSYTHIS DETER-MINED TO DELIVER SUSPENSE ... AND HE ADMIRABLY SUC-CEEDS. ... THERE IS REAL TENSION AS QUINN BEGINS TO ESTABLISH A TENTATIVE RAPPORT WITH THE KIDNAPPERS?AND IS THWARTED BY TRAITORS WITHIN THE U.S. GOVERNMENT AND BY A REMARKABLY INCOMPETENT FBI. ...FORSYTHIS AS VIVID WITH THE SNOWBOUND LAND-SCAPE OF NORTHERN VERMONT AS WITH THE SEAMY RED-LIGHT DISTRICT OF ANTWERP.”

?Newsweek

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“FREDERICK FORSYTH?S NEW NOVEL IS PROBABLY HIS MOST GRIPPING SINCE THE DAY OF THE JACKAL.”

?The Ottawa Sun

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“THIS IS THRILLER-WRITING OF THE HIGHEST QUALITY, A MASTERLY BLEND OF EXCITEMENT AND TENSION WHICH TAKES THE GENRE BY THE SCRUFF OF THE NECK AND PRO-PELS IT INTO THE NEXT DECADE.”

?The Sunday Telegraph

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“QUINN [IS] AN ACTION MAN TO MAKE JAMES BOND SEEM SHY AND FEARFUL. A PROBLEM SOLVER OF ... UNERRING EFFECTIVENESS.”

?The New York Times Book Review

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“A CLIFFHANGER OF A CONCLUSION ...FORSYTHKEEPS A FEW SURPRISES UP HIS SLEEVE AND WRITES ACTION SCENES MORE CRISPLY, AND WITH LESS GORE, THAN LUDLUM.”

?Publishers Weekly

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“FORSYTHIS A MASTER OF HIS CRAFT.”

?Winnipeg Free Press

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Bantam Books by FrederickForsyth

Askyour bookseller for the books you have missed

?

?

THE DAY OF THE JACKAL

THE ODESSA FILE

THE DOGS OF WAR

THE DEVIL?S ALTERNATIVE

NO COMEBACKS

THE FOURTH PROTOCOL

THE NEGOTIATOR

THE DECEIVER

THE FIST OF GOD

Bantam Books

NEW YORK ? TORONTO ? LONDON ? SYDNEY ? AUCKLAND

?

THE NEGOTIATOR

A Bantam Book

Bantam hardcover edition / May 1989

Bantam paperback edition / April 1990

Bantam reissue / August 1995

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All rights reserved.

Copyright? 1989 by Frederick Forsyth.

Cover art copyright? 1995 by Bantam Books.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 88-43346.

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No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.

?

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as ?unsold and destroyed? to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this ?stripped book.?

?

ISBN 0-553-28393-6

Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

?

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Double-day Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words ?Ban-tam Books? and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.

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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

OPM 17 16 15 14

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Contents

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Cast Of Characters.8

Prologue.10

Chapter 1.11

Chapter 2.24

Chapter 3.39

Chapter 4.54

Chapter 5.70

Chapter 6.84

Chapter 7.99

Chapter 8.112

Chapter 9.125

Chapter 10.138

Chapter 11.153

Chapter 12.168

Chapter 13.182

Chapter 14.198

Chapter 15.211

Chapter 16.222

Chapter 17.236

Chapter 18.250

Chapter 19.264

About the Author270

About the e-Book.271

Cast Of Characters

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The Americans

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JOHN J. CORMACK President of the United States

MICHAEL ODELL Vice President of the United States

JAMES DONALDSON Secretary of State

MORTON STANNARD Secretary of Defense

WILLIAM WALTERS Attorney General

HUBERT REED Secretary of the Treasury

BRAD JOHNSON National Security Adviser

DONALD EDMONDS Director, FBI

PHILIP KELLY Assistant Director, Criminal Investigations

Division, FBI

KEVIN BROWN Deputy Assistant Director,CID,FBI

LEE ALEXANDER Director, CIA

DAVID WEINTRAUB Deputy Director (Operations), CIA

QUINN The negotiator

DUNCAN MCCREA Junior field agent, CIA

IRVING MOSS Discharged CIA agent

SAM SOMERVILLE Field agent, FBI

CYRUS V. MILLER Oil tycoon

MELVILLE SCANLON Shipping tycoon

PETER COBB Armaments industrialist

BEN SALKIND Armaments industrialist

LIONEL MOIR Armaments industrialist

CREIGHTON BURBANK Director, Secret Service

ROBERT EASTERHOUSE Free-lance security consultant and Saudi expert

ANDREW LAING Bank official, Saudi Arabian Investment Bank

SIMON American student at Balliol College, Oxford

PATRICK SEYMOUR Legal counselor and FBI agent,

American embassy, London

LOU COLLINS Liaison officer, CIA, London

The British

MARGARET THATCHERPrime Minister

SIR HARRY MARRIOTT Home Secretary

SIR PETER IMBERT Commissioner, Metropolitan Police

NIGEL CRAMER Deputy Assistant Commissioner,

Specialist Operations Department,

Metropolitan Police

JULIAN HAYMAN Free-lance security company chairman

COMMANDER

PETER WILLIAMS Investigation officer, Specialist Operations

Department, Metropolitan Police

The Russians

MIKHAIL GORBACHEV General Secretary, Communist Party

of the Soviet Union

GENERAL

VLADIMIR KRYUCHKOV Chairman, KGB

MAJOR

PAVEL KERKORIAN KGB rezident in Belgrade

GENERAL

VADIM KIRPICHENKO Deputy Head, First Chief Directorate, KGB

IVAN KOZLOV Marshal of the U.S.S.R.

MAJOR GENERAL

ZEMSKOV Chief planner, Soviet General Staff

ANDREI Field agent, KGB

The Europeans

KUYPER Belgian thug

BERTIE VAN EYCK Director, Walibi Theme Park, Belgium

DIETER LUTZ Hamburg journalist

HANSMORITZ Dortmund brewer

HORST LENZLINGER Oldenburg arms dealer

WERNERBERNHARDT Former Congo mercenary

PAPADE GROOT Dutch provincial police chief

CHIEF INSPECTOR

DYKSTRA Dutch provincial detective

Prologue

The dream came again, just before the rain. He did not hear the rain. In his sleep the dream possessed him.

There was the clearing again, in the forest in Sicily, high above Taormina. He emerged from the forest and walked slowly toward the center of the space, as agreed. Theattach? case was in his right hand. In the middle of the clear-ing he stopped, placed the case on the ground, went back six paces, and dropped to his knees. As agreed. The case con-tained a billion lire.

It had taken six weeks to negotiate the child’s release, quick by most precedents. Sometimes these cases went on for months. For six weeks he had sat beside the expert from the carabinieri’s Rome office?another Sicilian but on the side of the angels?and had advised on tactics. The carabinieri officer did all the talking. Finally the release of the daughter of the Milan jeweler, snatched from the family’s summer home near Cefal? beach, had been arranged. A ran-som of close to a million U.S. dollars, after a start-off de-mand for five times that sum, but finally the Mafia had agreed.

From the other side of the clearing a man emerged, un-shaven, rough-looking, masked, with a Lupara shotgun slung over his shoulder. He held the ten-year-old girl by one hand. She was barefoot, frightened, pale, but she looked un-harmed. Physically, at least. The pair walked toward him; he could see the bandit?s eyes staring at him through the mask, then flickering across the forest behind him.

TheMafioso stopped at the case, growled at the girl to stand still. She obeyed. But she stared across at her rescuer with huge dark eyes. Not long now, kid. Hang in there, baby.

The bandit flicked through the rolls of bills in the case until satisfied he had not been cheated. The tall man and the girl looked at each other. He winked; she gavea small flicker of a smile. The bandit closed the case and began to retreat, facing forward, to his side of the clearing. He had reached the trees when it happened.

It was not the carabinieri man from Rome; it was the local fool. There was a clatter of rifle fire; the bandit with the case stumbled and fell. Of course his friends were strung out through the pine trees behind him, in cover. They fired back. In a second the clearing was torn by chains of flying bullets. He screamed,? Down!? in Italian but she did not hear, or panicked and tried to run toward him. He came off his knees and hurled himself across the twenty feet between them.

He almost made it. He could see her there, just beyond his fingertips, inches beyond the hard right hand that would drag her down to safety in the long grass. He could see the fright in her huge eyes, the little white teeth in her screaming mouth ... and then the bright crimson rose that bloomed on the front of her thin cotton dress. She went down then as if punched in the back and he recalled lying over her, covering her with his body until the firing stopped and theMafiosi escaped through the forest. He remembered sitting there holding her, cradling the tiny limp body in his arms, weeping and shouting at the uncomprehending and too-late-apologetic local police: ?No, no, sweet Jesus, not again ...?

Chapter 1

November1989

Winter had come early that year. Already by the end of the month the first forward scouts, borne on a bitter wind out of the northeastern steppes, were racing across the rooftops to probe Moscow?s defenses.

The Soviet General Staff headquarters building stands at 19, Frunze Street, a gray stone edifice from the 1930s facing its much more modern eight-story high-rise annex across the street. At his window on the top floor of the old block the Soviet Chief of Staff stood, staring out at the icy flurries, and his mood was as bleak as the coming winter.

Marshal Ivan K. Kozlov was sixty-seven, two years older than the statutory retirement age, but in the Soviet Union, as everywhere else, those who made the rules never deemed they should apply to them. At the beginning of the year he had succeeded the veteran Marshal Akhromeyev, to the surprise of most in the military hierarchy. The two men were as unlike as chalk and cheese. Where Akhromeyev had been a small, stick-thin intellectual, Kozlov was a big, bluff, white-haired giant, a soldier?s soldier, son, grandson, and nephew of soldiers. Although only the third-ranking First Deputy Chief before his promotion, he had jumped the two men ahead of him, who had slipped quietly into retirement. No one had any doubts as to why he had gone to the top; from 1987 to 1989 he had quietly and expertly supervised the Soviet withdrawal from Afghanistan, an exercise that had been achieved without any scandals, major defeats, or (most important of all) publicized loss of national face, even though the wolves of Allah had been snapping at the Russian heels all the way to the Salang Pass. The operation had brought him great credit in Moscow, bringing him to the per-sonal attention of the General Secretary himself.

But while he had done his duty, and earned his mar-shal?s baton, he had also made himself a private vow: Never again would he lead his beloved Soviet Army in retreat?and despite the fulsome PR exercise, Afghanistan had been a de-feat. It was the prospect of another looming defeat that caused the bleakness of his mood as he stared out through the double glass at the horizontal drifts of tiny ice particles that snapped periodically past the window.

The key to his mood lay in a report lying on his desk, a report he had commissioned himself from one of the bright-est of his ownprot?g?s, a young major general whom he had brought to the General Staff with him from Kabul. Kaminsky was an academic, a deep thinker who was also a genius at organization, and the marshal had given him the second-top slot in the logistics field. Like all experienced combat men, Kozlov knew better than most that battles are not won by courage or sacrifice or even clever generals; they are won by having the right gear in the right place at the right time and plenty of it.

He still recalled with bitterness how, as an eighteen-year-old trooper, he had watched the superbly equipped Ger-man blitzkrieg roll through the defenses of the Motherland as the Red Army, bled white by Stalin?s purges of 1938 and equipped with antiques, had tried to stem the tide. His own father had died trying to hold an impossible position at Smo-lensk, fighting back with bolt-action rifles against Guderian?s growling panzer regiments. Next time, he swore, they would have the right equipment and plenty of it. He had de-voted much of his military career to that concept and now he headed the five services of the U.S.S.R.: the Army, Navy, Air Force, Strategic Rocket Forces, and Air Defense of the Homeland. And they all faced possible future defeat because of a three-hundred-page report lying on his desk.

He had read it twice, through the night in his spartan apartmentoff Kutuzovsky Prospekt and again this morning in his office, where he had arrived at 7:00A.M . and taken the phone off the hook. Now he turned from the window, strode back to his great desk at the head of the T-shaped conference table, and turned to the last few pages of the report again.