Triple (20 page)

TRIPLE

team? It rather depended on whether Hassan was In the game. He could make

inquiries about that, too, in England.

He wondered how to travel. If somebody had picked up his scent tonight

he ought to take some precautions tomorrow. Even if the thuggish face

were nobody, Dickstein had to make sure. he was not spotted at Luxembourg

airport

He picked up the phone and dialed the desk. When the clerk answered, he

said, "Wake me at six-thirty, please."

'Wery good, sir." I

He hung up and got into bed. At last he had a definite target: the

Caparelli. He did not yet have a plan, but he knew in outline what had

to be done. Whatever other difficulties came up, the combination of a

non-nuclear consignment and

sea journey was irresistible.

He turned out the light and closed his eyes, thinking: What

good day.

David Rostov had always been a condescending bastard, and he had not

improved with age, thought Yasif Hassan. "What you probably don't realize

. . ." he would say with a patronizing smile; and, "We won't need your

people much longer-a small team is better"; and, "You ran tag along in

the car and keep out of sight"; and now, "Man the phone while I go to the

Embassy."

Hassan had been prepared to work under Rostov's orders as one of the

team, but it seemed his status was lower than that. It was, to say the

least, insulting to be considered inferior to a man like Nik Bunin.

The trouble was, Rostov had some justification. It was not that the

Russians were smarter than the Arabs; but the KGB was undoubtedly a

larger, richer, more powerful and more professional organization than

Egyptian Intelligence.

Hassan bad no choice but to suffer Rostov's attitude, justified or not.

Cairo was delighted to have the KGB hunting one of the Arab world's

greatest enemies. If Hassan were to complain, he rather than Rostov would

be taken.off the case.

Rostov might remember, thought Hassan, that it was the Arabs who had

first spotted Dickstein; there would be no investigation at all had it

not been for my original discovery.

All the same, he wanted to win Rostov's respect; to have the Russian

confide in him, discuss developments, ask his opinion. He would have to

prove to Rostov that he was a

Ken Folleff

competent and professional agent, easily the equal of NO: Bunin and Pyotr

Tyrin.

The phone rang. Hassan picked it up bastily. "Hello?"

"Is the other one there?" It was I)rriWs voice.

"'He's out. What's happening?"

Tyrin hesitated. "When will be be back?"

"I don't know," Hassan lied. "Give me your reporV'

"Okay. The client got off the train at Zurich."

"Zurich? Go on."

"He took a taxi to a bank, entered and went down into the vault. This

particular bank has safe-deposit boxes. He came out carrying a

briefcase."

"And then?"

"He went to a car dealer on the outskirts of the city and bought a used

E-type Jaguar, paying with cash he had in the case.

"I see." Hassan thought he knew what was corriing next.

"He drove out of Zurich in the car, got onto the E17 autobahn and

increased his speed to one hundred and forty miles per hour."

"And you lost him," said Hassan, feeling gratification and anxiety in

equal parts.

"We had a taxi and an embassy Mercedes."

Hassan was visualizing the road map of Europe. "He could be headed for

anywhere in France, Spain, Germany, Scandinavia ... unless he doubles

back, in which case Italy, Austria . . . Hes vanished, then. All

right--come back to base." He hung up before Tyrin could question his

authority.

So, he thought, the great KGB is not invincible after all. Much as he

liked to see them fall on their collective face, his malicious pleasure

was overshadowed by the fear that they had lost Dickstein permanently.

He was still thinking about what they ought to do next when Rostov came

back.

"Anythingr'the Russian asked.

"Your people lost Dickstein," Hassan said, suppressing a smile.

Rostov's face darkened. "How?"

Hassan told him.

Rostov asked, "So what are they doing now?"

"I suggested they might come back here. I guess they're on their way."

112

TRIPLE

Rostov grunted.

Hassan said, "rve been thinking about what we should do next."

"We've got to find Dickstein again." Rostov was fiddling with something

in his suitcase, and his replies were distracted.

"Yes, but apart from that."

Rostov turned around. "Get to the point"

"I think we should pick up the delivery man and ask him what he passed

to Mckstein."

Rostov stood still, considering. "Yes," he said thoughtfully. Hassan was

delighted.

"We'll have to find him ...

'rbat shouldn't be impossible," Rostov said. "If we keep watch on the

nightclub, the airport, the Alfa Hotel and the Jean-Monnet building for

a few days. . ."

Hassan watched Rostov, studying his tall thin figure, and his impassive,

unreadable face with its high forehead and close-cropped graying hair.

rm right, Hassan thought, and hes got to admit ft.

"Yoiere right," Rostov said. "I should have thought of that"

Hassan felt a glow of pride, and thought: maybe he's not such a bastard

after all.

113

Six

The city of Oxford had not changed as much as the people.

The city was predictably different: it was bigger, the cars and

shops were more numerous and more garish, and the streets

were mom crowded. But the predominant characteristic of

the place was still the cream-colored stone of the college

buildings, with the occasional glimpse, through an arch, of

the startling green turf of a deserted quadrangle. Dickstein

noticed also the curious pale English light, such a contrast

with the brassy glare of Israeli sunshine: of course it had al

ways been them, but as a native he had never seen it. How

ever, the students seemed a totally new breed. In the Middle

East and all over Europe Dickstein had seen men with hair

growing over their ears, with orange and pink neckerchiefs,

with bell-bottom trousers and high-heeled shoes; and he had

not been expecting people to be dressed as they were in 1948,

in tweed jackets and corduroy trousers, with Oxford shirts

and Paisley ties from Hall's. All the same he was not

prepared for this. Many of them were barefoot in the streets,

or wore peculiar open sandals without socks. Men and

women had trousers which seemed to Dickstein to be vulgarly

tight-fitting. After observing several women whose breasts

wobbled freely inside loose, colorful shirts, he concluded that

brassieres were out of fashion. There was a great deal of blue

denim--not just jeans but shirts, jackets, skirts and even

coats.-And the hairl It was this that really shocked him. The

men grew it not just over their ears but sometimes halfway

down their backs. He saw two chaps with pigtails. Others,

mate and female, grew it upward and outward in great

masses of curls so that they always looked as if they were

peering through a hole in a hedge. This apparently being in

sufficiently outrageous for some, they had added Jesus beards,

114

TRIPLE

Mexican mustaches, or swooping side-whiskers. 71ey might have been men from

Mars.

He walked through the city center, marveling, and headed out. It was twenty

years since he had followed this route, but he remembered the way. Little

things about his college days came back to him: the discovery of Louis

Armstrong's astonishing comet-playing; the way he had been secretly

self-conscious about his Cockney accent; wondering why everyone but him

liked so much to get drunk; borrowing books faster than he could read them

so that the pile on the table in his room always grew higher.

He wondered whether the years had changed him. Not much, he thought. Then

he had been a frightened man looking for a fortress: now he had Israel for

a fortress, but instead of hiding there he had to come out and fight to

defend it. Then as now he had been a lukewarm socialist, knowing that

society was unjust, not sure how it might be changed for the better.

Growing older, he had pined skills but not wisdom. In fact, it seemed to

him that he knew more and understood less.

He was somewhat happier now, he decided. He knew who he was and what he had

to do; he had figured out what life was about and discovered that he could

cope with it; although his attitudes were much the same as they had been in

1948, he was now more sure of them. However, the young Dickstein had hoped

for certain other kinds of happiness which, in the event, had not come his

way; indeed, the possibility had receded as the years passed. This place

reminded him uncomfortably of all that. This house, especially.

He stood outside, looking at it. It had not changed at all: the paintwork

was still green and white, the garden still a jungle In the front. He

opened the gate, walked up the path to the door, and knocked.

This was not the efficient way to do it. Ashford might have moved away, or

died, or simply gone on holiday. Dickstein should perhaps have called the

university to check. However, if the inquiry was to be casual and discreet

it was necessary to risk wasting a little time. Besides, he had rather

liked the idea of seeing the old place again after so many years.

Tle door opened and the woman said, "Yes?"

Dickstein went cold with shock. His mouth dropped open. He staggered

slightly, and put a hand against the wall to

Ken Follett

steady himself. His face creased into a firown of astonishment.

It was she, and she was still twenty-five years old.

In a voice full of incredulity, Dickstein said, "Eila . . .

She stared at the odd little man on the doorstep. He looked like a don,

with his round spectacles and his old gray suit and his bristly short

hair. There had been nothing wrong with him when she opened the door, but

as soon as he set eyes on her he had turned quite gray

This kind of thing had happened to her once before, walking down the High

Street. A delightful old gentleman had stared at her, doffed his hat,

stopped her and said, "I say, I know we haven!t been introduced but. .

."

This was obviously the same phenomenon, so she said, "rin not Eila. I'm

Suza.11

"Suzal" said the stranger.

'They say I look exactly like my mother did when she was my age. You

obviously knew her. Will you come in?"

The man stayed where he was. He seemed to be recovering from the

surprise, although he was still pale. "I'm Nat Dickstein," he said with

a little smile.

"How do you do," Suza said. "Won't you---~' Then she realized what he had

said. It was her turn to be surprised. "Mister Dicksteiril" she said, her

voice rising almost to a squeal. She threw her arms around his neck and

kissed him.

"You remembered," he said when she let go. He looked pleased and

embarrassed.

"Of coursel" she said. "You used to pet Hezekiah. You were the only one

who could understand what he was saying."

He gave that little smile again. "Hezekiah the catrd

forgotten."

"Well, come inl"

He stepped past her into the house, and she closed the door. Taking his

arm, she led him across the square hall. "This is wonderful," she said.

"Come into the kitchen, rve been messing about trying to make a cake."

She gave him a stool. He sat down and looked about slowly, giving little

nods of recognition at the old kitchen table, the fireplace, the view

through the window.

116