Triple (34 page)

TRIPLE

"Details," Dickstein said. "Open an account for Savile Shipping at your

bank here. The Embassy will put funds in as they are required. You report

to me simply by leaving a written message at the bank. The note will be

picked up by someone from the Embassy. If we need to meet and talk, we use

the usual phone numbers."

"Agreed.,'

"I'm glad we're doing business together again."

Papagopolous was thoughtful. "Ship No. 2 is a sister ship of the Coparelk"

he mused. "I think I can guess what you're up to. Theres one thing I'd like

to know, although I'm sure you wont tell me. What the hell kind of cargo

will the Coparelli be carrying-uranium?"

Pyotr Tyrin looked gloomily at the CoparelY and said, "She's a grubby old

ship."

Rostov did not reply. Thev were sitting in a rented Ford on a quay at

Cardiff docks. The squirrels at Moscow Center had informed them that the

Coparelli would make port there today, and they were now watching her tie

up. She was to unload a cargo of Swedish timber and take on a mixture of

small machinery and cotton goods: it would take her some days.

"At least the mess decks aren't in the fo'c'sle," Tyrin muttered, more or

less to himself.

"She's not that old," Rostov said.

Tyrin was surprised Rostov knew what he was talking about. Rostov

continually' surprised him with odd bits of knowledge.

From the rear seat of the car Nik Bunin said, "Is that the front or the

back of the boat?"

Rostov and Tyrin looked at one another and grinned at Nik's ignorance. "Me

back," Tyrin said. "We call it the stem"

It was raining. The Welsh rain was even more persistent and monotonous than

the English, and colder. Pyotr Tyrin was unhappy. It so happened that he

had done two years in the Soviet Navy. Tbat, plus the fact that he was the

radio and electronics expert, made him the obvious choice as the man to be

planted aboard the Copareffl. He did not want to go back to sea. In truth,

the main reason he had applied to Join the KOB was to get out of the navy.

He hated the damp

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and the cold and the food and the discipline. Besides, he had a warm

comfortable wife in an apartment in Moscow, and he missed her.

Of course, there was no question of his saying no to Rostov.

"WeT get you on as radio operator, but you must take your own equipment as

a fallback," Rostov said.

Tyrin wondered how this was to be managed. His approach would have been to

find the shio radio man, kriock him on the head, throw him in the water,

and board the ship to say, "I hear you need a new radio operator." No doubt

Rostov would be able to come up with something a little more subtle: that

was why he was a colonel.

The activity on deck had died down, and the Coparelli's engines wen quiet

Five or six sailors came across the gangplank in a bunch, laughing and

shouting, and headed for the town. Rostov said, "See which pub they go to,

Nik." Bunin got out of the car and foHowed the sailors.

Tyrin watched him go. He was depressed by the scene: the figures crossing

the wet concrete quay with their ramcoat collars turned up; the sounds of

tap hooting and men shouting nautical instructions and chains winding and

unwinding; the stacks of pallets; the bare cranes Like sentries; the smell

of engine oil and the ship's ropes and salt spray. It all made him think of

the Moscow flat, the chair in front of the paraffin beater, salt fish and

black bread, beer and vodka in the refrigerator, and an evening of

television.

He was unable to share RostoVs impressible cheerfulness about the way the

operation was going. Once again they had no idea where Dickstein was--even

though they had not exactly lost him, they had deliberately let,him go. It

had been Rostov's decision: he was afraid of getting too close to Dick-

stein, of - scaring the man off. "WeT follow the Copareffl, and Dickstein

will come to us," Rostov had said. Yasif Hassan had argued with him, but

Rostov had won. Tyrh who had no contribution to make to such strategic

discussions, thought Rostov was correct, but also thought he had no reason

to be so confident.

"Your first job is to befriend the crew," Rostov said, inter6 rupting

Tyrin's thoughts. "Yoxtre a radio operator. You suffered a minor accident

aboard your last ship, the Chr&mw Rose-you broke your arm-and you were

discharged here

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in Cardiff to convalesce. You got an excellent compensation payment from the

owners. You are spending the money and having a good time while it lasts.

You say vaguely that youll look for another job when your money runs out.

You must discover two things: the identity of the radio man, and the

anticipated date and time of departure of the ship."

"Fine," said Tyrin, though it was far from fine. Just how was he to

"befriend" these people? He was not much of an actor, in his view. Would

he, have to play the part of a hearty hail-fellow-well-met? Suppose the

crew of this ship thought him a bore, a lonely man trying to attach himself

to a jolly group? What if they just plain did not like him?

Unconsciously he squared his broad shoulders. Either he would do it, or

there would be some reason why it could not be done. All he could promise

was to try his best.

Bunin came back across the quay. Rostov said, "Get in the back, let Nik

drive." Tyrin got out and held the door for Nik. The young man's face was

streaming with rain. He started the car. Tyrin got in.

As the car pulled away Rostov turned around to speak to Tyrin in the back

seat. "Here's a hundred pounds," he said, and handed over a roll of

banknotes. "Don't spend it too carefully. *9

Bunin stopped the car opposite a small dockland pub on a comer. A sign

outside, flapping gently in the wind, read, "Brains Beers." A smoky yellow

light glowed behind the frosted-glass windows. There were worse places to

be on a day like this, Tyrin thought.

"What nationality are the crew?" he said suddenly.

"Swedish," Bunin said.

Tyrin's false papers made him out to be Austrian. "What language should I

use with them?"

"All Swedes speak English," Rostov told him. There was a moment of silence.

Rostov said, "Any more questions? I want to 90 back to Hassan before he

gets up to any mischief."

"No more questions." Tyrin opened the car door.

Rostov said, "Speak to me when you get back to the hotel tonight-no matter

how late."

"Sure."

"Good luck."

Tyrin slammed the car door and crossed the road to the Pub. As he reached

the entrance someone came out, and the

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Ken Folleff

warm smell of beer and tobacco engulfed Tyrin for a moment. He went mside.

It was a poky little place, with hard wooden benches around the walls and

plastic tables nailed to the floor. Four of the sailors were playing darts

in the comer and a fifth was" at the bar calling out encouragement to them.

The barman nodded to Tyrin. "Good morning," Tyrin said. "A pint of lager,

a large whiskey and a ham sandwich."

The sailor at the bar turned around and nodded pleasantly. Tyrin smiled.

"Have you just made portT'

"Ye& The Coparefll," the sailor replied.

"Christmar Rose," Tyrin said. "She left me behind."

"You're lucky."

"I broke my arm."

"So?" said the Swedish sailor with a grin. "You can drink with the other

one."

"I like that," Tyrin said. "Let-me buy you a drink. What will it be?"

Two days later they were still drinking. There were changes in the

composition of the group as some sailors went on duty and others came

ashore; and there was a short period between four A.m. and opening time

when there was nowhere in the city, legal or illegal, where one could buy

a drink; but otherwise life was one long pub crawl. Tyrin had forgotten how

sailors could drink. He was dreading the hangover. He was glad, however,

that he had not got into a situation where be felt obliged to go with

prostitutes: the Swedes were Interested in women, but not In whores. Tyrin

would never have been able to convince his wife that he had caught venereal

disease in the service of Mother Russia. The Swedes! other vice was

gambling. Tyrin had lost about fifty pounds of KGB money at poker. He was

so well in with the crew of the CopoW11 that the previous night he had been

invited aboard at two A.M. He had fallen asleep on the mess deck and they

had left him there until eight bells.

Tonight would not be like that. The Coparellf was to sail on the morning

tide, and all officers and men had to be aboard by midnight. It was now ten

past eleven. The landlord of the pub was moving about the room collecting

glasses and emptying ashtrays. Tyrin was playing dominoes with Lars, the

radio operator. They had abandoned the proper game and

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were now competing to see who could stand the most blocks in a line without

knocking the lot down. Lars was very drunk, but Tyrin was pretending. He was

also very frightened about what he had to do in a few minutes' time.

The landlord called out, "Time, gentlemen, pleasel Thank you very mucti."

Tyrin knocked his dominoes down, and laughed. Lars said, "You see-I am

smaller alcoholic than you."

The other crew were leaving. Tyrin and Lars stood up. Tyrin put his arm

around Lars's shoulders and together they staggered out into the. street

The night air was cool and damp. Tyrin shivered. From now on he had to stay

very close to Lars. I hope Nik gets his timing right, he thought. I hope

the car doesn!t break down. And then: I hope to Christ Lars doeset get

killed.

He began talking, asking questions about Lars's home and family. He kept

the two of them a few yards behind the main group of sailors.

They passed a blonde woman in a microskirt. She touched her left breast.

"Hello, boys, fancy a cuddle?"

Not tonight, sweetheart Tyrin thought, and kept walking. He must not let

Lars stop and chat. Timing, it was the timing. Nik, where are you?

There. They approached a dark blue Ford Capri 2000 parked at the roadside

with its lights out. As the interior light Bashed on and off Tyrin glimpsed

the face of the man at the, wheel: it was Nik Bunin. Tyrin took a flat

white cap from his pocket and put it on, the signal that Bunin was to go

ahead. When the sailors had passed on the car started up and moved away in

the opposite direction.

Not long now.

Lars said, "I have a flanc6e."

Oh, no, don't start that.

Lan giggled. "She has ... hot pants."

"Are you going to marry herT' Tyrin was peering ahead intently, listening,

talking only to keep Lars close.

Lars leered. "What for?'

"Is she faithful?"

"Better be or I slit her throat."

"I. thought Swedish people believed in free love." Tyrin was saying

anything that came into his head.

"Free love, yes. But she better be faithful."

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