Triple (42 page)

TRIPLE

'T* irs a good plan," Hassan said. It fitted in perfectly with the

Fedayeen plan. Unlike Dickstein, Hassan knew that Tyrin was aboard the

Coparelli. After the Fedayeen had hijacked the Coparelli and ambushed the

Israelis, they could throw Tyrin and his radio into the sea, then Rostov

would have no way of locating them.

But Hassan needed to know when and where Dickstein intended to carry out

his hijack so that the Fedayeen could be sure of getting there first.

Vorontsov's office was hot. Hassan went to the window and looked down at

the traffic on the Moscow ring road. "We need to know exactly when and

where Dickstein will hijack the Coparelli," he said.

'Vhy?" Rostov asked, making a gesture with both arms spread, Palms

upward. "We have 7yrin aboard the Coparelli and a beacon on the

Stromberg. We know where both of them are at all times. We need only to

stay close and move in when the time comes."

"My ship has to be in the right area at the crucial time~"

'Men follow the Stromberg, staying just over the horiZon-You can pick up

her radio signal. Or keep in touch with me on the KaAm Or both."

"Suppose the beacon fails, or Tyrin is discoveredr,

Rostov said, "Me risk of that must be weighed against the danger Of

tipping our hand if we start following Dickstein around apin-&ssuming we

could find him."

"He b~fts a Point, though," Vorontsov said.

It was Rostovs turn to glare.

Hassan unbuttoned his collar. "May I open a windowr

'They don't open," said Vorontsov.

"Haven't you people heard of air-conditioningr,

"InMoscow?"

Hassan United and spoke to Rostov. 'Think about it. I want to be

Perfectly sure we nail these people."

"I've thought about it," Rostov said. 'Vere as sure as we can be. Go back

to Cairo, organize that ship and stay in touch with me."

You patronizing bastard, Hassan thought. He turned to Vorontsov. "I

cannot, in all honesty, tell my people I'm happy with the plan unless we

can eliminate that remaining uncertainty."

Vorontsov. said, "I agree with Hassan."

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"Well, I don't," said Rostov. "And the plan as it stands has already been

approved by Andropov."

Until now Hassan had thought he was going to have his way, since

Vorontsov was on his side and Vorontsov was Rostov's boss. But the

mention of the Chairman of the KGB seemed to constitute a winning move

in this game: Vorontsov was almost cowed by it, and once again Hassan had

to conceal his desperation.

Vorontsov said, "The plan can be changed."

"'Only with Andropov's approval," Rostov said. "And you won't get my

support for the change."

Vorontsov's lips were compressed into a thin line. He hates Rostov,

thought Hassan; and so do 1.

Vorontsov said, "Very well, then."

In all his time in the intelligence business Hassan bad been part of a

professional team-Egyptian Intelligence, the KGB, even the Fedayeen.

Ilere had been other people, experienced and decisive people, to give him

orders and guidance and to take ultimate responsibility. Now, as he left

the KGB building to return to his hotel, he realized he was on his own.

Alone, he had to find a remarkably elusive and clever man and discover

his most closely guarded secret.

For several days he was in a panic. He returned to Cairo, told them

Rostov's cover story, and organized the Egyptian ship Rostov had

requested. The problem stayed in the front of his mind like a sheer cliff

he could not begin to climb until he saw at least part of the mute to the

top. Unconsciously he searched back in his personal history for attitudes

and approaches which would enable him to tackle such a task, to act

independently.

He had to go a long way back.

Once upon a time Yasif Hassan had been a different kind of man. He had

been a wealthy, almost aristocratic young Arab with the world at his

feet. He had gone about with the attitude that he could do more or less

anything-and thinking had made it so. He bad gone to study in England,

an alien country, without a qualm; and he had entered its society without

caring or even wondering what people thought of him.

There had been times, even then, when he had to learn; but he did that

easily too. Once a fellow undergraduate, a Viscount something-or-other,

had invited him down to the

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country to play polo. Hassan had never played polo. He had asked the rules

and watched the others play for a while, noticing how they held the

mallets, how they hit the ball, how they passed it and why; then he had

joined in. He was clumsy with the mallet but he could ride like the wind:

he played passably well, he thoroughly enjoyed the game, and his team won.

Now, in 1968, he said to himself: I can do anything, but whom shall I

emulate?

The answer, of course was David Rostov.

Rostov was independent, confident, capable, brilliant. He could find

Dickstein, even when it seemed he was stumped, clueless, up a blind

alley. He had done it twice. Hassan recalled:

Question.- Wht is Dickstein in Luxembourg?

Well, what do we know about Luxembourg? What is there here?

There is the stock exchange, the banks, the Council of Europe,

Euratorn-

Euratoml

Question: Dickstein has disappeared-where might he have gone?

Don't know.

But who do we know that he knows?

Only Professor Ashford in Oxford-

Oxfordl

Rostov's approach was to search out bits of informationany information,

no matter bow trivial-in order to get on the target.

"Me trouble was, they seemed to have used all the bits of information

they had.

So IT get some more, Hassan thought; I can do anything.

He racked his brains for all that he could remember frordi the time they

had been at Oxford together. Dickstein had been in the war, he played

chess, his clothes were shabby-

He had a mother.

But she had died.

Hassan had never met any brothers or sisters, no relatives of any sort.

It was all such a long time ago, and they had not been very close even

then.

There was, however, someone else who might know a little more about

Dickstein: Professor Ashford.

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So, in desperation, Yasif Hassan went back to Oxford.

All the way-in the plane from Cairo, the taxi from, London airport to

Paddington station, the train to Oxford and the taxi to the little

green-and-white house by the river-he wondered about Ashford. The truth

was, he despised the professor. In his youth perhaps he had been an

adventurer, but ,he had become a weak old man, a political dilettante,

an academic who could not even hold his wife. One could not respect an

old cuckold-and the fact that the English did not think like that only

increased Hassan's contempt.

He worried that Ashford's weakness, together with some kind of loyalty

to Dickstein as one who had been a friend and a student, might make him

balk at getting involved.

He wondered whether to play up to the fact that Dickstein was Jewish. He

knew from his time at Oxford that the most enduring antiSemitism in

England was that of the upper classes: the London clubs that still

blackballed Jews were in the West End, not the East End. But Ashford was

an exception there. He loved the Middle East, and his pro-Arab stance was

ethical, not racial, in motivation. No: that approach would be a mistake.

In the end he decided to play it straight; to tell Ashford why he wanted

to find Dickstein, and hope that Ashford would agree to help for the same

reasons.

When they had shaken hands and poured sherry, they sat down in the garden

and Ashford said, "What brings you back to England so soon?"

Hassan told the truth. -rm chasing Nat Dickstein."

17hey were sitting by the river in the little comer of the garden that

was cut off by the hedge, where Hassan had kissed the beautiful Eila so

many years ago. Ile comer was sheltered from the October wind, and there

was a little autumn sunshine to warm them.

Ashford was guarded, wary, his face expressionless. "I think you'd better

tell me what's going on."

Hassan observed that during the summer' the professor had actually

yielded a little to fashion. He had cultivated sidewhiskers and allowed

his monkish fringe of hair to grow long, and was wearing denim jeans with

a wide leather belt beneath his old tweed jacket.

-ru tell you," Hassan said, with an awful feeling that Ros-

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tov would have been more subtle than this, "but I must have your word

that it will go no farther."

6

.'Agreed.

"Dickstein is an Israeli spy.9'

Ashford's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

Hassan plunged on. "The Zionists are planning to make nuclear bombs but

they have no plutonium. They need a secret supply of uranium to feed to

their reactor to make plutonium. Dickstein's job is to steal that

uranium---and my job is to find him and stop him. I want you to help me."

Ashford stared into his sherry, then drained the glass at a gulp. 'There

are two questions at issue here," he said, and Hassan realized that

Ashford was going to treat this as an intellectual problem, the

characteristic defense of the frightened academic. "One is whether or not

I can help; the other, whether or not I should.. The latter is prior, I

think; morally, anyway.99

Hassan thought: rd like to pick you up by the scruff of the neck and

shake you. Maybe I can do that, at least figuratively. He said, "Of

course you should. You believe in our cause!9

'71V& not so simple. rm asked to interfere in a contest between two

people, both of whom are my friends."

"But only one of them is in the right."

"So I should help the one who is in the right-and betray the one who is

in the wrong?"

"Of course."

"Tbere isn't any 'of course' about it ... What will you do, if and when

you find Dickstein?"

"I'm with Egyptian Intelligence, professor. But my loyalty-and, I

believe, yours-lies with Palestine."

Ashford refused to take the bait. "Go on," he said noncommittally.

"I have to find out exactly when and where Dickstein plans to steal this

uranium." Hassan hesitated. 'Ttie Fedayeen will get there before

Dickstein and steal it for themselves."

Ashford's eyes glittered. "My God," he said. "How marvelous."

He's almost there, Hassan thought. He's frightened, but he's excited too.

"It's easy for you to be loyal to Palestine, here in Oxford, giving

lectures, going to meetings. Things are 243

Ken Folleff

a little more difficult for those of us who are out there fight. ing for

the country. I'm here to ask you to do something concrete about your

politics, to decide whether your ideals mean anything or not. This is

where you and I find out whether the Arab cause is anything more to you

than a romantic concept. This is the test, professor."

Ashford said, "Perhaps you're right."

And Hassan thought: rve got you.

Suza had decided to tell her father that she was in love with Nat

Dickstein.

At first she had not been sure of it herself, not really. The few days

they had spent together in London had been wild and happy and loving, but

afterward she had realized that those feelings could be transient. She

had resolved to make no resolutions. She would carry on normally and see

how things turned out.

Something had happened in Singapore to change her mind. Two of the cabin

stewards on the trip were py, and used only one of the two hotel rooms

allotted to them; so the crew could use the other room for a party. At

the party the pilot .had made a pass at Suza. He was a quiet, smiling

blond an with delicate bones and a delightfully wacky sense of humor. The

stewardesses all agreed he was a piece of ass. Normally Suza would have

got into bed with him Without thinking twice. But she had said no,

astonishing the whole crew. Thinking about it later, she decided that she

no longer wanted to get laid. She bad just gone off the whole idea. All

she wanted was Nathaniel. It was like . . . it was a bit like five years

ago when the second Beatles album came out, and she had gone through her

pile of records by Elvis and Roy Orbison and the Evefly Brothers and

realized that she did not want to play them, they held no more

enchantment for her, the old familiar tunes had been heard once too

often, and now she wanted music of a higher order. Well, it was a bit

like that, but more so.

Dickstein's letter bad been the clincher. It had been written God knew

where and poited at Orly Airport, Paris. In his small neat handwriting

with its incongruously curly loops on the g and y be had poured out his

heart in a manner that was all the more devastating because it came from

a normally taciturn man. She had cried over that letter.

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