Triple (1991)

by Ken Follett

  "What about details of transportation?" "All have to be approved by us." Dickstein closed his notebook. "It sounds like a good system. Can I see it in operation?" "Mat wouldn't be up to us. You'd have to contact the atomic energy authority in the member country and ask permission to visit an installation. Some of them do guided tours." "Can you let me have a list of phone numbers?" "Certainly." Pfaffer stood up and opened a filing cabinet Dickstein had solved one problem only to be confronted with another. He had wanted to know where he could go to find out the location of stockpiles of, radioactive material, and he now had the answer: Euratom's computer. But an the uranium the computer knew about was subject to the rigorous monitoring system, and therefore extremely difficult to steal. Sitting in the untidy little office, watching the smug Herr Pfaffer rummage through his old press releases, Dickstein thought: If only you knew whats in my- mind, little bureaucrat, yoxfd have a blue fit; and he suppressed a grin and felt a little more cheerful. Pfaffer handed him a cyclostyled leaflet. Dickstein folded it and put it in his pocket. He said, "Thank you for your help." Pfaffer said, "Where are you staying?" 'The Alfa, opposite the raflway station." Pfaffer saw him to the door. "Enjoy Luxembourg." "I'll do my best," Dickstein said, and shook his hand.

  Tle memory thing was a trick. Dickstein had picked it up as a small child, sitting with his grandfather in a smelly room over a pie shop in the Mile End Road, struggling to recognize the strange characters of the Hebrew alphabet. The idea was to isolate one unique feature of the shape to be remembered and ignore everything else. Dickstein had done that with the faces of the Euratom staff. He waited outside the Jean-Monnet building in the late afternoon, watching people leave for home. Some of them interested him more than others. Secretaries, messengers and coffee-makers were no use to him, nor were senior administrators. He wanted the people in between: computer programmers, office managers, heads of small departments, personal assistants and assistant chiefs. He had given names to the likeliest ones, names which reminded him of their memorable feature: Diamante, Stiffcollar, Tony Curtis, Nonose, Snowhead, Zapata, Fatbum. Diamante was a plump woman in her late thirties without a wedding ring. Her name came from the crystal glitter on the rims of her spectacles. Dickstein followed her to the car park, where she squeezed herself into the driving seat of a white Fiat 500. Dickstein!s rented Peugeot was parked nearby. She crossed the Pont-Adolphe, driving badly but slowly, and went about fifteen kilometers southeast, finishing. up at a small village called Mondorf-les-Bains. She parked in the cobbled yard of a square Luxembourgeois house with a nailstudded door. She let herself in with a key. The village was a tourist attraction, with thermal springs. Dickstein slung a camera around his neck and wandered about, passing Diamante's house several times. On one pass he saw, through a window, Diamante serving a meal to an old woman. The baby Fiat stayed outside the house until after midnight, when Dickstein left. She had been a poor choice. She was a spinster living with ter elderly mother, neither -rich nor poor-the house was probably the mothees--and apparently without vices. If Dickstein had been a different kind of man he might have seduced her, but otherwise there was no way to get at her. He went back to his hotel disappointed and frustrated-unreasonably so, for he had made the best guess he could on the Information he bad. Nevertheless he felt he had spent a day skirting the problem and he was impatient to get to grips with it so he could stop worrying vaguely and start worrying specifically. He spent three more davs getting nowhere. He drew blanks with Zapata, Fatburn and Tony Curtis. But Stiffcollar was perfect. He was about Dickstein's age, a slim, elegant man in a dark blue suit, plain blue tie, and white shirt with starched collar. His dark hair, a little longer than was usual for a man of his age, was graying over the ears. He wore handmade shoes. He walked from the office across the Alzette River and uphill into the old town. He went down a narrow cobbled street and entered an old terraced house. Two minutes later a light went on in an attic window. Dickstein hung around for two hours. -When Stiffcollar came out he was wearing close-fitting light trousers and an orange scarf around his neck. His hair was combed forward, making him look younger, and his walk was jaunty. Dickstein followed him to the Rue Dicks, where he ducked into an unlit doorway and disappeared. Dickstein stopped outside. The door was open but there was nothing to indicate what might be inside. A bare flight of stairs went down. After a moment, Dickstein heard faint music. Two young men in matching yellow jeans passed him and went in. One of them grinned back at him and said, 'Tes, this is the place." Dickstein followed them down the stairs. It was an ordinary-looking nightclub with tables and chairs, a few booths, a small dance floor and a jazz trio in a comer. Dickstein paid an entrance fee and sat at a booth, within sight of Stiffcollar. He ordered beer. He had already guessed why the place had such a discreet air, and now, as he looked around, his theory was confirtned: it was a homosexual club. It was the first club of this kind he had been to, and he was mildly surprised to find it so unexceptionable. A few of the men wore light make-up, there were a couple of outrageous queens camping it up by the bar, and a very pretty girl was holding hands with an older woman in trousers; but most of the customers were dressed normally by the standards of peacock Europe, and there was no one in drag. Stiffbollar was sitting close to a fair-haired man in a maroon double-breasted jacket. Dickstein had no feelings about homosexuals as such. He was not offended when people supposed, wrongly, that he might be homosexual because he was a bachelor in his early forties. To him, StiffcolJar was just a man who worked at Euratom. and had a guilty secret. He listened to the music and drank his beer. A waiter came across and said, "Are you on your own, dear?" Dickstein shook his head. "I'm waiting for my friend." A guitarist replaced the trio and began to sing vulgar folk songs in German. Dickstein missed most of the jokes, but the rest of the audience roared with laughter. After that several couples danced. Dickstein saw Stiffcollar put his hand on his companion's knee. He got up and walked across to their booth. "Hello," he said cheerfully, "didn't I see you at the Eurar tom office the other dayr, Stiffcollar went white. "I don't know . . Dickstein stuck out his hand. "F-d Rodgers," he said, giving the name he had used with Pfaffer. "I'm a journalist" Stiffcollar muttered, "How do you do." He was shaken, but he had the presence of mind not to give his name. "I've got to rush away," Dickstein said. "It was nice to see you. "Goodbye, then." Dickstein turned away and went out of the club. He had done all that was necessary, for now: Stiffcollar knew that his secret was out, and he was frightened. Dickstein walked toward his hotel, feeling grubby and ashamed.

  He was followed from the Rue Dicks. The tail was not a professional, and made no attempt at camouflage. He stayed fifteen or twenty steps behind, his leather shoes making a regular slap-slap on the pavement Dickstein pretended not to notice. Crossing the road, he got a look at the tail: a large youth, long hair, worn brown leather jacket. Momentg later another youth stepped out of the shadows and stood squarely in front of Dickstein, blocking the pavement. Dickstein stood still and waited, thinking: What the hell is this? He could not imagine who could be tailing him already, nor why anyone who wanted him tailed would use clumsy amateurs from off the streets. The blade of a knife glinted in the street light The tail came up behind. The youth in front said, "All right, nancy-boy, give us your wallet." Dickstein was deeply relieved. They were just thieves who assumed that anyone coming out of that nightclub would be easy game- "Don't hit me," Dickstein said. -ru give you my money." He took out his wallet.

  'The wallet," the youth said. Dickstein did not want to fight them; but, while he could get more cash easily, he would be greatly inconvenienced if he lost all his papers and credit cards. He removed the notes from the wallet and offered them. "I need my papers. Just take the money, and I won't report this." The boy in front snatched the notes. The one behind said, "Get the credit cards." The one in front was the weaker. Dickstein looked .squarely at him and said, "Why don't you quit while you're ahead, sonny?" Then he walked forward, passing the youth on the outside of the pavement. Leather shoes beat a
brief tattoo as the other rushed Dickstein, and then there was only one way for the encounter to end. Dickstein spun about, grabbed the boy's foot as he aimed a kick, pulled and twisted, and broke the boy's ankle. The kid shouted with pain and fell down. The one with the knife came at Dickstein then. He danced back, kicked the boy's shin, danced back, and kicked again. The boy lunged with the knife. Dickstein dodged and kicked him a third time in exactly the same place. There was a noise like a bone snapping, and the boy fell down. Dickstein stood for a moment looking at the two injured muggers. He felt like a parent whose children had pushed him until he was obliged to strike them. He thought: Why did you make me do it? They were children: about seventeen, he guessed. They were vicious-they preyed on homosexuals; but that was exactly what Dickstein had been doing this night. He walked away. It was an evening to forget. He decided to leave town in the morning.

  When Dickstein was working he stayed in his hotel room as much as possible to avoid being seen. He might have been a heavy drinker, except it was unwise to drink during an operation-alcohol blunted the sharp edge of his vigilance-and at other times he felt no need of it. He spent a lot of time looking out of windows or sitting in front of a flickering television screen. He did not walk around the streets, did not sit in hotel bars, did not even eat in hotel restaurants-he always used room service. But there were limits to the precautions a man could take: he could not be invisible. In the lobby of the Alfa Hotel in Luxembourg he bumped into someone who knew him. He was standing at the desk, checking out. He had looked over the bill and presented a credit card in the name of Ed Rodgers, and he was waiting to sign the American Express slip when a voice behind him said in English, "My Godl If& Nat Dickstein, isn't it?" It was the moment he dreaded. Like every agent who used cover identities, he lived in constant fear of accidentally coming up against someone from his distant past who could unmask him. It was the nightmare of the policeman who shouted, "You're a spy!" and it was the debt-collector saying,"But your mother is in, I just saw her, through the window, hiding under the kitchen table." Like every agent he had been trained for this moment. The rule wag simple: Whoever it is, you don't know him. They made you practice in the school. They would say, "roday you are Chaim Meyerson, engineering student," and so on; and you would have to walk around and do your work and be Chaim Meyerson; and then, late in the afternoon, they would arrange for you to bump into your cousin, or your old college professor, or a rabbi who knew your whole family. The first time, you always smiled and said "Hello," and talked about old times for a while, and then that evening your tutor told you that you were dead. Eventually you learned to look old friends straight in the eye and say, "Who the hell are you?" - Dickstein's training came into play now. He looked first at the desk clerk, who was at that moment checking him out in the name of Ed Rodgers. The clerk did not react: presumably either he did not understand, or he had not heard, or he did not cam A hand tapped Dickstein's shoulder. He started an apologetic smile and turned around, saying in French, "I'm afraid you've got the wrong---~" The skirt ot her dress was around her waist, her face was flushed with pleasure, and she was kissing Yasit Hassan. "It is youl" said Yasif Hassan. And then, because of the dreadful impact of the memory of that morning in Oxford twenty years ago, Dickstein lost control for an instant, and his training deserted him, and he made the biggest mistake of his career. He stared in shock, .and he said, "Christ. Hassan." Hassan sniffed, and stuck out his hand, and said, "How long ... it must be ... more than twenty yearsl" Dickstein shook the proffered hand mechanically, conscious that he had blundered, and tried to pull himself together. "It must be," he muttered. "What are you doing here?" "I live here. You?" "I'm just leaving." Dickstein decided the only thing to do was get out, fast, before he did himself any more harm. The clerk handed him the credit-card form and he scribbled "Ed Rodgers" on it. He looked at his wristwatch. "Damn, Ive got to catch this plane." "My car's outside," Hassan said. "I'll take you to the airport. We must talk." "I've ordered a taxi . Hassan spoke to the desk clerk. "Cancel that cab-give this to the driver for his trouble." He handed over some coins. Dickstein said, "I really am in a rush." "Come on, then!" Hassan picked up Dickstein's case and went outside. Feeling helpless, foolish and incompetent, Dickstein followed. T'hey got into a battered two-seater English sports car. Dickstein studied Hassan as he steered the car out of a nowaiting zone and into the traffic. The Arab had changed, and it was not just age. The gray streaks in his mustache, the thickening of his waist, his deeper voice--these were to be expected. But something else was different. Hassan had always seemed to Dickstein to be the archetypal aristocrat. He had been slow-moving, dispassionate and faintly bored when everyone else was young and excitable. Now his hauteur seemed to have gone. He was like his car: somewhat the worse for wear, with a rather hurried air. Still, Dickstein had sometimes wondered how much of his upper-class appearance was cultivated. Resigning himself to the consequences of his error, Dickstein tried to find out the extent of the damage, He asked Hassan, "You live here now?" "My bank has its European headquarters here." So, maybe hes still rich, Dickstein thought. "Mich bank is thair, "Me Cedar Bank of Lebanon." "Why Luxembourg?" "It's a considerable financial center," Hassanseplied. "Me European Investment Bank is here, and they have an interna~ tional dock exchange. But what about you?" "I live in Israel. My kibbutz makes wine-rui sniffing at the Possibilities of European distribution." 'raking coals to Newcastle." "I'm beginning to think so." "Perhaps I can help you, if you're coming back. I have a lot of contacts here. I could set up some appointments for YOU." "Mank you. I'm going to take you up on that offer." If the worst came to the worst, Dickstein thought, he could always keep the appointments and sell some wine. Hassan said, "So, now your home is in Palestine and my home is in Europe." His smile was forced, Dickstein thought. "How is the bank doingT' Dickstein asked, wondering whether "my bank" had meant "the bank I own" or "the bank I manage" or "the bank I work for." "Oh, remarkably well." They seemed not to have much more to say to each other. Dickstein would have bled to ask what had happened to Hassan's family in Palestine, how his affair with Eila Ashford had ended, and why he was driving a sports car; but he was afraid the answers might be painful, either for Hassan or for himself. Hassan asked, "Are you married?" "No. You?" "No." "How odd," Dickstein said. Hassan smiled. "Were not the type to take on responsibilities, you and V "Oh, Irve got responsibilities," Dickstein said, thinking of the orphan Mottie who had not yet finished Treasure Island. "But you have a roving eye, ehT' Hassan said with a wink. "As I recall, you were the ladies' man," Dickstein wild uncomfortably. "Ah, those were the days." Dickstein tried not to think about Ella. They reached the airport, and Hassan stopped the car. Dickstein said, "rhank you for the lift!' Hassan swiveled around in the bucket seat He stared at Dickstein. "I can!t get over this," he said. "You actually look younger than you did in 1947." Dickstein shook his hand. "I'm sorry to be in such a rusk" He got out of the car. "Don't forget-call me next time you're here," Hassan said. "Goodbye." Dickstein closed the car doorand walked into the airport. Then, at last, he allowed himself to remember.