Triple (1991)

by Ken Follett

  The fun was over, Dickstein told himself: it was time to get back to work. Entering his hotel room at ten o'clock in the morning, he realized that-incredibly-he had left no telitales. For the first time in twenty years as an agent, he had simply forgotten to take elementary precautions. He stood in the doorway, looking around, thinking about the shattering effect that she had had on him Leaving her and going back to work was like climbing into a familiar car which has been garaged for a year: be had to let the old habits, the old instincts, the old paranoia seep back into his mind. He went into the bathroom and ran a tub. He now had a kind of emotional breathing-space. Suza was going back to work today. She was with BOAC, and this tour of duty would take her all the way around the world. She expected to be back in twenty-one days, but it might be longer. He had no idea where he might be in three weeks' time; which meant he did not know when he would see her again. But see her again he would, if he lived. Everything looked different now, past and future. The last twenty years of his life seemed dull, despite the fact that he had shot people and been shot at, traveled all over the world, disguised himself and deceived people and pulled off outrageous, clandestine coups. It all seemed trivial. Sitting in the tub he wondered what he would do with the rest of his life. He had decided he would not be a spy anymore-but what would he be? It seemed an possibilities were open to him. He could stand for election to the Knesset, or start his own business, or simply stay on the kibbutz and make the best wine in Israel. Would he marry Suza? If he did, would they five in Israel? He found the uncertainty delicious, like wondering what you would be given for your birthday. If I live, he thought Suddenly there was even more at stake. He was afraid to die. Until now death had been something to avoid with all skill only because it constituted, so to speak, a losing move in the game. Now he wanted desperately to live: to sleep with Suza again, to make a home with her, to learn all about her, her idiosyncracies and her habits and her secrets, the books she liked and what she thought about Beethoven and whether she snored. It would be terrible to lose his life so soon after she had saved it. He got out of the bath, rubbed himself dry and dressed. The way to keep his life was to win this fight. His next move was a phone call. He considered the hotel phone, decided to start being extra careful here and now, and went out to find a call box. The weather had changed. Yesterday had emptied the sky of rain, and now it was pleasantly sunny and warm. He passed the phone booth nearest to the hotel and went on to the next one: extra careful. He looked up Lloy&s of London in the directory and dialed their number. "Lloyd's, good morning." 'I need some information about a ship." "rhaes Lloyd's of London Press,-I'll put you through." While he waited Dickstein looked out the windows of the phone booth at the London traffic, and wondered whether Lloyd's would give him what he wanted. He hoped so-he could not think where else to go for the information. He tapped his foot nervously. "Lloyd's of London Press." "Good morning, I'd like some information about a ship." "What sort of informatio'nr, the voice said, with-Dickstein thought-a trace of suspicion. "I want to know whether she was built as part of a series; and if so, the names of her sister ships, who owns them, and their present locations. Plus plans, if possible." 'I'm afraid I can't help you there." Dickstein's heart sank. "Why not?" "We don't keep plans, that's Lloyd's Register, and they only give them out to owners." "But the other information? The sister ships?" "Can't help you there either." Dickstein wanted to get the man by the throat. "'Men who can?" "We're the only people who have such information." "And you keep it secretr' "We don't give it out over the phone." "Wait a minute, you mean you can!t help me over the phone." "Tbaes right.- "But you can if I write or call personally." "Um. . . . yes, this inquiry shouldn't take too long, so you could call personally." "Give me the address." He wrote it down. "And you could get these details while I wait?"

  "I think so." "All right. IM give you the name of the ship now, and you should have a the information ready by the time I get there. Her name is CopareM." He spelled it "And your namer' "Ed Rodgers." 6611ie company?" "Science InternWianal." "Will you want us to bill the company?" "No, I'll pay by personal check." "So long as you have some identification." "Of course. I'll be there in an hour. Goodbye." Dickstein hung up and left the phone booth, thinking: Thank God for that. He crossed the road to a cafe and ordered coffee and a sandwich. He had lied to Borg, of course- he knew exactly how he would hijack the Coparelli. He would buy one of the sister ships-if there were such-and take his team on to meet the Coparell! at sea~ After the hijack, instead of the dicey business of transferring the cargo from one ship to another offshore, he would sink his own ship and transfer its papers to the Coparellt. He would also paint out the Coparelli's name and over it put the name of the sunken sister ship. And then he would sail what would appear to be his own ship into Haifa. This was good, but it was still only the rudiments of a plan. What would he do about the crew of the Coparelli? How would the apparent loss of the Coparelli be explained? How would he avoid an international inquiry into the loss at sea of tons of uranium ore? The more he thought about it, the bigger this last problem seemed. There would be a major search for any large ship which was thought to have sunk. With uranium aboard, the search would attract publicity and consequently be even more thorough. And what if the searchers found not the Coparelli but the sister ship which was supposed to belong to Dickstein? He chewed over the problem for a while without coming up with any answers. There were still too many unknowns in the equation. Either the sandwich or the problem had stuck in his stomach: he took an indigestion tablet. He turned his mind to evading the opposition. Had he covered his tracks well enough? Only Borg could know of his plans. Even if his hotel room were bugged-even N the phone booth nearest the hotel were bugged-still nobody else could know of his interest in the Copareffl. He had been extra careful. He sipped his coffee, then another customer, on his way out of the caM, jogged Dickstein's elbow and made him spill coffee all down the front of his clean shirt.

  "Copareffl," said David Rostov excitedly. "Where have I heard of a ship called the Coparelh?" Yasif Haman said, "It's familiar to me, too." "Let me see that computer printout" They were in the back of a listening van parked near the Yacobean Hotel. The van, which belonged to the KGB, was dark blue, without markings, and very dirty. Powerful radio equipment occupied most of the space inside, but there was a small compartment behind the front seats where Rostov and Hassan could squeeze in. Pyotr Tyrin was at the wheel. Large speakers above their heads were giving out an undertone of distant conversation and the occasional clink of crockery. A moment ago there had been an incomprehensible exchange, with someone apologizing for something and Dickstein saying it was all right, it had been an accident. Nothing distinct had been said since then. Rostov's pleasure at being able to listen to Dickstein's conversation was marred only by the fact that Hassan was listening too. Hassan had become self-confident since his triumph in discovering that Dickstein was in England: now he thought he was a professional spy like everyone else. He had insisted on being In on every detail of the London operation, threatening to complain to Cairo if he were excluded. Rostov had considered calling his bluff, but that would have meant another head-on collision with Feliks Vorontsov, and Rostov did not want to go over Feliks's head to Andropov again so soon after,the last time. So he had settled on an alternative: he would allow Hassan to come along, and caution him against reporting anything to Cairo. Hassan, who had been reading the printout, passed it across to Rostov. While the Russian was looking through the sheet.% the sound from the speakers changed to street noises for a minute or two, followed by more dialogue. Where to, guv? Dickstein's voice: Lime Street. Rostov looked up and spoke to Tyrin. 'ThaVII be Uoyd!s, the address he was given over the phone. I.,efs go them" Tyrin started the van and moved off, heading east toward the City districL Rostov returned to the printout Hassan said pessimistically, "Lloyd's will probably give him awritten reporLso Tyrin said, "Me bug is working very well ... so far." He was driving with one hand and biting the fingernails of the other. Rostov found what
he was looking for. "Here it ist" he mid. 'The Coparelli. Good, good, goodl" He thumped his knee In enthusiasm. Hassan said, "Show me." Rostov hesitated momentarily, realized there was no way he could get out of it, and smiled at Hassan as he pointed to the last page. "Under Nom-NucLEAR. Two hundred tons of yellowcake to go from Antwerp to Genoa aboard the motor vessel Coparelll." 'That's It, then," said Hassan. 'That's Dickstein's target" "But if you report this to Cairo, Dickstein will probably switch to a different target. Hassan-" HassWs color deepened with anger. "You!ve said all that once," he said coldly. "Okay," Rostov said. He thought: Damn it, you have to be a diplomat too. He said, "Now we know what he's going to steal, and who he's going to steal it from. I can that some progress." "We don't know when, where.'or how," Hassan said. Rostov nodded. "All this business about sister ships must have something to do with it." He pulled his nose. "But I don!t we how." Two and sixpence, please, guv. Keep the change. "Find somewhere to park, Tyft" said Rostov. "Mars not so easy around here," Tyrin complained. "If you can't find a space, just stop. Nobody cares if you get a parking ticket,- Rostov said impatiently.

  Good morning. My name's Ed Rodgers. A h, yes. Just a moment, please ... Your report has just been typed, Mr. Rodgers. And here's the bill. You're very efficient. Hassan said, "It is a written report." Thank you very much. Goodbye, Mr. Rodgers. "He's not very chatty, is her, said Tyrin. Rostov said, "Good agents never are. You might bear that in mind. Yes, sir." Hassan said, "Damn. Now we won't know the answers to his questions." "Makes no difference," Rostov told him. "Ifs just occurred to me." He smiled. "We know the questions. All we have to do is ask the same questions ourselves and we get the answers he got. Listen, he's on the street again. Go around the block, Tyrin, let's try to spot him." The van moved off, but before it had completed a circuit of the block the street noises faded agam Can I help you, sir? "He's gone into a shop," Hassan said. Rostov looked at Hassan. When he forgot about his pride, the Arab was as thrilled as a schoolboy ab ut all thi"e van, the bugs, the tailing. Maybe he would Teep his mouth shut, if only so that he could continue to play spies with the Russians. I need a new shirt. "Oh, nol" said Tyrin. I can see that, sir. What is it? Coffee. It should have been sponged right away, sir. It will be very difficult to get the stain out now. Did you want a similar shirt? Yes PWn white nylon, button cuffs, collar size fourteen and a halt. Here we are. This one is thirty-two and sixpence. Thafs fine. Tyrin said, "III bet he charges it to expenses." Thank you. Would you like to put it on now, perhaps? Yes, please. The fitting room is fust through here.

  Footsteps, then a brief silence. Would you like a bag tor the old one, sir? Perhaps you'd throw It away for nze. That button cost two thousand rublesl" Tyrin said. Certainly, x1r. 'Mat's it," Hassan said. "We won't get any more nm" 'Two thousand rublest" Tyrin said again. Rostov said, "I think we got our money's worth." "Where are we heading?" Tyrin asked. "Back to the Embassy," Rostov told him- "I want to stretch my legs. I can't feel the left one at all. Damn, but weve done a good morning's work." As Tyrin drove west, Hassan said thoughtfully, 'Ve need to find out where the Coparelli is right now." IpMe squirrels can do that," Rostov said. s6squirreiarg "Desk workers in Moscow Center. They sit on their behinds all day, never doing anything more risky than crossing Granovsky Street in the rush hour, and get paid more than agents in the field." Rostov decided to use the opportunity to further Hassan's education. "Remember, an agent should never spend time . acquiring information that is public knowledge. Anything in books, reports and files can be found by the squirrels. Since a squirrel is cheaper to run than an agent-not because of salaries but because of support work-the Committee always prefers a squirrel to do a given job of work if he can. Always use the squirrels. Nobody win think yoWre being lazy." Hassan smiled nonchalantly, an echo of his old, languid self. "Dickstein doeset work that way." "Me Israelis have a completely different approach. Beside% I suspect Dickstein isn!t a team man." "How long will the squirrels take to get us the Coparelws locationr' "Maybe a day. ru put in the inquiry as soon as we get to the Embassy." Tyrm spoke over his shoulder. "Can you put through a fast requisition at the same time?" "What do you need?" "Six more shirt buttons." 64six?*0 "If theyre like the last lot, five wOn!t work."

  Hassan laughed. "Is this Communist efficiency?" "There's nothing wrong with Communist efficiency," Ros. tov told him. "It's Russian efficiency we suffer from." The van entered Embassy Row and was waved on by the duty policeman. Hassan asked, "What do we do when we've located the Cpparelli?" "Obviously," said Rostov, "we put a man aboard."

  Chapter Nine

  The don had bad a bad day. It had started at breakfast with the news that some of his People had been busted in the night. The police had stopped and searched a truck containing two thousand five hundred pairs of fur-Uned bedroom slippers and five kilos of adulterated heroin. The load, on its way from Canada to New York City, had been hit at Albany. The smack was confiscated and the driver and co-driver jailed. The stuff did not belong to the don. However, the team that did the run paid dues to him, and In return expected Protection. They would want him to get the men out of jail and get the heroin back. It was close to impossible. He might have been able to do it if the bust had Involved only the state police; but if only the state police had been involved, the bust would not have happened. And that was just the start. His eldest son had wired from Harvard for more money, having gambled away the whole of his next semester's allowance weeks before classes started. He bad spent the morning finding out why his chain of restaurants was losing money, and the afternoon explaining to his mistress why he could not take her to Europe this year. Finally his doctor told him he had gonorrhea, i n* He looked In the dressing-room mirror, adjusting his bow tie, and said to himself, "What a shitty day." It had turned out that the New York City police had been behind the bust: they had passed the tip to the state police in order to avoid trouble with the city Mafia. The city police could have Ignored the tip, of course: the fact that they did not was a sign that the tip had originated with someone important, perhaps the Drug Enforcement Agency of the Treasury Department. The don had assigned lawyers to the jailed drivers, sent people to visit their families and opened negotiations to buy back the heroin from the police. He put on his Jacket. He liked to change for dinner; he alWays had. He did not know what to do about his son Johnny. Why wasn't he home for the summer? College boys were supposed to come home for the summer. The don had thought of sending somebody to see Johnny; but then the boy would think his father was only worried about the money. It looked like he would have to go himself. Ile phone rang, and the don picked it up. "Yes." "Gate here, sir. I got an Englishman asking for you, won't give his name." "So send him away," said the don, still thinking about Johnny. "He said to tell you hes a friend from Oxford University." "I don't know anybody ... wait a minute. What's he look Me?" "Little guy with glasses, looks like a bum." "'No kiddingl" The don's face broke into a smile. "Bring him in-and put out the red carpetl-

  It had been a year for seeing old friends and observing how they had changed; but Al Cortones appearance was the most startling yet The increase in weight which had just begun when he returned from Frankfurt seemed to have continued steadily through the years, and now he weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds. There was a look of sensuality about his puffy face that bad been only hinted at in 1947 and totally absent during the war. And he was completely balcL Dickstein thought this was unusual among Italians. Dickstein could remember, as clearly as if it were yesterday, the "occasion when he had put Cortone under an obligation. In those days he had been learning about the psychology of a cornered animal. When there is no longer any possibility of running away, you realize how fiercely you can fight. Landed in a strange country, separated from his unit, advancing across unknown terrain with his rifle in his hand, Dickstein had drawn on reserves of patience, cunning and ruthlessness he did not know he had. He had lain for half an hour in that thicket, watching the abandoned tank which he knew-without understanding how-was the bait in a trap. He had spotted
the one sniper and was looking for another ISO TrUPLE

  when the Americans came roaring up. That made it safe for Dickstein to shoot-if there were another sniper, he would fire at the obvious target, the Americans, rather than search the bushes for the source of the shot. So, with no thought for anything but his own survival, Dickstein had saved Al Cortone's life. Cortone had been even more new to the war than Dickstein, and learning just as fast. Thev were both streetwise kids applying old principles to new terrain. For a while they fought together, and cursed and laughed and talked about women together. When the island was taken, they had sneaked off during the buildup for the next push and visited Cortones Sicilian cousins. Those cousins were the focus of Dickstein's interest now. They had helped him once before, in 1948. There had been profit for them in that deal, so Dickstein had gone straight to them with the plan. This project was different: he wanted a favor and he could offer no percentage. Conw quently he had to go to Al and call in the twenty-four-yearold debt. He was not at all sure it would work. Cortone was rich now. The house was large--in England it would have been called a mansion-with beautiful grounds inside a high wall and guards at the gate. There were three cars in the RTavel drive, and Dickstein had lost count of the servants. A rich and comfortable middle-aged American might not be in a hurry to get involved in Mediterranean political shenanigans, even for the sake of a man who had saved his life. Cortone seemed very pleased to see him, which was a good start. They slapped each other on the back, just as they had on that November Sunday in 1947, and kept saying, "How the hell, are you?" to each other. Cortone looked Dickstein up and down. "You're the samel I lost all my hair and gained a hundred pounds, and you haven't even turned gray. What have you been up to?" "I went to Israel. rm. sort of a farmer. You?" "Doing business you know? Come on, let's eat and talk." The meal was a strange affair. Mrs. Cortone sat at the foot of the table without speaking or being spoken to throughout. Two ill-mannered boys wolfed their food and left early with a roar of sports-car exhaust. Cortone ate large quantities of the heavy Italian food and drank several glasses of California red wine. But the most intriguing character was a Welldressed, shark-faced man who behaved sometimes like a friend, sometimes like an adviser and sometimes like a servant: once Cortone called him a counselor. No business was talked about during dinner Instead they told war ston Cortone told most of them. He also told the story of Dickstein!s 1948 coup against the Arabs: he had heard it from his cousins and had been as delighted as they. ne tale had become embroidered in the retelling. Dickstein decided that Cortone was genuinely glad to see him. Maybe the man was bored. He should be, if he ate dinner every night with a silent wife, two surly boys and a shark-faced counselor. Dickstein did all he could to keep the bonhomie going: he wanted Cortone in a good mood when he asked his favor . Afterward Cortone and Dickstein sat in leather armchairs in a den and a butler brought brandy and cigars. Dickstein refused both. "You used to be a hell of a drinker," Cortone said. "It was a hell of a war," Dickstein replied. The butler left the room. Dickstein watched CDrtone sip brandy and pull on the cigar, and thought that the man ate, drank and smoked joylessly, as though he thought that if he did these things long enough he would eventually acquire the taste. Recalling the sheer fun the two of them had had with the Sicilian cousins, Dickstein wondered whether there were any real people left in Cortone?s life. Suddenly Cortone laughed out loud. "I remember every minute of that day in Oxford. Hey, did you ever make it with that professoes wife, the Ay-rab?" "No." Dickstein barely smiled. "She's dead, now." "I'M sorry. to "A strange thing happened. I went back there, to that house by the river, and met her daughter ... She looks just like Efla used to.,, "No kidding. And . . ." Cortone leered. "And you made ft with the daughter-I don't believe itl" Dickstein nodded. "We made it in more ways than one. I want to marry her. I plan to ask her next time I see her." 'Will she say yes?"