Triple (1991)

by Ken Follett

  It gave him added speed. and power. He took hold of Hassan's gun arm by the wrist and shoulder, and with a downward pull broke the arm over his kneeHassan screamed and the gun dropped from his useless hand. Turning slightly, Dickstein brought his elbow back in a blow which caught Hassan just under the ear. Hassan turned away, falling. Dickstein grabbed his bair from behind, pulling the head backward; and as Hassan sagged away from him be lifted his foot high and kicked. His heel struck the back of Hassan's neck at the moment he jerked the bead. There was a snap as all the tension went out of the man's muscles and his head lolled, unsupported, on his shoulders. Dickstein let go and the body crumpled. He stared at the harmless body with exultation ringing in his ears. Then he saw Koch. The engineer was tied to a chair, slumped over, pale as death but conscious. There was blood on his clothes. Dickstein drew his knife and cut the ropes that bound Koch. Then he saw the man's hands. He said, "Christ." "I'll live," Koch muttered. He did not get up from the chair. Dickstein picked up Hassan's machine gun and checked the magazine. It was almost full. He moved out on to the bridge and located the foghorn. "Koch," he said, "can you get out of that chair?" Koch got up, swaying unsteadily until Dickstein stepped across and supported him, leading him through to the bridge. "See this button? I want you to count slowly to ten then lean on it. Koch shook his head to clear it. "I think I can handle it." "Start. Now." "One," Koch said. 'Two." Dickstein went down the companionway and came out on the second deck, the one he had cleared himself. It was still empty. He went on down, and stopped just before the ladder emerged into the mess. He figured all the remaining Fedayeen must be here, lined against the walls, shooting out through portholes and doorways; one or two perhaps watching the companionway. There was no safe, careful way to take such a strong defensive position.

  Come on, Kocht Dickstein had intended to spend a second or two hiding in the companionway. At any moment one of the Arabs might look up it to check. If Koch had collapsed he would have to go back up there and- Ile foghorn sounded. Dickstein jumped. He was firing before he landed. There were two men close to the foot of the ladder. He shot them first. The firing from outside went into a crescendo. Dickstein turned in a rapid half circle, dropped to one knee to make a smaller target, and sprayed the Fedayeen along the walls. Suddenly there was another gun as Ish came up from below; then Feinberg was at one door, shooting; and Dovrat, wounded, came in through another door. And then, as if by signal, they all stopped shooting, and the silence was like thunder. All the Fedayeen were dead. Dickstein, still kneeling, bowed his head in exhaustion. After a moment he stood up and looked at his men. "Where are the others?" he said. Feinberg gave him a peculiar look. "Iberes someone on the foredeck, Sapir I think." "And the rest?" "That's it," Feinberg said. "All the others are dead." Dickstein slumped against a bulkhead. "What a price," he said quietly. Looking out through the smashed porthole he saw that it was day.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A year earlier the BOAC jet in which Suza Ashford was serving dinner had abruptly begun to lose height for no apparent reason over the Atlantic Ocean. The pilot had switched on the seat-belt lights. Suza had walked up and down the aisle-, saying "Just a little turbulence," and helping people fasten their seat belts, all the time thinking: We're going to die, we're all going to die. She felt like that now. There had been a short message from Tyrin: Israelis atfacking-then silence. At this moment Nathaniel was being shot at. He might be wounded, he might have been captured, he might be dead; and while Suza seethed with nervous tension she had to give the radio operator the BOAC Big Smile and say, "It's quite a setup you've got here." The Karkes . radio operator was a big gray-haired man from Odessa. His name was Aleksandr, and he spoke passable English. "It cost one hundred thousand dollar," he said proudly. "You know about radioT' "A little . . . I used to be an air hostess." She had said "used to be" without forethought, and now she wondered whether that life really was gone. "I've seen the air crew using their radios. I know the basics." "Really, this is four radios," Aleksandr explained. "One picks up the Stromberg beacon. One listens to Tyrin on Coparelli. One listens to Coparelli's regular wavelength. And this one wanders. Look." He showed her a dial whose pointer moved around slowly. "It seeks a transmitter, stops when it finds one," Aleksan& sad. 'Thars incredible. Did you invent that?" "I am an operator, not inventor, sadly."

  "And you can broadcast on any of the sets, just by switching to TRANsmrr?" "Yes, Morse code or speech. But of course, on this oper. ation nobody uses speech." "Did you have to go through long training to become a radio operator?" "Not long. Learning Morse is easy. But to be a shipla radionian you must know how to repair the sev, He lowered his voice. "And to be a KGB operator, you must go to spy schooL" He laughed, and Suza laughed with him, thinking: Come on, Tyrin; and then her wish was granted. The message began, Aleksandr started writing and at the Uwe time said to Suza, `fWn. Get Rostov, please." Suza left the bridge reluctantly; she wanted to know what was in the message. She hurried to the mess, expecting to find Rostov there drinking strong black coffee, but the room was empty. She went down another deck and made her way to his cabin. She knocked on the door. His voice in Russian said something which might have meant come in. . She opened the door. Rostov stood there in his short% washing in a bowl. 'Tyrin's coming through," Suza said. She tamed to leave. 'Suza. She turned back. 'What would you say if I surprised you in your underwear?" 'Td say piss off," she said. "Wait for me outside." She closed the door, thinking: Tbat's done it When he came out she said, "I'm sorry." He gave a tight smile. "I should not have been so unprofessional. Lets go." She followed him up to the radio room, which was Imme. diately below the bridge In what should have been the captain's cabin. Because of the mass of extra equipment, Aleksandr had explained, it was not possible to put the radio operator adjacent to the bridge, as was customary. Suza bad figured out for herself that this arrangement bad the additional advantage of segregating the radio from the crew when the ship carried a mixture of ordinary seamen and KGB agents.

  Aleksandr had transcribed Tyrin!s signal. He banded it to Rostov, who read it in English. "Israelis have taken Coparelli. St?vmberg alongside. Dickstein alive." Suza went lunp with relief. She had to sit down. She slumped into a chair. No one noticed. Rostov was already composing his reply to Tyrin: "We will hit at Six A.M. tomorrow." The tide of relief went out for Suza and she thought: Oh, God, what do I do now?

  Nat Dickstein stood in silence, wearing a borrowed seaman!s cap, as the captain of the Stromberg read the words of the service for the dead, raising his voice against the noise of wind, rain and sea. One by one the canvas-wrapped bodies were tipped over the rail into the black water: Abbas, Sharrett, Porush, Gibli, Rader, Reinez, and Jabotinsky. Seven of the twelve had died. Uranium was the most costly metal in the world. There had been another funeral earlier. Four Fedayeen had been left alive--three wounded, one who had lost his nerve find hidden-and after they had been disarmed Dickstein had allowed them to bury their dead. "Mein had been a bigger funeral-they had dropped twenty-five bodies into the sea. lbey had hurried through their ceremony under the watchful eyes,--and guns--of three surviving Israelis, who understood that this courtesy should be extended to the enemy but did not have to like it, Meanwhile, the Stromberg's captain had brought aboard all his shies papers. ne team of fitters and joiners, which had come along in case it was necessary to alter the Coparelli to match the Stromberg, was set to work repairing the battle damage. Dickstein told them to concentrate on what was visible from the deck: the rest would have to wait until they reached port. 'Mey set about filling holes, repairing furniture, and replacing panes of glass and metal fittings with spares Cannibalized from the doomed Stromberg. A painter went down a ladder to remove the name Coparelli from the bull and replace it with the stenciled letters s-T-R-o-m-B-E-R-o. When he had finished he set about painting over the repaired bulkheads and woodwork on deck. All the Copareffs life. boats, damaged beyond repair, were chopped up and thrown Over the side, and the Stromberg's boats were brought over to repl
ace them. The new oil pump, which the Stromberg had carried on Koch's instructions, was installed in the Coparellirs engine. Work had stopped for the burial. Now, as soon as the captain had uttered the final words, it began again. Toward the end of the afternoon the engine rumbled to life. Dickstein stood on the bridge with the captain while the anchor was raised. The crew of the Strontherg quickly found their way around the new ship, which was identical to their old one. The captain set a oourse and ordered full speed ahead. It was almost over, Dickstein thought The Coparelli had disappeared: for all intents and purposes the ship in which he now sailed was the Stromberg, and the Stromberg was legally owned by Savile Shipping. Israel had her uranium, and nobody knew how she had got it. Everyone in the chain of operation was now taken care of-except Pedler, still the legal owner of the yellowcake. He was the one man who could ruin the whole scheme if he should become either curious or hostile. Papagopolous, would be handling him right now: Dickstein silently wished him luck. WeW clear," the captain said. The explosives expert in the chartroom pulled a lever on his radio detonator then everybody watched the empty Strontberg, now more than a mile away. There was a loud, dull thud, like thunder and the Stromberg seemed to sag in the middle. Her fuel tanks caught fire and the stormy evening was lit by a gout of flame reaching for the sky; Dickstein felt elation and faint anxiety at the sight of such great destruction. The Stromberg began to sink. slowly at first and then faster. Her stem went under; seconds later her bows followed; her funnel poked up above the water for a moment like the raised arm of a drowning man, and then she was gone. Dickstein smiled faintly and turned away. He beard a noise. The captain heard it too. They went to the side of the bridge and looked out, and then they understood. Down on the deck, the men were cheering.

  Franz Albrecht Pedler sat in his office on the outskirts of Wiesbaden and scratched his snowy-white head. The telegram from Angeluzzi. e Bianco in Genoa, translated from the Italfan by Pedler's multilingual secretary, was perfectly plain and at the same time totally incomprehensible. It said: PLEASE ADVISE SOONEST OF NEW EXPECTED DELIVERY DATE OF YELLOWCAKE. As far as Pedler knew there was nothing wrong with the old expected delivery date, which was a couple of days away. Clearly Angeluzzi e Bianco knew something he did not. He had already wired the shippers: IS YELLOWCAKE DELAYED? He felt a little annoyed with them. Surely they should have informed him as well as the receiving company if there was a delay. But maybe the Italians had their wires crossed. Pedler had formed the opinion during the war that you could never trust Italians to do what they were told. He had thought they might be different nowadays, but perhaps they were the same. He stood at his window, watching the evening gather over his little cluster of factory buildings. He could almost wish he had not bought the uranium. The deal with the Israeli Army, all signed, sealed and delivered, would keep his company in profit for the rest of his life, and he no longer needed to speculate. . His secretary came in with the reply from the shippers, already translated: COPARELLI SOLD TO SAVILE SHIPPING OF ZURICH WHO NOW HAVE RESPONSIBILITY FOR YOUR CARGO. WE ASSURE YOU OF COMPLETE RELIABILITY OF PURCHASERS. There followed the phone number of Savile Shipping and the words SPEAK TO PAPAGOPOLOUS. Pedler gave the telegram back to the secretary. "Would you can that number in Zurich and get this Papagopolous on the line please?" She came back a few minutes later. "PapagDpolous will call you back." Pedler looked at his watch. "I suppose I'd better wait for his call. I might as well get to the bottom of this now that I've started." Papagopolous came through ten minutes later. Pedler said to him, "Im told you are now responsible for my cargo on board the Coparelli. I've had a cable from the Italians asking for a new delivery date-is there some delay?"

  "Yes, there is," Papagopolous said. "You should have been informed-I'm terribly sorry." The man spoke excellent German but it was stiff clear he was not a German. It was also clear he was not really terribly sorry. He went on, 'qbe Coparelli's oil pump broke down at sea and she is becalmed. We're making arrangements to have your cargo delivered as early as possible." "Well, what am I to say to Angeluzzi e Bianco?" "I have told them that I will let them know the new date just as soon as I know it myself," Papagopolous. said. "Please leave it to me. I will keep you both informed." "Very well. Goodbye." Odd, Pedler thought as he hung up the phone. Looking out of the window, he saw that all the workers had left. The staff car parking lot was empty. except for his Mercedes and his secretary's Volkswagen. What the hell, time to go home. He put on his coat The uranium was insured. If it was lost he would get his money back. He turned out the office lights and helped his secretary on with her coat, then he got into his car and drove home to his wife.

  Stiza Ashford did not close her eyes all night Once again, Nat Dickstein's life was in danger. Once again, she was the only one who could warn him. And this time she could not deceive others into helping her. She had to do it alone. It was simple. She had to go to the Karld's radio room, get rid of Aleksandr, and call the Coparelli. ril never do it, she thought. The ship is full of KGB. Aleksandr is a big man. I want to go to sleep. Forever. It!8 impossible. I can't do it Oh, Nathaniel. At four A.M. she put on leans, a sweater, boots and an oilskin. The full bottle of vodka she had taken from the mess"to help me sleep'~-went in the inside pocket of the oilskhL She had to know the Karla!s position. She went up to the bridge. The first officer smiled at her. "Can't sleep?" he said in English, 'The suspense is too much," she told him. The BOAC Big Smile. Is your seat belt fastened, sir? Just a little turbulence, nothing to worry about. She asked the first officer, "Where are we?"

  He showed her their position on the map, and the estimated position of the Copareffl. "What's that in numbersr, she said. He told her the coordinates, the course, and the speed of the Karla. She repeated the numbers once aloud and twice more in her head, trying to burn them into her brain. "It's fascinating," she said brightly. "Everyone on a ship has a special skill ... Will we reach the Coparell! on time, do you think?" "Oh, yes," he said. "Tben-boom." She looked outside. It was completely black-there were no stars and no ships' lights in sight. The weather was getting worse. "You're shivering," the lbst officer said. "Are you cold?" "Yes," she said, though it was not the weather making her shiver. "When is Colonel Rostov getting upr "He's to be called at 6." "I think I'll try to get another hour's sleep." She went down to the radio room. Aleksandr was there. "Couldn't you sleep, either?" she asked him. "No. I've sent my number two to bed." She looked over the radio equipment. "Aren't you listening to the Strvmberg anymorer, "rhe signal stopped. Either they found the beacon, or they sank the ship. We think they sank her." Suza sat down and took out the bottle of vodka. She unscrewed the cap. "Have a drink." She handed him the bottle. "Are you coldr, "A little." "Your hand is shaking." He took the bottle and put it to his lips, taking a long swallow. "Ah, thank you." He handed it back to her. Suza drank amouthful for courage. It was rough Russian vodka, and it burned her throat, but it had the desired effect. She screwed down the cap and waited for Aleksandr to turn his back to her. 'Tell me about life in England," he said conversationally. "Is it true that the poor starve while the rich get fat?" "Not ma y people starve," she said. Turn around, damn it, turn around. I can't do this facing you. "But there is great inequality." "Are there different laws for rich and poor?"