Triple

by Ken Follett

  Rostov took off his hat and coat and sat down at the kitchen table. He removed the broken guitar and set it carefully on the floor. Mariya poured tea and gave it to him: his hand was shaking as he took the cup. Finally he said, "What was that all about?"

  "Vladimir failed the exam."

  "Vladimir? What has that to do with Yuri's guitar? What exam did he fail?"

  "For the Phys-Mat. He was rejected."

  Rostov stared at her dumbly.

  Mariya said, "I was so upset, and Yuri laughed--he is a little jealous, you know, of his younger brother--and then Yuri started playing this western music, and I thought it could not be that Vladimir is not clever enough, it must be that his family has not enough influence, perhaps we are considered unreliable because of Yuri and his opinions and his music, I know this is foolish, but I broke his guitar in the heat of the moment."

  Rostov was no longer listening. Vladimir rejected? Impossible. The boy was smarter than his teachers, much too smart for ordinary schools, they could not handle him. The school for exceptionally gifted children was the Phys-Mat. Besides, the boy had said the examination was not difficult, he thought he had scored one hundred percent, and he always knew how he had done in examinations.

  "Where's Vladimir?" Rostov asked his wife.

  "In his room."

  Rostov went along the corridor and knocked at the bedroom door. There was no answer. He went in. Vladimir was sitting on the bed, staring at the wall, his face red and streaked with tears.

  Rostov said, "What did you score in that exam?"

  Vladimir looked up at his father, his face a mask of childish incomprehension. "One hundred percent," he said. He handed over a sheaf of papers. "I remember the questions. I remember my answers. I've checked them all twice: no mistakes. And I left the examination room five minutes before the time was up."

  Rostov turned to leave.

  "Don't you believe me?"

  "Yes, of course I do," Rostov told him. He went into the living room, where the phone was. He called the school. The head teacher was still at work.

  "Vladimir got full marks in that test," Rostov said.

  The head teacher spoke soothingly. "I'm sorry, Comrade Colonel. Many very talented youngsters apply for places here--"

  "Did they all get one hundred percent in the exam?"

  "I'm afraid I can't divulge--"

  "You know who I am," Rostov said bluntly. "You know I can find out."

  "Comrade Colonel, I like you and I want to have your son in my school. Please don't make trouble for yourself by creating a storm about this. If your son would apply again in one year's time, he would have an excellent chance of gaining a place."

  People did not warn KGB officers against making trouble for themselves. Rostov began to understand. "But he did score full marks."

  "Several applicants scored full marks in the written paper--"

  "Thank you," Rostov said. He hung up.

  The living room was dark, but he did not put the lights on. He sat in his armchair, thinking. The head teacher could easily have told him that all the applicants had scored full marks; but lies did not come easily to people on the spur of the moment, evasions were easier. However, to question the results would create trouble for Rostov.

  So. Strings had been pulled. Less talented youngsters had gained places because their fathers had used more influence. Rostov refused to be angry. Don't get mad at the system, he told himself: use it.

  He had some strings of his own to pull.

  He picked up the phone and called his boss, Feliks Vorontsov, at home. Feliks sounded a little odd, but Rostov ignored it. "Listen, Feliks, my son has been turned down for the Phys-Mat."

  "I'm sorry to hear that," Vorontsov said. "Still, not everybody can get in."

  It was not the expected response. Now Rostov paid attention to Vorontsov's tone of voice. "What makes you say that?"

  "My son was accepted."

  Rostov was silent for a moment. He had not known that Feliks's son had even applied. The boy was smart, but not half as clever as Vladimir. Rostov pulled himself together. "Then let me be the first to congratulate you."

  "Thank you," Feliks said awkwardly. "What did you call about, though?"

  "Oh . . . look, I won't interrupt your celebration. It will keep until morning."

  "All right. Goodbye."

  Rostov hung up and put the phone gently down on the floor. If the son of some bureaucrat or politico had got into the school because of string-pulling, Rostov could have fought it: everyone's file had something nasty in it. The only kind of person he could not fight was a more senior KGB man. There was no way he could overturn this year's awards of places.

  So, Vladimir would apply again next year. But the same thing could happen again. Somehow, by this time next year, he had to get into a position where the Vorontsovs of this world could not nudge him aside. Next year he would handle the whole thing differently. He would call on the head teacher's KGB file, for a start. He would get the complete list of applicants and work on any who might be a threat. He would have phones tapped and mail opened to find out who was putting on the pressure.

  But first he had to get into a position of strength. And now he realized that his complacency about his career so far had been erroneous. If they could do this to him, his star must be fading fast.

  That coup which he was so casually scheduling for some time in the next two or three years had to be brought forward.

  He sat in the dark living room, planning his first moves.

  Mariya came in after a while and sat beside him, not speaking. She brought him food on a tray and asked him if he wanted to watch TV. He shook his head and put the food aside. A little later, she went quietly to bed.

  Yuri came in at midnight, a little drunk. He entered the living room and switched on the light. He was surprised to see his father sitting there. He took a frightened step back.

  Rostov stood up and looked at his elder son, remembering the growing pains of his own teenage years, the misdirected anger, the clear, narrow vision of right and wrong, the quick humiliations and the slow acquisition of knowledge. "Yuri," he said. "I want to apologize for hitting you."

  Yuri burst into tears.

  Rostov put an arm around his broad shoulders and led him toward his room. "We were both wrong, you and I," he continued. "Your mother, too. I'm going away again soon, I'll try to bring back a new guitar."

  He wanted to kiss his son, but they had gotten like Westerners, afraid to kiss. Gently, he pushed him into the bedroom and closed the door on him.

  Going back to the living room, he realized that in the last few minutes his plans had hardened into shape in his mind. He sat in the armchair again, this time with a soft pencil and a sheet of paper, and began to draft a memorandum.

  TO: Chairman, Committee for State Security

  FROM: Acting Chief, European Desk

  COPY: Chief, European Desk

  DATE: 24 May 1968

  COMRADE ANDROPOV:

  My department chief, Feliks Vorontsov, is absent today and I feel that the following matters are too urgent to await his return.

  An agent in Luxembourg has reported the sighting there of the Israeli operative Nathaniel ("Nat") David Jonathan Dickstein, alias Edward ("Ed") Rodgers, known as The Pirate.

  Dickstein was born in Stepney, East London, in 1925, the son of a shopkeeper. The father died in 1938, the mother in 1951. Dickstein joined the British Army in 1943, fought in Italy, was promoted sergeant and taken prisoner at La Molina. After the war he went to Oxford University to read Semitic Languages. In 1948 he left Oxford without graduating and emigrated to Palestine, where he began almost immediately to work for the Mossad.

  At first he was involved in stealing and secretly buying arms for the Zionist state. In the Fifties he mounted an operation against an Egyptian-supported group of Palestinian freedom fighters based in the Gaza Strip, and was personally responsible for the booby-trap bomb which killed Commander Aly. In the late Fi
fties and early Sixties he was a leading member of the assassination team which hunted escaped Nazis. He directed the terrorist effort against German rocket scientists working for Egypt in 1963-4.

  On his file the entry under "Weaknesses" reads: "None known." He appears to have no family, either in Palestine or elsewhere. He is not interested in alcohol, narcotics or gambling. He has no known romantic liaisons, and there is on his file a speculation that he may be sexually frozen as a result of being the subject of medical experiments conducted by Nazi scientists.

  I, personally, knew Dickstein intimately in the formative years 1947-8, when we were both at Oxford University. I played chess with him. I initiated his file. I have followed his subsequent career with special interest. He now appears to be operating in the territory which has been my specialty for twenty years. I doubt if there is anyone among the 110,000 employees of your committee who is as well qualified as I am to oppose this formidable Zionist operative.

  I therefore recommend that you assign me to discover what Dickstein's mission is and, if appropriate, to stop him.

  (signed)

  David Rostov.

  TO: Acting Chief, European Desk

  FROM: Chairman, Committee for State Security

  COPY: Chief, European Desk

  DATE: 24 May 1968

  COMRADE ROSTOV:

  Your recommendation is approved.

  (signed)

  Yuri Andropov.

  TO: Chairman, Committee for State Security

  FROM: Chief, European Desk

  COPY: Deputy Chief, European Desk

  DATE: 26 May 1968

  COMRADE ANDROPOV:

  I refer to the exchange of memoranda which took place between yourself and my deputy, David Rostov, during my recent short absence on State business in Novosibirsk.

  Naturally I agree wholeheartedly with Comrade Rostov's concern and your approval thereof, although I feel there was no good reason for his haste.

  As a field agent Rostov does not, of course, see things in quite the same broad perspective as his superiors, and there is one aspect of the situation which he failed to bring to your attention.

  The current investigation of Dickstein was initiated by our Egyptian allies, and indeed at this moment remains exclusively their undertaking. For political reasons I would not recommend that we brush them aside without a second thought, as Rostov seems to think we can. At most, we should offer them our cooperation.

  Needless to say, this latter undertaking, involving as it would international liaison between intelligence services, ought to be handled at chief-of-desk level rather than deputy-chief level.

  (Signed)

  Feliks Vorontsov.

  TO: Chief, European Desk

  FROM: Office of the Chairman, Committee for State Security

  COPY: Deputy Chief, European Desk

  DATE: 28 May 1968

  COMRADE VORONTSOV:

  Comrade Andropov has asked me to deal with your memorandum of 26 May.

  He agrees that the political implications of Rostov's scheme must be taken into account, but he is unwilling to leave the initiative in Egyptian hands while we merely "cooperate." I have now spoken with our allies in Cairo, and they have agreed that Rostov should command the team investigating Dickstein on condition that one of their agents serves as a full member of the team.

  (Signed)

  Maksim Bykov, personal assistant to the Chairman.

  (penciled addendum)

  Feliks: Don't bother me with this again until you've got a result. And keep an eye on Rostov--he wants your job, and unless you shape up I'm going to give it to him. Yuri.

  TO: Deputy Chief, European Desk

  FROM: Office of the Chairman, Committee for State Security

  COPY: Chief, European Desk

  DATE: 29 May 1968

  COMRADE ROSTOV:

  Cairo has now nominated the agent to serve with your team in the Dickstein investigation. He is in fact the agent who first spotted Dickstein in Luxembourg. His name is Yasif Hassan.

  (Signed)

  Maksim Bykov, personal assistant to the Chairman.

  When he gave lectures at the training school, Pierre Borg would say, "Call in. Always call in. Not just when you need something, but every day if possible. We need to know what you're doing--and we may have vital information for you." Then the trainees went into the bar and heard that Nat Dickstein's motto was: "Never call in for less than $100,000."

  Borg was angry with Dickstein. Anger came easily to him, especially when he did not know what was happening. Fortunately anger rarely interfered with his judgment. He was angry with Kawash, too. He could understand why Kawash had wanted to meet in Rome--the Egyptians had a big team here, so it was easy for Kawash to find an excuse to visit--but there was no reason why they should meet in a goddamn bathhouse.

  Borg got angry by sitting in his office in Tel Aviv, wondering and worrying about Dickstein and Kawash and the others, waiting for messages, until he began to think they would not call because they did not like him; and so he got mad and broke pencils and fired his secretary.

  A bathhouse in Rome, for God's sake--the place was bound to be full of queers. Also, Borg did not like his body. He slept in pajamas, never went swimming, never tried on clothes in shops, never went naked except to take a quick shower in the morning. Now he stood in the steamroom, wearing around his waist the largest towel he could find, conscious that he was white except for his face and hands, his flesh softly plump, with a pelt of graying hair across his shoulders.

  He saw Kawash. The Arab's body was lean and dark brown, with very little hair. Their eyes met across the steamroom and, like secret lovers, they went side by side, not looking at one another, into a private room with a bed.

  Borg was relieved to get out of public view and impatient to hear Kawash's news. The Arab switched on the machine that made the bed vibrate: its hum would swamp a listening device, if there were one. The two men stood close together and spoke in low voices. Embarrassed, Borg turned his body so that he was facing away from Kawash and had to speak over his shoulder.

  "I've got a man into Qattara," Kawash said.

  "Formidable," Borg said, pronouncing it the French way in his great relief. "Your department isn't even involved in the project."

  "I have a cousin in Military Intelligence."

  "Well done. Who is the man in Qattara?"

  "Saman Hussein, one of yours."

  "Good, good, good. What did he find?"

  "The construction work is finished. They've built the reactor housing, plus an administration block, staff quarters, and an airstrip. They're much farther ahead than anyone imagined."

  "What about the reactor itself? That's what counts."

  "They're working on it now. It's hard to say how long it will take--there's a certain amount of precision work."

  "Are they going to be able to manage that?" Borg wondered. "I mean, all those complex control systems . . ."

  "The controls don't need to be sophisticated, I understand. You slow the speed of the nuclear reaction simply by pushing metal rods into the atomic pile. Anyway, there's been another development. Saman found the place crawling with Russians."

  Borg said, "Oh, fuck."

  "So now I guess they'll have all the fancy electronics they need."

  Borg sat on the chair, forgetting the bathhouse and the vibrating bed and his soft white body. "This is bad news," he said.

  "There's worse. Dickstein is blown."

  Borg stared at Kawash, thunderstruck. "Blown?" he said as if he did not know what the word meant. "Blown?"

  "Yes."

  Borg felt furious and despairing by turns. After a moment he said, "How did he manage that . . . the prick?"

  "He was recognized by an agent of ours in Luxembourg."

  "What was he doing there?"

  "You should know."

  "Skip it."

  "Apparently it was just a chance meeting. The agent is called Yasif Hassan. He's small fry--
works for a Lebanese bank and keeps an eye on visiting Israelis. Of course, our people recognized the name Dickstein--"

  "He's using his real name?" Borg said incredulously. It got worse and worse.

  "I don't think so," Kawash said. "This Hassan knew him from way back."

  Borg shook his head slowly. "You wouldn't think we were the Chosen People, with our luck."

  "We put Dickstein under surveillance and informed Moscow," Kawash continued. "He lost the surveillance team quite quickly, of course, but Moscow is putting together a big effort to find him again."

  Borg put his chin in his hand and stared without seeing at the erotic frieze on the tiled wall. It was as if there were a world-wide conspiracy to frustrate Israeli policy in general and his plans in particular. He wanted to give it all up and go back to Quebec; he wanted to hit Dickstein over the head with a blunt instrument; he wanted to wipe that imperturbable look off Kawash's handsome face.

  He made a gesture of throwing something away. "Great," he said. "The Egyptians are well ahead with their reactor; the Russians are helping them; Dickstein is blown; the KGB has put a team on him. We could lose this race, do you realize that? Then they'll have a nuclear bomb and we won't. And do you think they will use it?" He had Kawash by the shoulders now, shaking him. "They're your people, you tell me, will they drop the bomb on Israel? You bet your ass they will!"

  "Stop shouting," Kawash said calmly. He detached Borg's hands from his shoulders. "There's a long road ahead before one side or the other has won."

  "Yeah." Borg turned away.

  "You'll have to contact Dickstein and warn him," Kawash said. "Where is he now?"

  "Fucked if I know," said Pierre Borg.

  Chapter Five

  The only completely innocent person whose life was ruined by the spies during the affair of the yellowcake was the Euratom official whom Dickstein named Stiffcollar.

  After losing the surveillance team in France Dickstein returned to Luxembourg by road, guessing they would have set a twenty-four-hours-a-day watch for him at Luxembourg airport. And, since they had the number of his rented car, he stopped off in Paris to turn it in and hire another from a different company.

  On his first evening in Luxembourg he went to the discreet nightclub in the Rue Dicks and sat alone, sipping beer, waiting for Stiffcollar to come in. But it was the fair-haired friend who arrived first. He was a younger man, perhaps twenty-five or thirty, broad-shouldered and in good shape underneath his maroon double-breasted jacket. He walked across to the booth they had occupied last time. He was graceful, like a dancer: Dickstein thought he might be the goalkeeper on a soccer team. The booth was vacant. If the couple met here every night it was probably kept for them.