by Ken Follett
The landlord called out, "Time, gentlemen, please! Thank you very much."
Tyrin knocked his dominoes down, and laughed. Lars said, "You see--I am a smaller alcoholic than you."
The other crew were leaving. Tyrin and Lars stood up. Tyrin put his arm around Lars's shoulders and together they staggered out into the street.
The night air was cool and damp. Tyrin shivered. From now on he had to stay very close to Lars. I hope Nik gets his timing right, he thought. I hope the car doesn't break down. And then: I hope to Christ Lars doesn't get killed.
He began talking, asking questions about Lars's home and family. He kept the two of them a few yards behind the main group of sailors.
They passed a blonde woman in a microskirt. She touched her left breast. "Hello, boys, fancy a cuddle?"
Not tonight, sweetheart, Tyrin thought, and kept walking. He must not let Lars stop and chat. Timing, it was the timing. Nik, where are you?
There. They approached a dark blue Ford Capri 2000 parked at the roadside with its lights out. As the interior light flashed on and off Tyrin glimpsed the face of the man at the wheel: it was Nik Bunin. Tyrin took a flat white cap from his pocket and put it on, the signal that Bunin was to go ahead. When the sailors had passed on the car started up and moved away in the opposite direction.
Not long now.
Lars said, "I have a fiancee."
Oh, no, don't start that.
Lars giggled. "She has . . . hot pants."
"Are you going to marry her?" Tyrin was peering ahead intently, listening, talking only to keep Lars close.
Lars leered. "What for?"
"Is she faithful?"
"Better be or I slit her throat."
"I thought Swedish people believed in free love." Tyrin was saying anything that came into his head.
"Free love, yes. But she better be faithful."
"I see."
"I can explain . . ."
Come on, Nik. Get it over with . . .
One of the sailors in the group stopped to urinate in the gutter. The others stood around making ribald remarks and laughing. Tyrin wished the man would hurry up--the timing, the timing--but he seemed as if he would go on forever.
At last he finished, and they all walked on.
Tyrin heard a car.
He tensed. Lars said, "What's the matter?"
"Nothing." Tyrin saw the headlights. The car was moving steadily toward them in the middle of the road. The sailors moved on to the sidewalk to get out of its way. It wasn't right, it shouldn't be like this, it wouldn't work this way! Suddenly Tyrin was confused and panic-stricken--then he saw the outline of the car more clearly as it passed beneath a street light, and he realized it was not the one he was waiting for, it was a patrolling police car. It went harmlessly by.
The end of the street opened into a wide, empty square, badly paved. There was no traffic about. The sailors headed straight across the middle of the square.
Now.
Come on.
They were halfway across.
Come on!
A car came tearing around a corner and into the square, headlights blazing. Tyrin tightened his grip on Lars's shoulder. The car was veering wildly.
"Drunk driver," Lars said thickly.
It was a Ford Capri. It swung toward the bunch of sailors in front. They stopped laughing and scattered out of its way, shouting curses. The car turned away, then screeched around and accelerated straight for Tyrin and Lars.
"Look out!" Tyrin yelled.
When the car was almost on top of them he pulled Lars to one side, jerking the man off balance, and threw himself sideways. There was a stomach-turning thud, followed by a scream and crash of breaking glass. The car went by.
It's done, Tyrin thought.
He scrambled to his feet and looked for Lars.
The sailor lay on the road a few feet away. Blood glistened in the lamplight.
Lars groaned.
He's alive, Tyrin thought; thank God.
The car braked. One of its headlights had gone out--the one that had hit Lars, he presumed. It coasted, as if the driver were hesitating. Then it gathered speed and, one-eyed, it disappeared into the night.
Tyrin bent over Lars. The other sailors gathered around, speaking Swedish. Tyrin touched Lars's leg. He yelled out in pain.
"I think his leg is broken," Tyrin said. Thank God that's all.
Lights were going on in some of the buildings around the square. One of the officers said something, and a rating ran off toward a house presumably to call for an ambulance. There was more rapid dialogue and another went off in the direction of the dock.
Lars was bleeding, but not too heavily. The officer bent over him. He would not allow anyone to touch his leg.
The ambulance arrived within minutes, but it seemed forever to Tyrin: he had never killed a man, and he did not want to.
They put Lars on a stretcher. The officer got into the ambulance, and turned to speak to Tyrin. "You had better come."
"Yes."
"You saved his life, I think."
"Oh."
He got into the ambulance with the officer.
They sped through the wet streets, the flashing blue light on the roof casting an unpleasant glow over the buildings. Tyrin sat in the back, unable to look at Lars or the officer, unwilling to look out of the windows like a tourist, not knowing where to direct his eyes. He had done many unkind things in the service of his country and Colonel Rostov--he had taped the conversations of lovers for blackmail, he had shown terrorists how to make bombs, he had helped capture people who would later be tortured--but he had never been forced to ride in the ambulance with his victim. He did not like it.
They arrived at the hospital. The ambulance men carried the stretcher inside. Tyrin and the officer were shown where to wait. And, suddenly, the rush was over. They had nothing to do but worry. Tyrin was astonished to look at the plain electric clock on the hospital wall and see that it was not yet midnight. It seemed hours since they had left the pub.
After a long wait a doctor came out. "He's broken his leg and lost some blood," he said. He seemed very tired. "He's got a lot of alcohol in him, which doesn't help. But he's young, strong and healthy. His leg will mend and he should be fit again in a few weeks."
Relief flooded Tyrin. He realized he was shaking.
The officer said, "Our ship sails in the morning."
"He won't be on it," the doctor said. "Is your captain on his way here?"
"I sent for him."
"Fine." The doctor turned and left.
The captain arrived at the same time as the police. He spoke to the officer in Swedish while a young sergeant took down Tyrin's vague description of the car.
Afterward the captain approached Tyrin. "I believe you saved Lars from a much worse accident."
Tyrin wished people would stop saying that. "I tried to pull him out of the way, but he fell. He was very drunk."
"Horst here says you are between ships."
"Yes, sir."
"You are a fully qualified radio operator?"
"Yes, sir."
"I need a replacement for poor Lars. Would you like to sail with us in the morning?"
Pierre Borg said, "I'm pulling you out."
Dickstein whitened. He stared at his boss.
Borg said, "I want you to come back to Tel Aviv and run the operation from the office."
Dickstein said, "You go and fuck yourself."
They stood beside the lake at Zurich. It was crowded with boats, their multicolored sails flapping prettily in the Swiss sunshine. Borg said, "No arguments, Nat."
"No arguments, Pierre. I won't be pulled out. Finish."
"I'm ordering you."
"And I'm telling you to fuck yourself."
"Look." Borg took a deep breath. "Your plan is complete. The only flaw in it is that you've been compromised: the opposition knows you're working, and they're trying to find you and screw up whatever it is you're doing. You c
an still run the project--all you have to do is hide your face."
"No," Dickstein said. "This isn't the kind of project where you can sit in an office and push all the buttons to make it go. It's too complex, there are too many variables. I have to be in the field myself to make instant decisions." Dickstein stopped himself talking and began to think: Why do I want to do it myself? Am I really the only man in Israel who can pull this off? Is it just that I want the glory?
Borg voiced his thoughts. "Don't try to be a hero, Nat. You're too smart for that. You're a professional: you follow orders."
Dickstein shook his head. "You should know better than to take that line with me. Remember how Jews feel about people who always follow orders?"
"All right, so you were in a concentration camp--that doesn't give you the right to do whatever the hell you like for the rest of your life!"
Dickstein made a deprecatory gesture. "You can stop me. You can withdraw support. But you also won't get your uranium, because I'm not going to tell anyone else how it can be done."
Borg stared at him. "You bastard, you mean it."
Dickstein watched Borg's expression. He had once had the embarrassing experience of seeing Borg have a row with his teenage son Dan. The boys had stood there, sullenly confident, while Borg tried to explain that going on peace marches was disloyal to father, mother, country and God, until Borg had strangled himself with his own inarticulate rage. Dan, like Dickstein, had learned how to refuse to be bullied, and Borg would never quite know how to handle people who could not be bullied.
The script now called for Borg to go red in the face and begin to yell. Suddenly Dickstein realized that this was not going to happen. Borg was remaining calm.
Borg smiled slyly and said, "I believe you're fucking one of the other side's agents."
Dickstein stopped breathing. He had felt as if he had been hit from behind with a sledgehammer. This was the last thing he had been expecting. He was filled with irrational guilt, like a boy caught masturbating: shame, embarrassment, and the sense of something spoiled. Suza was private, in a compartment separate from the rest of his life, and now Borg was dragging her out and holding her up to public view: Just look at what Nat was doing!
"No," Dickstein said tonelessly.
"I'll give you the headlines," Borg said. "She's Arab, her father's politics are pro-Arab, she travels all over the world in her cover job to have opportunity for contacts, and the agent Yasif Hassan, who spotted you in Luxembourg, is a friend of the family."
Dickstein turned to face Borg, standing too close, gazing fiercely into Borg's eyes, his guilt turning to resentment. "That's all?"
"All? What the fuck do you mean, all? You'd shoot people on that much evidence!"
"Not people I know."
"Has she gotten any information out of you?"
Dickstein shouted, "No!"
"You're getting angry because you know you've made a mistake."
Dickstein turned away and looked across the lake, struggling to make himself calm: rage was Borg's act, not his. After a long pause he said, "Yes, I'm angry because I've made a mistake. I should have told you about her; not the other way around. I understand how it must seem to you--"
"Seem? You mean you don't believe she's an agent?"
"Have you checked through Cairo?"
Borg gave a false little laugh. "You talk as if Cairo was my intelligence service. I can't just call and ask them to look her up in their files while I hold the line."
"But you've got a very good double agent in Egyptian Intelligence."
"How can he be good? Everybody seems to know about him."
"Stop playing games. Since the Six-Day War even the newspapers say you have good doubles in Egypt. The point is, you haven't checked her."
Borg held up both hands, palms outward, in a gesture of appeasement. "Okay, I'm going to check her with Cairo. It will take a little time. Meanwhile, you're going to write a report giving all details of your scheme and I'm going to put other agents on the job."
Dickstein thought of Al Cortone and Andre Papagopolous: neither of them would do what he had agreed to do for anyone other than Dickstein. "It won't work, Pierre," he said quietly. "You've got to have the uranium, and I'm the only one who can get it for you."
"And if Cairo confirms her to be an agent?"
"I'm confident the answer will be negative."
"But if it's not?"
"You'll kill her, I suppose."
"Oh, no." Borg pointed a finger at Dickstein's nose, and when he spoke there was real, deep-down malice in his voice. "Oh, no, I won't, Dickstein. If she's an agent, you will kill her."
With deliberate slowness, Dickstein took hold of Borg's wrist and removed the pointing finger from in front of his face. There was only the faintest perceptible tremor in his voice as he said, "Yes, Pierre. I will kill her."
Chapter Eleven
In the bar at Heathrow Airport David Rostov ordered another round of drinks and decided to take a gamble on Yasif Hassan. The problem, still, was how to stop Hassan telling all he knew to an Israeli double agent in Cairo. Rostov and Hassan were both going back for interim debriefing so a decision had to be made now. Rostov was going to let Hassan know everything, then appeal to his professionalism--such as it was. The alternative was to provoke him, and just now he needed him as an ally, not a suspicious antagonist.
"Look at this," Rostov said, and he showed Hassan a decoded message.
TO: Colonel David Rostov via London Residency
FROM: Moscow Center
DATE: 3 September 1968
Comrade Colonel:
We refer to your signal g/35-21a, requesting further information concerning each of four ships named in our signal r/35-21.
The motor vessel Stromberg, 2500 tons, Dutch ownership and registration, has recently changed hands. She was purchased for DM 1,500,000 by one Andre Papagopolous, a ship broker, on behalf of the Savile Shipping Corporation of Liberia.
Savile Shipping was incorporated on 6 August this year at the New York office of Liberian Corporation Services, Inc., with a share capital of five hundred dollars. The shareholders are Mr. Lee Chung, a New York lawyer, and a Mr. Robert Roberts, whose address is care of Mr. Chung's office. The three directors were provided in the usual way by Liberian Corporation Services, and they resigned the day after the company was set up, again in the usual way. The aforementioned Papagopolous took over as president and chief executive.
Savile Shipping has also bought the motor vessel Gil Hamilton, 1500 tons, for PS80,000.
Our people in New York have interviewed Chung. He says that "Mr. Roberts" came into his office from the street, gave no address and paid his fee in cash. He appeared to be an Englishman. The detailed description is on file here, but it is not very helpful.
Papagopolous is known to us. He is a wealthy international businessman of indeterminate nationality. Shipbroking is his principal activity. He is believed to operate close to the fringes of the law. We have no address for him. There is considerable material in his file, but much of it is speculative. He is believed to have done business with Israeli Intelligence in 1948. Nevertheless, he has no known political affiliation.
We continue to gather information on all the ships in the list.
--Moscow Center.
Hassan gave the sheet of paper back to Rostov. "How do they get hold of all this stuff?"
Rostov began tearing the signal into shreds. "It's all on file somewhere or other. The sale of the Stromberg would have been notified to Lloyd's of London. Someone from our consulate in Liberia would have gotten the details on Savile Shipping from public records in Monrovia. Our New York people got Chung's address out of the phone book, and Papagopolous was on file in Moscow. None of it is secret, except the Papagopolous file. The trick is knowing where to go to ask the questions. The squirrels specialize in that trick. It's all they do."
Rostov put the shreds of paper into a large glass ashtray and set fire to them. "Your people should have squi
rrels," he added.
"I expect we're working on it."
"Suggest it yourself. It won't do you any harm. You might even get the job of setting it up. That could help your career."
Hassan nodded. "Perhaps I will."
Fresh drinks arrived: vodka for Rostov, gin for Hassan. Rostov was pleased that Hassan was responding well to his friendly overtures. He examined the cinders in the ashtray to make sure the signal had burned completely.
Hassan said, "You're assuming Dickstein is behind the Savile Shipping Corporation."
"Yes."
"So what will we do about the Stromberg?"
"Well . . ." Rostov emptied his glass and set it on the table. "My guess is he wants the Stromberg so he can get an exact layout of the sister ship Coparelli."
"It will be an expensive blueprint."
"He can sell the ship again. However, he may also use the Stromberg in the hijack of the Coparelli--I don't quite see how, just yet."
"Will you put a man aboard the Stromberg, like Tyrin on the Coparelli?"
"No point. Dickstein is sure to get rid of the old crew and fill the ship with Israeli sailors. I'll have to think of something else."
"Do we know where the Stromberg is now?"
"I've asked the squirrels. They'll have an answer by the time I get to Moscow."
Hassan's flight was called. He stood up. "We meet in Luxembourg?"
"I'm not sure. I'll let you know. Listen, there's something I've got to say. Sit down again."
Hassan sat down.
"When we started to work together on Dickstein I was very hostile to you. I regret that now, I'm apologizing; but I must tell you there was a reason for it. You see, Cairo isn't secure. It's certain there are double agents in the Egyptian Intelligence apparatus. What I was concerned about--and still am--is that everything you report to your superiors will get back, via a double agent, to Tel Aviv; and then Dickstein will know how close we are and will take evasive action."
"I appreciate your frankness."
Appreciate, Rostov thought: He loves it. "However, you are now completely in the picture, and what we must discuss is how to prevent the information you have in your possession getting back to Tel Aviv."
