by Ken Follett
The high shadow of the Stromberg loomed ahead, and the boatman brought the little vessel around in a foamy arc to stop alongside, where a rope ladder dangled in the water. Dickstein scrambled up the ladder and on to the deck.
The ship's master shook his hand and introduced himself. Like all the officers aboard the Stromberg, he was borrowed from the Israeli Navy.
They took a turn around the deck. Dickstein said, "Any problems, Captain?"
"She's not a good ship," the captain said. "She's slow, clumsy and old. But we've got her in good shape."
From what Dickstein could see in the twilight the Stromberg was in better condition than her sister ship the Coparelli had been in Antwerp. She was clean, and everything on deck looked squared away, shipshape.
They went up to the bridge, looked over the powerful equipment in the radio room, then went down to the mess, where the crew were finishing dinner. Unlike the officers, the ordinary seamen were all Mossad agents, most with a little experience of the sea. Dickstein had worked with some of them before. They were all, he observed, at least ten years younger than he. They were all bright-eyed, well-built, dressed in a peculiar assortment of denims and homemade sweaters; all tough, humorous, well-trained men.
Dickstein took a cup of coffee and sat at one of the tables. He outranked all these men by a long way, but there was not much bull in the Israeli armed forces, and even less in the Mossad. The four men at the table nodded and said hello. Ish, a gloomy Palestine-born Israeli with a dark complexion, said, "The weather's changing."
"Don't say that. I was planning to get a tan on this cruise." The speaker was a lanky ash-blond New Yorker named Feinberg, a deceptively pretty-faced man with eyelashes women envied. Calling this assignment a "cruise" was already a standing joke. In his briefing earlier in the day Dickstein had said the Coparelli would be almost deserted when they hijacked it. "Soon after she passes through the Strait of Gibraltar," he had told them, "her engines will break down. The damage will be such that it can't be repaired at sea. The captain cables the owners to that effect--and we are now the owners. By an apparently lucky coincidence, another of our ships will be close by. She's the Gil Hamilton, now moored across the bay here. She will go to the Coparelli and take off the whole crew except for the engineer. Then she's out of the picture: she'll go to her next port of call, where the crew of the Coparelli will be let off and given their train fares home."
They had had the day to think about the briefing, and Dickstein was expecting questions. Now Levi Abbas, a short, solid man--"built like a tank and about as handsome," Feinberg had said--asked Dickstein, "You didn't tell us how come you're so sure the Coparelli will break down when you want her to."
"Ah." Dickstein sipped his coffee. "Do you know Dieter Koch, in naval intelligence?"
Feinberg knew him.
"He's the Coparelli's engineer."
Abbas nodded. "Which is also how come we know we'll be able to repair the Coparelli. We know what's going to go wrong."
"Right."
Abbas went on. "We paint out the name Coparelli, rename her Stromberg, switch log books, scuttle the old Stromberg and sail the Coparelli, now called the Stromberg, to Haifa with the cargo. But why not transfer the cargo from one ship to the other at sea? We have cranes."
"That was my original idea," Dickstein said. "It was too risky. I couldn't guarantee it would be possible, especially in bad weather."
"We could still do it if the good weather holds."
"Yes, but now that we have identical sister ships it will be easier to switch names than cargoes."
Ish said lugubriously, "Anyway, the good weather won't hold."
The fourth man at the table was Porush, a crewcut youngster with a chest like a barrel of ale, who happened to be married to Abbas's sister. He said, "If it's going to be so easy, what are all of us tough guys doing here?"
Dickstein said, "I've been running around the world for the past six months setting up this thing. Once or twice I've bumped into people from the other side--inevitably. I don't think they know what we're about to do . . . but if they do, we may find out just how tough we are."
One of the officers came in with a piece of paper and approached Dickstein. "Signal from Tel Aviv, sir. The Coparelli just passed Gibraltar."
"That's it," said Dickstein, standing up. "We sail in the morning."
Suza Ashford and Al Cortone changed planes in Rome and arrived in Sicily early in the morning. Two of Cortone's cousins were at the airport to meet him. There was a long argument between them; not acrimonious, but nevertheless loudly excitable. Suza could not follow the rapid dialect properly, but she gathered the cousins wanted to accompany Cortone and he was insisting that this was something he had to do alone because it was a debt of honor.
Cortone seemed to win the argument. They left the airport, without the cousins, in a big white Fiat. Suza drove. Cortone directed her on to the coast road. For the hundredth time she played over in her mind the reunion scene with Nathaniel: she saw his slight, angular body; he looked up; he recognized her and his face split in a smile of joy; she ran to him; they threw their arms around each other; he squeezed her so hard it hurt; she said, "Oh, I love you," and kissed his cheek, his nose, his mouth . . . But she was guilty and frightened too, and there was another scene she played less often in which he stared at her stony-faced and said, "What the hell do you think you're doing here?"
It was a little like the time she had behaved badly on Christmas Eve, and her mother got angry and told her Santa Claus would put stones in her Christmas stocking instead of toys and candy. She had not known whether to believe this or not, and she had lain awake, alternately wishing for and dreading the morning.
She glanced across at Cortone in the seat beside her. The transatlantic journey tired him. Suza found it difficult to think of him as being the same age as Nat, he was so fat and bald and . . . well, he had an air of weary depravity that might have been amusing but in fact was merely elderly.
The island was pretty when the sun came out. Suza looked at the scenery, trying to distract herself so that the time would pass more quickly. The road twisted along the edge of the sea from town to town, and on her right-hand side there were views of rocky beaches and the sparkling Mediterranean.
Cortone lit a cigar. "I used to do this kind of thing a lot when I was young," he said. "Get on a plane, go somewhere with a pretty girl, drive around, see places. Not anymore. I've been stuck in Buffalo for years, it seems like. That's the thing with business--you get rich, but there's always something to worry about. So you never go places, you have people come to you, bring you stuff. You get too lazy to have fun."
"You chose it," Suza said. She felt more sympathy for Cortone than she showed: he was a man who had worked hard for all the wrong things.
"I chose it," Cortone admitted. "Young people have no mercy." He gave a rare half smile and puffed on his cigar.
For the third time Suza saw the same blue car in her rearview mirror. "We're being followed," she said, trying to keep her voice calm and normal.
"The Arab?"
"Must be." She could not see the face behind the windshield. "What will we do? You said you'd handle it."
"I will."
He was silent. Expecting him to say more, Suza glanced across at him. He was loading a pistol with ugly brown-black bullets. She gasped: she had never seen a real-life gun.
Cortone looked up at her, then ahead. "Christ, watch the goddamn road!"
She looked ahead, and braked hard for a sharp bend. "Where did you get that thing?" she said.
"From my cousin."
Suza felt more and more as if she were in a nightmare. She had not slept in a bed for four days. From the moment when she had heard her father talking so calmly about killing Nathaniel she had been running: fleeing from the awful truth about Hassan and her father, to the safety of Dickstein's wiry arms; and, as in a nightmare, the destination seemed to recede as fast as she ran.
"Why don't you tell me whe
re we're going?" she asked Cortone.
"I guess I can, now. Nat asked me for the loan of a house with a mooring and protection from snooping police. We're going to that house."
Suza's heart beat faster. "How far?"
"Couple of miles."
A minute later Cortone said, "We'll get there, don't rush, we don't want to die on the way."
She realized she had unconsciously put her foot down. She eased off the accelerator but she could not slow her thoughts. Any minute now, to see him and touch his face, to kiss him hello, to feel his hands on her shoulders--
"Turn in there, on the right."
She drove through an open gateway and along a short gravel drive overgrown with weeds to a large ruined villa of white stone. When she pulled up in front of the pillared portico she expected Nathaniel to come running out to greet her.
There were no signs of life on this side of the house.
They got out of the car and climbed the broken stone staircase to the front entrance. The great wooden door was closed but not locked. Suza opened it and they went in.
There was a great hall with a floor of smashed marble. The ceiling sagged and the walls were blotched with damp. In the center of the hall was a great fallen chandelier sprawled on the floor like a dead eagle.
Cortone called out, "Hello, anybody here?"
There was no reply.
Suza thought: It's a big place, he must be here, it's just that he can't hear, maybe he's out in the garden.
They crossed the hall, skirting the chandelier. They entered a cavernous bare drawing room, their footsteps echoing loudly, and went out through the glassless french doors at the back of the building.
A short garden ran down to the edge of the cliff. They walked that far and saw a long stairway cut into the rock zigzagging down to the sea.
There was no one in sight.
He's not here, Suza thought; this time, Santa really did leave me stones.
"Look." Cortone was pointing out to sea with one fat hand. Suza looked, and saw two vessels: a ship and a motorboat. The motorboat was coming toward them fast, jumping the waves and slicing the water with its sharp prow; there was one man in it. The ship was sailing out of the bay, leaving a broad wake.
"Looks like we just missed them," Cortone said.
Suza ran down the steps, shouting and waving insanely, trying to attract the attention of the people on the ship, knowing it was impossible, they were too far away. She slipped on the stones and fell heavily on her bottom. She began to cry.
Cortone ran down after her, his heavy body jerking on the steps. "It's no good," he said. He pulled her to her feet.
"The motorboat," she said desperately. "Maybe we can take the motorboat and catch up with the ship--"
"No way. By the time the boat gets here the ship will be too far away, much too far, and going faster than the boat can."
He led her back to the steps. She had run a long way down, and the climb back taxed him heavily. Suza hardly noticed: she was full of misery.
Her mind was blank as they walked up the slope of the garden and back into the house.
"Have to sit down," Cortone said as they crossed the drawing room.
Suza looked at him. He was breathing hard, and his face was gray and covered with perspiration. Suddenly she realized it had all been too much for his overweight body. For a moment she forgot her own awful disappointment. "The stairs," she said.
They went into the ruined hall. She led Cortone to the wide curving staircase and sat him on the second step. He went down heavily. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the wall beside him.
"Listen," he said, "you can call ships . . . or send them a wire . . . we can still reach him . . ."
"Sit quietly for a minute," she said. "Don't talk."
"Ask my cousins--who's there?"
Suza spun around. There had been a clink of chandelier shards, and now she saw what had caused it.
Yasif Hassan walked toward them across the hall.
Suddenly, with a massive effort, Cortone stood up.
Hassan stopped.
Cortone's breath was coming in ragged gulps. He fumbled in his pocket.
Suza said, "No--"
Cortone pulled out the gun.
Hassan was rooted to the spot, frozen.
Suza screamed. Cortone staggered, the gun in his hand weaving about in the air.
Cortone pulled the trigger. The gun went off twice, with a huge, deafening double bang. The shots went wild. Cortone sunk to the ground, his face as dark as death. The gun fell from his fingers and hit the cracked marble floor.
Yasif Hassan threw up.
Suza knelt beside Cortone.
He opened his eyes. "Listen," he said hoarsely.
Hassan said, "Leave him, let's go."
Suza turned her head to face him. At the top of her voice she shouted, "Just fuck off." Then she turned back to Cortone.
"I've killed a lot of men," Cortone said. Suza bent closer to hear. "Eleven men, I killed myself . . . I fornicated with a lot of women . . ." His voice trailed off, his eyes closed, and then he made a huge effort to speak again. "All my goddamn life I been a thief and a bully. But I died for my friend, right? This counts for something, it has to, doesn't it?"
"Yes," she said. "This really counts for something."
"Okay," he said.
Then he died.
Suza had never seen a man die. It was awful. Suddenly there was nothing there, nothing but a body; the person had vanished. She thought: No wonder death makes us cry. She realized her own face was streaked with tears. I didn't even like him, she thought, until just now.
Hassan said, "You did very well, now let's get out of here."
Suza did not understand. I did well? she thought. And then she understood. Hassan did not know she had told Cortone an Arab had been following them. As far as Hassan was concerned she had done just what he wanted her to: she had led him here. Now she must try to keep up the pretense that she was on his side until she could find a way to contact Nat.
I can't lie and cheat anymore, I can't, it's too much, I'm tired, she thought.
Then: You can phone a ship, or at least send a cable, Cortone said.
She could still warn Nat.
Oh, God, when can I sleep?
She stood up. "What are we waiting for?"
They went out through the high derelict entrance. "We'll take my car," Hassan told her.
She thought of trying to run away from him then, but it was a foolish idea. He would let her go soon. She had done what he'd asked, hadn't she? Now he would send her home.
She got into the car.
"Wait," Hassan said. He ran to Cortone's car, took out the keys, and threw them into the bushes. He got into his own car. "So the man in the motorboat can't follow," he explained.
As they drove off he said, "I'm disappointed in your attitude. That man was helping our enemies. You should rejoice, not weep, when an enemy dies."
She covered her eyes with her hand. "He was helping his friend."
Hassan patted her knee. "You've done well, I shouldn't criticize you. You got the information I wanted."
She looked at him. "Did I?"
"Sure. That big ship we saw leaving the bay--that was the Stromberg. I know her time of departure and her maximum speed, so now I can figure out the earliest possible moment at which she could meet up with the Coparelli. And I can have my men there a day earlier." He patted her knee again, this time letting his hand rest on her thigh.
"Don't touch me," she said.
He took his hand away.
She closed her eyes and tried to think. She had achieved the worst possible outcome by what she had done: she had led Hassan to Sicily but she'd failed to warn Nat. She must find out how to send a telegram to a ship, and do it as soon as she and Hassan parted company. There was only one other chance--the airplane steward who had promised to call the Israeli consulate in Rome.
She said, "Oh, God, I'll be glad to get back to Oxford
."
"Oxford?" Hassan laughed. "Not yet. You'll have to stay with me until the operation is over."
She thought: Dear God, I can't stand it. "But I'm so tired," she said.
"We'll rest soon. I couldn't let you go. Security, you know. Anyway, you wouldn't want to miss seeing the dead body of Nat Dickstein."
At the Alitalia desk in the airport three men approached Yasif Hassan. Two of them were young and thuggish, the third was a tall sharp-faced man in his fifties.
The older man said to Hassan, "You damn fool, you deserve to be shot."
Hassan looked up at him, and Suza saw naked fear in his eyes as he said, "Rostov!"
Suza thought: Oh God, what now?
Rostov took hold of Hassan's arm. It seemed for a moment that Hassan would resist, and jerk his arm away. The two young thugs moved closer. Suza and Hassan were enclosed. Rostov led Hassan away from the ticket desk. One of the thugs took Suza's arm and they followed.
They went into a quiet corner. Rostov was obviously blazing with fury but kept his voice low. "You might have blown the whole thing if you hadn't been a few minutes late."
"I don't know what you mean," Hassan said desperately.
"You think I don't know you've been running around the world looking for Dickstein? You think I can't have you followed just like any other bloody imbecile? I've been getting hourly reports on your movements ever since you left Cairo. And what made you think you could trust her?" He jerked a thumb at Suza.
"She led me here."
"Yes, but you didn't know that then."
Suza stood still, silent and frightened. She was hopelessly confused. The multiple shocks of the morning--missing Nat, watching Cortone die, now this--had paralyzed her ability to think. Keeping the lies straight had been difficult enough when she had been deceiving Hassan and telling Cortone a truth that Hassan thought was a lie. Now there was this Rostov, to whom Hassan was lying, and she could not even begin to think about whether what she said to Rostov should be the truth or another, different lie.
Hassan was saying, "How did you get here?"
"On the Karla, of course. We were only forty or fifty miles off Sicily when I got the report that you had landed here. I also obtained permission from Cairo to order you to return there immediately and directly."
"I still think I did the right thing," said Hassan.
"Get out of my sight."
