Triple (1991)

by Ken Follett

  "WHYY not?" It was his turn to leer. "But all my trousers have flys." "No good," he said. "No room to maneuver." And like that. They acted as if they had just invented sex. The only faintly unhappy moment came when she looked at his scars and asked how he got them. "Weve had three wars since I went to Israel," he said. It was the truth, but not the whole truth. "What made you go to Israel?" "Safety." "But it's just the opposite of safe there." "It's a different kind of safety." He said this dismissively, not wanting to explain it, then he changed his mind, for he wanted her know all about him. "Miere had to be a place where nobody could say, 'You!re different, you're not a human being, you're a Jew,' where nobody could break my windows or experiment on my body just because I'm Jewish. You see ... " She had been looking at him with that cleareyed, frank gaze of hers, and he had struggled to tell her the whole truth, without evasions, without trying to make it look better than it was. "It didn!t matter to me whether we chose Palestine or Uganda or Manhattan Island-wherever it was, I would have said, That place is mine,' and I would have fought tooth and nall to keep it. Thafs, why I never try to argue the moral rights and wrongs of the establishment of Israel. Justice and fair play never entered into it After the war . . . well, the suggestion that the concept of fair play had any role In international politics seemed like a sick joke to me. I'm not pretending this is an admirable attitude, I'm just telling you how it is for me. Any other place Jews live-New York, Paris, Toronto-no matter how good it is, how assimilated they are, they never know how long ifs going to last, how soon will come the next crisis that can conveniently be blamed on them. In Israel I know that whatever happens, I won't ' be a victim of that. So, with that problem out of the way, we can get on and deal with the realities that are part of everyone's life: planting and reaping, buying and selling, fighting and dying. That's why I went, I think . . . Maybe I didn't see it all so clearly back then-in fact, I've never put it into words like that that's how I felt, anyway."

  After a moment Suza said, "My father holds the opinion that Israel itself is now a racist society." 'That's what the youngsters say. They've got a point. if .. ." She looked at him, waiting. "If you and I had a child, they would refuse to classify him as Jewish. He would be a second-class citizen. But I don!t think that sort of thing will last forever. At the moment the religious zealots are powerful in the government: it's inevitable, Zionism was a religious movement. As the nation matures that will fade away. The race laws are already controversial.were fighting then% and we'll win in the end." She came to him and put her head on his shoulder, and they held each other in silence He knew that she did not care about Israeli politics: it was the mention of a son that had moved her. Sitdng in the restaurant window, remembering, he knew that he wanted Suza in his Ufa always, and he wondered what he would do if she refused to go to his country. Which would he give up, Israel or Suza? He did not know. He watched the street. It was typical June weather: mining steadily and quite cold. The familiar red buses and black cabs swished up and down, butting through the rain, splashing in the puddles on the road. A country of his own, a woman of his own: maybe he could have both. I should be so lucky. A cab drew up outside the cafe opposite, and Dickstein tensed, leaning closer to his window and peering through the rain. He recognized the bulky figure of Pierre Borg, in a dark short raincoat and a trilby hat, climbing out of the cab. He did not recognize the second man, who got out and paid the driver. The two men went into the caM Dickstein looked up and down the road. A gray Mark II Jaguar had stopped on a double yellow line fifty yards from the cafe. Now it reversed and backed into a side street, parking on the comer within sight of the cafe. The passenger got out and walked toward the caf& Dickstein left his table and went to the phone booth in the restaurant entrance. He could still see the cafe opposite. He dialed its number. :rYes?" 'Let me speak to Bill, please."

  "Bill? Don!t know hini." "Would you just ask, please?" "Sure. Hey, anybody here called Bill?" A pause. 'Tea, he's con-ting. After a moment Dickstein heard Borg's voice. "Yes?" "Who's the face with you?" "Head of London Station. Do you think we ran trot him?" Dickstein ignored the sarcasm. "One of you picked up a shadow. Two men in a gray Jaguar." "We saw them." "Lose them." "Of course. Listen, you know this town-wbat's the best way?" "Send the Head of Station back to the Embassy in a cab. That should lose the Jaguar. Wait ten minutes, then take a taxi to . . ." Dickstein hesitated, trying to think of a quiet street not too far away. "To Redcliffe Street. ru meet you there." "Okay." Dickstein looked across the road. "Your tail is just going into your caM." He hung up. He went back to his window seat and watched. Ile other man came out of the cafe, opened an umbrella, and stood at the curb looking for a cab. The tail had either recognized Borg at the airport or had been following the Head of Station for some other reason. It did not make any difference. A taxi pulled up. When it left, the gray Jaguar came out of the side street and followed. Dickstein left the restaurant and hailed a cab for himself. Taxi drivers do well out of spies, he thought. He told the cabbie to go to Redcliffe Street and wait. After eleven minutes another taxi entered the street and Borg got out. "Flash your lights," Dickstein said. "Mat's the man rM meeting." Borg saw the lights and waved acknowledgment. As be was paying, a third taxi entered the street and stopped. Borg spotted it. The shadow in the third taxi was waiting to see what happened. Borg realized this, and began to walk away from his cab. Dickstein told his driver not to flash his lights again. Borg walked past them. The tail got out of his taxi, paid the driver and walked after Borg. When the tail's cab had gone Borg turned, came back to Dickstein!s cab, and got in.

  Dickstein said, "Okay, let's go." They pulled away, leaving the tail on the pavement looking for another taxi. It was a quiet street: he would not find one for five or ten minutes. Borg said, "Slick." &$IF lasy," Dickstein replied. The driver said, "What was all that about, then?" "Don!t worry," Dickstein told him. "We're secret agents." The cabbie laughed. "Where to now-MI5r' "The Science Museum." Dickstein sat back in his seat. He smiled at Borg. "Well, Bill, you old fart, how the hell, are your' Borg frowned at him. "What have you got to be so fucking cheerful about?" They did not speak again in the cab, and Dickstein realized he had not prepared himself sufficiently for this meeting. He should have decided in advance what he wanted *from Borg and how he was going to got it. He thought: What do I want? The answer came up out of the back of his mind and hit him like a slap. I want to give Israel the bomb-and then I want to go home. He turned away from Borg. Rain streaked the cab window like tem. He was suddenly glad they could not speak because of the driver. On the pavement were three coatless hippies, soaking wet, their faces and hands upturned to enjoy the rain. It I could do this, if I could finish this assignment, I could rest. The thought made him unaccountably happy. He looked at Borg and smiled. Borg turned his face,to the window. They reached the museum and went inside. They stood in front of a reconstructed dinosaur. Borg said, "I'm thinking of taking you off this

  assignment." Dickstein nodded, suppressing his alarm, thinking fast. Hassan must be reporting to Cairo, and Borg's man in Cairo must be getting the reports and passing them to Tel Aviv. "I've discovered Im blown," he told Borg. "I kneW that weeks ago," Borg said. "if you!d keep in touch you!d be up-to-date on these things." "If I kept in touch I'd be blown more often." Borg grunted and walked on. He took out a cigar, and Dickstein said, "No smoking in here." Borg put the, cigar away. Is "Blown is nothing," Dickstein said. qes happened to me half a dozen times. What counts is how much they know." "You were fingered by this Hassan, who knows you from years back. Hes working with the Russians now." "But what do they know?" "You've been in Luxembourg and France." 'That's not much." "I realize it's not much. I know you've been in Luxembourg and France too, and I have no idea what you did so there. "So you'll leave me in," Dickstein said, and looked hard at Borg. "That depends. What have you been doingT' "Well." Dickstein continued looking at Borg. Ime man had become fidgety, not knowing what to do with his hands now that he could not smoke. The bright lights on the displays illurni
nated his bad complexion: his troubled face was like a gravel parking lot. Dickstein needed to judge very carefully bow much he told Borg: enough to give the impression that a great deal had been achieved; not so much that Borg would think he could get another man to operate DicksteiWs plan. .'. . "I've picked a consignment of uranium for us to steal," he began. "It's going by ship from Antwerp to Genoa in November. I'm going to hijack the ship." "Shitl" Borg seemed both pleased and afraid at the audacity of the idea. He said, "How the bell will you keep that secret?" 'Tm working on that" Dickstein decided to tell Borg just a tantalizing little bit more. "I have to visit Lloyd's, here in London. I'm hoping the ship will turn out to be one of a series of identical vessels--I'm told most ships are built that Way. If I can buy an identical vessel, I can switch the two somewhere in the Mediterranean." Borg rubbed his hand across his close-cropped hair twice Pt then Pulled at his ear. "I don't see ... "I haven't figured. out the details yet, but I'm sure this is the only way to do the thing clandestinely." "So get on and figure out the details." "But You're thinking of puffing me out" "Yeah . - ." Borg tilted his head from one side to the other, a gesture of indecision. "If I put an experienced man in to replace you, he may be spotted too."

  "And if you put In an unknown he won't be experienced." "Plus, I'm really not sure there is anyone, experienced or otherwise, who can pun this off apart from you. And there is something else you don't know." They stopped in front of a model of a nuclear reactor. "Well?" Dickstein said. 'Ve've had a report from Qattara. The Russians are helpIng them now. Were in a hurry, Dickstein. I can!t afford delay, and changes of plan cause delay." "Will November be soon enough?" Borg considered. "Just," he said. He seemed to come to a decision. "All right, I'm leaving you in. Youll have to take evasive action." Dickstein grinned broadly and slapped Borg on the back. "You're a pal, Pierre. Don!t you worry now, I'll run rings around them." Borg frowned. "Just what is it with you? You caet stop grinning." "It's seeing you that does it. Your face is like a tonic. Your sunny disposition is infectious. When you smile, Pierre, the whole world smiles with you." "You're crazy, you prick," said Borg.

  Pierre Borg was vulgar, insensitive, malicious, and boring, but he was not stupid. "He may be a bastard," people would say, "but he's a clever bastard." By the time they parted company he knew that something important had changed in Nat Dickstein's life. He thought about it, walking back to the Israeli Embassy at No. 2 Palace Green in Kensington. In the twenty years since they had first met, Dickstein had hardly changed. It was still only rarely that the force of the man showed through. He had always been quiet and withdrawn; he continued to look like an out-of-work bank clerk; and, except for occasional flashes of rather cynical wit, he was still dour. Until today. At first he had been his usual self-brief to the point of rudeness. But toward the end he had come on like the stereotyped chirpy Cockney sparrow in a Hollywood movie. Borg had to know why. He would tolerate a lot from his agents. Provided they were efficient, they could be neurotic, or aggressive, or sadistic, or insubordinate-so long as he knew about it He could make allowances for faults: but he could not allow for unknown factors. He would be unsure of his hold over Dickstein until he had figured out the cause of the change. That was all. He had Do objection in principle to one of his agents acquiring a sunny disposition. He came within sight of the Embassy. He would put Dickmein under surveillance, he decided. It would take two cars and three teams of man working in eight-hour shifts. The Head of London Station would complain. I'lie. hell with him. The need to know why Dickstein's disposition had changed was only one reason Borg had decided not to pull him out The other reason was more important Dickstein had half a plan; another man might not be able to complete it Dickstein had a mind for this sort of thing. Once Dickstein had figured it all out, then somebody else could take over. Borg had decided to take him off the assignment at the first opportunity. Dickstein would be furious: he would consider he had been shafted. The hell with him, too.

  Major-Pyotr Alekseivitch Tyrin did not actually like Rostov. He did not like any of his superiors: in his view, you had to be a rat to get promoted above the rank of major in the KGB. SO, he had a sort of awestruck affection for his clever, helpful boss. Tyrin had considerable skills, particularly with electronics, but he could not manipulate people. He was a major only because he was on Rostov's incredibly successful team. Abba Allon. High Street exit. Fifty-two, or nine? Where are you, fifty-two? Fifty-two. We're close. Well take him. What does he look like? Plastic raincoat, green hat, mustache. As a friend Rostov was not much; but he was a lot worse as an enemy. This Colonel Petrov in London had discovered that. He had tried to mess around with Rostov and had been surprised by a middle-of-the-night phone call from the head of the KGB, Yuri Andropov himself. The people in the Lon. don Embassy said Petrov,had looked like a ghost when he hung up. Since then Rostov could have anything he wanted: if he sneezed five agents rushed out to buy handkerchiefs.

  Okay, this Is Ruth Davisson, and she's going north ... Nineteen, we can take her- Relax, nineteen. False alarm. les a secretary who looks like her. Rostov had commandeered all Petrov's best pavement artists and most of his cars. -The area around the Israeli Embassy in London was crawling with agent&--someone had said, "There are more Reds here than in the Kremlin Clinid'!--but it was hard to spot them. They were in cars, vans, minicabs, trucks and one vehicle that looked remarkably like an unmarked Metropolitan Police bus. There were more on foot, some in public buildings and others walking the streets and the footpaths of the park. There was even one inside the Embassy, asking in dreadfully broken English what he had to do to emigrate to Israel. The Embassy was ideally suited for this kind of exercise. It was in a little diplomatic ghetto on the edge, of Kensington Gardens. So many of the lovely old houses -belonged to foreign legations that it was known as Embassy Row. Indeed, the Soviet Embassy was close by in Kensington Palace Gardens. The little group of streets formed a private estate, and you, had to tell a policeman your business before you could get in. Nineteen, this time It is Ruth Davisson . . . nineteen, do you hear me? Nineteen here, yes. Are you still on the north side? Yes. And we know what she looks like. None of the agents was actually in sight of the Israeli Embassy. Only one member of the team could see the doorRostov, who was a half mile away, on the twentieth floor of a hotel, watching thr-ough a powerful Zeiss telescope mounted on a tripod. Several high buildings in the West End of London had clear views across the park of Embassy Row. Indeed, certain suites in certain hotels fetched inordinately high prices because of rumors that from them you could see into Princess Margaret's backyard at the neighboring palace, which gave its name to Palace Green and Kensington Palace Gardens. Rostov was in one of those suites, and he had a radio transmitter as well as the telescope. Each of his sidewalk squads had a walkie-talkie. Petrov spoke to his men in fast Russian, using confusing codewords, and the wavelength on which he transmitted and on which the men replied was changed every five minutes according to a computer program built into all the sets. The system was working very well, Tyrin thought-he had invented it-except that somewhere in the cycle everyone was subjected to five minutes of BBC Radio One. Eight, move up to the north side. Understood. If the Israelis had been in Belgravia, the home of the more senior embassies, Rostov's job would have been more difficult. There were almost no shops, cafes or public offices in Belgravia-nowhere for agents to make themselves unobtrusive; and because the whole district was quiet, wealthy and stuffed with ambassadors it was easy for the police to keep an eye open for suspicious activities. Any of the standard surveillance ploys-telephone repair van, road crew with striped tentwould have drawn a crowd of bobbies in minutes. BY contrad the am around the little oasis of Embassy Row was Kensington, a major shopping area with several colleges and four museums. Tyrin himself was in a pub in Kensington Church Street. The resident KGB men had told him that the pub was frequented by detectives from "Special Branch!-the rather coy name for Scotland Yard's political police. The four youngish men in rather sharp suits drinking whiskey at the b
ar were probably detectives. They did not know Tyrin, and would not have been much interested in him if they had. Indeed, if Tyrin were to approach them and say, "By the way, the KGB is tailing every Israeli legal in London at the moment," they would probably say "What, again?" and order another round of drinks. in any event Tyrin knew he was not a man to attract second glances. He was small and rather rotund, with a big nose and a drinkees veined face. He wore a gray raincoat over a green sweater. The rain had removed the last memory of a crease from his charcoal flannel trousers. He sat in a comer with a glass of English beer and a small bag of potato chips. no radio in his shirt pocket was connected by a fine, fleshcolored wire to the plug-it looked like a hearing aid-in his left car. His left side was to the wall. He could talk to Rostov by pretending to fumble in the inside pocket of his raincoat turning his face away from the room and muttering into the perforated metal disc on the top edge of the radio. He was watching the detectives drink whiskey and thinking that the Special Branch must have better expense accounts than its Russian equivalent: he was allowed one pint of beer per hour, the potato crisps he had to buy himself. At- one time agents in England had even been obliged to buy beer in half pints, until the accounts department had been told that in many pubs a man who drank halves was as peculiar as a Russian who took his vodka in sips instead of gulps. Thirteen, pick up a green Volvo, two men, High Street. Understood, And one on foot . . . I think that's Yigael Meier Twenty? Tyrin was "Twenty." He turned his face into his shoulder and said, "Yes. Describe him." Tall, gray hair, umbrella, belted coat. High Street gate. Tyrin said, "rm on my way." He drained his glass and left the pub. It was raining. Tyrin took a collapsible umbrella from his raincoat pocket and opened it. The wet sidewalks were crowded with shoppers. At the traffic lights he spotted the green Volvo and, three cars behind it, 'Mirteen!l in an Austin. Another car. Five, this one's yours. Blue Volkswagen beetle. Understood. Tyrin reached Palace Gate, looked up Palace Avenue, saw a man fitting the description heading toward him, and walked on without pausing. When he had calculated that the an had had time to reach the street he stood at the curb, as if about to cross, and looked up and down. The mark emerged from Palace Avenue and turned west, away from Tyrin. Tyrin followed. Along High Street tailing was made easier by the crowds. Then they turned south into a maze of side streets, and Tyrin became a bit nervous; but the Israeli did not seem to be watching for a shadow. He simply butted ahead through the rain, a tall, bent-figure under an umbrella, walking fast, intent on his destination. He did not go far. He turned into a small modern hotel just off the Cromwell Road. Tyrin walked past the entrance and, glancing through the glass door, saw the mark step Into a phone booth In the lobby. A little farther along the road Tyrin passed the green Volvo, and concluded that the Israeli and his colleagues in the green Volvo were staking out the hotel. He crossed the road and came back on the opposite side, just In case the mark were to come out again immediately. He looked for the blue Volkswagen beetle and did not see it, but he was quite sure it would be close by. He spoke into his shirt pockeL "M is Twenty Meier and the green Volvo have staked out the Jacobean HoteL" Confirwd, Twenty. Five and Thirteen ham the Israeli cars covered. Where is Meier? ,in the lobby." Tyrin looked up and down and saw the Austin which was following the green Volvo. Stay with him. "Understood." Tyrin now had a difficult decision to make. If he went straight into the hotel Meier might spot lum, but if he took the time to find the back entrance Meier might go away in the meanwhile. He decided tD chance the back entrance, on the grounds that he was supported by two cars which could cover for a few minutes if the worst happened. Beside the hotel there was a narrow alley for delivery vans. Tyrin walked along it and came to an unlocked fire exit In the blank side wall of the building. He went in and found himself in a concrete stair- well, obviously built to be used only as a fire escape. As he climbed the stairs he collapsed his umbrella, put it in his raincoat pocket and took off the raincoat He folded it and left it In a little bundle on the first half landing, w1we he could quickly pick it up N he needed to make a fast exlL He went to the second floor and took the elevator down to the lobby. When he emerged in his sweater and trousers he looked like a guest at the hotel. The Israeli was still in the phone bootlL Tyrin went up to the glass door at the front of the lobby, looked out, chocked his w&hratch and returned to the waiting area to sit down as if he were ineeting someone. It did not seem to be his lucky day. The object: of the whole exercise was to find Nat Dickstein. He was known to be in England and it was hoped that he would have a meeting with one of the legals. The Russians were following the legals in order to witness that meeting and pick up Dickstein's trail. The Israeli team at this hotel was clearly not involved in a meeting. They were staking out someone, presumably with a view to tailing him as soon as he showed, and that someone was not likely to be one of their own agents. Tyrin could only hope that what they were doing would at least turn out to be of some interesL He watched the mark come out of the phone booth and walk off in the direction of the ' bar. He wondered if the lobby could be observed from the bar. Apparently not, because the mark came back a few minutes later with a drink in his hand, then sat down across from Tyrin and picked up a newspaper. The mark did not have time to drink his beer. The elevator doors hissed open, and out walked Nat Dickstein. Tyrin was so surprised that he made the mistake of staring straight at Dickstein for several seconds. Dickstein caught his eye, and nodded politely. Tyrin smiled weakly and looked at his watch. It occurred to him-more in hope than conviction-that staring was such a bad mistake that Dickstein might take it as proof that Tyrin was not an agent. There was no time for reflection. Moving quickly withTyrin thought-something of a spring in his step, Dickstein crossed to the counter and dropped a room key, then proceeded quickly out Into the street. The Israeli tail, Meier, put his newspaper on the table and followed. When the plate-glass door closed behind Meier, Tyrin got up, thinkingrm an agent following an agent following an agent. Wen, at least we keep each other in employment. He went Into the elevator and pressed the button for the first floor. He spoke into his radio. "This is Twenty. I have Pirate." There was no reply-the walls of the building were blocking his transmission. He got out of the elevator at the first floor and ran down the fire stairs, picking up his raincoat at the half landing. As soon as he was outside he tried the radio again. "This, is Twenty, I have the Pirate.,' All right, Twenty. Thirteen has him too. Tyrin saw the mark crossing Cromwell Road. "I'm follow. ing Meier," he said into his radio.