by Ken Follett
"Details," Dickstein said. "Open an account for Savile Shipping at your bank here. The Embassy will put funds in as they are required. You report to me simply by leaving a written message at the bank. The note will be picked up by someone from the Embassy. If we need to meet and talk, we use the usual phone numbers." "Agreed.,' "I'm glad we're doing business together again." Papagopolous was thoughtful. "Ship No. 2 is a sister ship of the Coparelk" he mused. "I think I can guess what you're up to. Theres one thing I'd like to know, although I'm sure you wont tell me. What the hell kind of cargo will the Coparelli be carrying-uranium?"
Pyotr Tyrin looked gloomily at the CoparelY and said, "She's a grubby old ship." Rostov did not reply. Thev were sitting in a rented Ford on a quay at Cardiff docks. The squirrels at Moscow Center had informed them that the Coparelli would make port there today, and they were now watching her tie up. She was to unload a cargo of Swedish timber and take on a mixture of small machinery and cotton goods: it would take her some days. "At least the mess decks aren't in the fo'c'sle," Tyrin muttered, more or less to himself. "She's not that old," Rostov said. Tyrin was surprised Rostov knew what he was talking about. Rostov continually' surprised him with odd bits of knowledge. From the rear seat of the car Nik Bunin said, "Is that the front or the back of the boat?" Rostov and Tyrin looked at one another and grinned at Nik's ignorance. "Me back," Tyrin said. "We call it the stem" It was raining. The Welsh rain was even more persistent and monotonous than the English, and colder. Pyotr Tyrin was unhappy. It so happened that he had done two years in the Soviet Navy. Tbat, plus the fact that he was the radio and electronics expert, made him the obvious choice as the man to be planted aboard the Copareffl. He did not want to go back to sea. In truth, the main reason he had applied to Join the KOB was to get out of the navy. He hated the damp and the cold and the food and the discipline. Besides, he had a warm comfortable wife in an apartment in Moscow, and he missed her. Of course, there was no question of his saying no to Rostov. "WeT get you on as radio operator, but you must take your own equipment as a fallback," Rostov said. Tyrin wondered how this was to be managed. His approach would have been to find the shio radio man, kriock him on the head, throw him in the water, and board the ship to say, "I hear you need a new radio operator." No doubt Rostov would be able to come up with something a little more subtle: that was why he was a colonel. The activity on deck had died down, and the Coparelli's engines wen quiet Five or six sailors came across the gangplank in a bunch, laughing and shouting, and headed for the town. Rostov said, "See which pub they go to, Nik." Bunin got out of the car and foHowed the sailors. Tyrin watched him go. He was depressed by the scene: the figures crossing the wet concrete quay with their ramcoat collars turned up; the sounds of tap hooting and men shouting nautical instructions and chains winding and unwinding; the stacks of pallets; the bare cranes Like sentries; the smell of engine oil and the ship's ropes and salt spray. It all made him think of the Moscow flat, the chair in front of the paraffin beater, salt fish and black bread, beer and vodka in the refrigerator, and an evening of television. He was unable to share RostoVs impressible cheerfulness about the way the operation was going. Once again they had no idea where Dickstein was--even though they had not exactly lost him, they had deliberately let,him go. It had been Rostov's decision: he was afraid of getting too close to Dickstein, of - scaring the man off. "WeT follow the Copareffl, and Dickstein will come to us," Rostov had said. Yasif Hassan had argued with him, but Rostov had won. Tyrh who had no contribution to make to such strategic discussions, thought Rostov was correct, but also thought he had no reason to be so confident. "Your first job is to befriend the crew," Rostov said, interrupting Tyrin's thoughts. "Yoxtre a radio operator. You suffered a minor accident aboard your last ship, the Chr&mw Rose-you broke your arm-and you were discharged here in Cardiff to convalesce. You got an excellent compensation payment from the owners. You are spending the money and having a good time while it lasts. You say vaguely that youll look for another job when your money runs out. You must discover two things: the identity of the radio man, and the anticipated date and time of departure of the ship." "Fine," said Tyrin, though it was far from fine. Just how was he to "befriend" these people? He was not much of an actor, in his view. Would he, have to play the part of a hearty hail-fellow-well-met? Suppose the crew of this ship thought him a bore, a lonely man trying to attach himself to a jolly group? What if they just plain did not like him? Unconsciously he squared his broad shoulders. Either he would do it, or there would be some reason why it could not be done. All he could promise was to try his best. Bunin came back across the quay. Rostov said, "Get in the back, let Nik drive." Tyrin got out and held the door for Nik. The young man's face was streaming with rain. He started the car. Tyrin got in. As the car pulled away Rostov turned around to speak to Tyrin in the back seat. "Here's a hundred pounds," he said, and handed over a roll of banknotes. "Don't spend it too carefully. Bunin stopped the car opposite a small dockland pub on a comer. A sign outside, flapping gently in the wind, read, "Brains Beers." A smoky yellow light glowed behind the frosted-glass windows. There were worse places to be on a day like this, Tyrin thought. "What nationality are the crew?" he said suddenly. "Swedish," Bunin said. Tyrin's false papers made him out to be Austrian. "What language should I use with them?" "All Swedes speak English," Rostov told him. There was a moment of silence. Rostov said, "Any more questions? I want to back to Hassan before he gets up to any mischief." "No more questions." Tyrin opened the car door. Rostov said, "Speak to me when you get back to the hotel tonight-no matter how late." "Sure." "Good luck." Tyrin slammed the car door and crossed the road to the Pub. As he reached the entrance someone came out, and the warm smell of beer and tobacco engulfed Tyrin for a moment. He went mside. It was a poky little place, with hard wooden benches around the walls and plastic tables nailed to the floor. Four of the sailors were playing darts in the comer and a fifth was" at the bar calling out encouragement to them. The barman nodded to Tyrin. "Good morning," Tyrin said. "A pint of lager, a large whiskey and a ham sandwich." The sailor at the bar turned around and nodded pleasantly. Tyrin smiled. "Have you just made portT' "Ye& The Coparefll," the sailor replied. "Christmar Rose," Tyrin said. "She left me behind." "You're lucky." "I broke my arm." "So?" said the Swedish sailor with a grin. "You can drink with the other one." "I like that," Tyrin said. "Let-me buy you a drink. What will it be?"
Two days later they were still drinking. There were changes in the composition of the group as some sailors went on duty and others came ashore; and there was a short period between four A.m. and opening time when there was nowhere in the city, legal or illegal, where one could buy a drink; but otherwise life was one long pub crawl. Tyrin had forgotten how sailors could drink. He was dreading the hangover. He was glad, however, that he had not got into a situation where be felt obliged to go with prostitutes: the Swedes were Interested in women, but not In whores. Tyrin would never have been able to convince his wife that he had caught venereal disease in the service of Mother Russia. The Swedes! other vice was gambling. Tyrin had lost about fifty pounds of KGB money at poker. He was so well in with the crew of the CopoW11 that the previous night he had been invited aboard at two A.M. He had fallen asleep on the mess deck and they had left him there until eight bells. Tonight would not be like that. The Coparellf was to sail on the morning tide, and all officers and men had to be aboard by midnight. It was now ten past eleven. The landlord of the pub was moving about the room collecting glasses and emptying ashtrays. Tyrin was playing dominoes with Lars, the radio operator. They had abandoned the proper game and were now competing to see who could stand the most blocks in a line without knocking the lot down. Lars was very drunk, but Tyrin was pretending. He was also very frightened about what he had to do in a few minutes' time. The landlord called out, "Time, gentlemen, pleasel Thank you very mucti." Tyrin knocked his dominoes down, and laughed. Lars said, "You see-I am smaller alcoholic than you." The other crew were leaving. Tyrin and Lars stood up. Tyrin pu
t 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 doeset 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 Bashed 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 flance." Oh, no, don't start that. Lan giggled. "She has ... hot pants." "Are you going to marry herT' 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." see~" "I can explain Come on, Nik. Get It over with... One of the aflozz In the group stopped to urinate In the gutter The othm stood around making ribald remarks and laughing. Tyrin wished the man would hurry up-the thnin& the thning-but he seemed as If he would go on forever. At last he finhhed, and they all walked on. Tyrin heard a car. He tensed. Lan odd, -Whars matter?- "Nothing." Tyrin saw the headlight of 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 shoWdn!t be like this, it wouldn't work this wayl Suddenly Tynn was confused and panic-stricken-then he saw eof the car more clearly as it passed beneath a stred lIsK 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. Ilere was no traffic about. The sailors headed straight across the middle of the squam NOW. Come on. They were halfway across. come on/ A car came tearing around a comer and into the square, headlights bhizing. Tyrin tightened his grip on IA&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 TyAn and Lam 17,ook outrl Tyrin Yelled. Whert the car was almost on top of them he pulled rAn to one side, Jerking the man off balance, and threw himself sideways. 71ere was a stomach-turning thud, followed by a scream and crash of breaking glass. 7be car went by. It's done, Tyrin thought He scrambled to his feet and looked for Lam 7be milor lay on the road a few feet away. Blood glistened In the lamplight. Lan groaned. Hes alive, Tyrin thought; Thank (W. The car braked. One of its headlights had gone out--tbe one that bd hit Lam he presumed. It coasted, as if the driver wwe hesitating. Then it gathered speed and, one-eyed, it disappeared Into the night. . Tyrin bent over Lan. The other sailors gathered around, speaking Swedish. Tyrin touched Laws leg. He yelled out in pahL "I think his leg Is broken," Tyrin said. Thank God thaes aft. Lights were going on In some of the buildings around the ujuare. One of the officers said something, and a rating ran off toward a house presumably to call for an ambulance. Ilan was more rapid dialogue and another went off in the direction of the dock. Lan was bleeding, but not too heavily. The officer bent over him He would not allow anyone to touch bis leg. T~e ambulance arrived within minutes, but it seemed for ever to Tyrin: he had never killed a man, and he did not want to. They put Lars on a stretcher. Ile officer got into the ambulance, and turned to speak to Tynn. "You had better com&" "Yee "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 Lan or the officer, unwilling to look out of the windows like a tourist not knowIng where to direct Ins 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. 'Me 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 Ions 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~ll the doctor said. "Is your captain on his way hereT' "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 qualifted radio operatorr' "Yes, sir." "I need a replacement for poor Lars. Would you like to sail with in in the morning!'
PieiTe 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 ran 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 puffed 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 yoifre working, and they're trying to find you and screw up whatever it is you!re doing. You can still run the project-all you have to do is bide your face." "No,10 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. I'Va 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. YoWre a professional: you followorders." 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 lifel" 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 ea
lm. 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 doingl "No," Dickstein said tonelessly. "I'll give you the headlines," Borg said, "Shes 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 tamed to face Borg, standing too close, gazing fiercely into Borg's eyes, his guilt turning to resentment. 'Mat's all?" "All? What the fuck do you mean, all? You'd shoot people on that much evidencel" "Not people I know." "Has she gotten any information out of you?" Dickstein shouted, "Nol" "You're getting angry because you know you've fiiade 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 agentT' "Have you chocked 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 any one other than Dickstein. "It won't work, Pierre," he said quietly. "Yoteve 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?" "rin confident the answer will be negative." "But if it's notT' "YoWll 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% Dickstein. If shes 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."