Triple (1991)

by Ken Follett

  "There's a saying: 'the law forbids rich and poor alike to steal bread and sleep under bridges.' " Aleksandr laughed. "In the Soviet Union people are equal, but some have privileges. Will you live in Russia now?" 'I don't know." Suza opened the bottle and passed it to him again. He took a long swallow and gave it back. "In Russia you won't have such clothes." Ile time was passing too quickly, she had to do it now. She stood up to take the bottle. Her oilskin was open down the front. Standing before him, she tilted her head back to drink from the bottle, knowing he would stare at her breasts as they jutted out. She allowed him a good look, then shifted her grip on the bottle and brought it down as hard as she could on the top of his head. There was a sickening thud as it hit him. He stared at her dazedly. She thought: You're supposed to be knocked out! His eyes would not shut. What do I do? She hesitated, then she gritted her teeth and hit him again. His eyes closed and he slumped in the chair. Suza got hold of his feet and pulled. As he came off the chair his head hit the deck, making Suza wince, but then she thought: It's just as well, bell stay out longer. She dragged him to a cupboard. She was breathing fast, from fear as well as exertion. From her jeans pocket she took a long piece of baling twine she had picked up in the stem. She tied Aleksandr's feet, then turned him over and bound his hands behind his back. She had to get him into the cupboard. She glanced at the door. Oh, God, don't let anyone come in nowl She put his feet in, then straddled his unconscious body and tried to lift him. He was a heavy man. She got him half upright, but when she tried to shift him into the cupboard he slipped from her grasp. She got behind him to try again. She grasped him beneath the armpits and lifted. This way was better: she could lean his weight against her chest while she shifted her grip. She got him half upright again, then wrapped her arms around his chest and inched sideways. She had to go into the cupboard with him, let him go, then wriggle out from underneath him. He was in a sitting position now, his feet against one side of thecupboard, his knees bent, and his back against the opposite side. She checked his bonds: still tight. But he could still shoutl She looked about for something to stuff in his mouth to gag him. She could see nothing. She could not leave the room to search for something because he might come round in the meantime. The only thing that she could think of was her pantyhose. It seemed to take her forever to do it. She had to pull off her borrowed sea boots, take off her jeans, pull her pantyhose Off, put her jeans on, get into her boots, then crumple the nym Ion cloth into a ball and stuff it between his slack jaws. She could not close the cupboard door. "Oh, God!" she said out loud. It was Aleksandes elbow that was in the way. His bound hands rested on the floor of the cupboard, and because of his slumped position his arms were bent outward. No matter how she pushed and shoved at the door that elbow stopped it from closing. Finally she had to get back into the cupboard with him and turn, him slightly sideways so that he leaned into the comer. Now his elbow was out of the way. She looked at him a moment longer. How long did people stay knocked out? She had no idea. She knew she should hit him again, but she was afraid of killing him. She went and got the bottle, and even lifted it over her head; but at the last moment she lost her nerve, put the bottle down, and slammed the cupboard door. She looked at her wristwatch and gave a cry of dismay: it was ten minutes to live. The Coparelli would soon appear on the Karld's radar screen, and Rostov would be here, and she would have lost her chance. She sat down at the radio desk, switched the lever to TMNSMrr, selected the set that was already tuned to the Coparelli's wavelength and leaned over the microphone. "CAftg Coparelli, come in please." She waited. Nothing. "Calling Coparelli, come in please." Nothing. "Damn you to hell, Nat Dickstein, speak to me. Nathaniell"

  Nat Dickstein stood in the amidships hold of the CopareHi, staring at the drums of sandy metallic ore that had cost so much. They looked nothing special-just large black oil drums with the word PLUMBAT stenciled on their sides. He would have liked to open one and feel the stuff, just to know what it was like, but the lids were heavily sealed. He felt suicidal. Instead of the elation of victory, he had only bereavement. He could not rejoice over the terrorists he had killed, he could only moum for his own dead. He went over the battle again, as he had been -doing throughout a sleepless night. If he had told Abbas to open fire as soon as he got aboard it might have distracted the Fedayeen long enough for Gibli to get over the rail without being shot. If he had gone with three men to take out the bridge with grenades at the very start of the fight the mess might have been taken earlier and lives would have been saved. If . . . but there were a hundred things he would have done differently if he bad been able to see into the future, or if he were just a wiser man. Well, Israel would now have atom bombs to protect her forever. Even that thought gave him no joy. A year ago it would have thrilled him. But a year ago he had not met Suza Ashford. He beard a noise and looked up. It sounded as if people were running around on deck. Some nautical crisis, no doubt. Suza had changed him. She had taught him to expect more out of life than victory in battle. When he had anticipated this day, when he had thought about what it would feel like to have pulled off this tremendous coup, she had always been in his daydream, waiting for him somewhere, ready to share his triumph. But she would not be there. Nobody else would do. And there was no joy in a solitary celebration. He had stared long enough. He climbed the ladder out of the hold, wondering what to do with the rest of his life. He emerged on deck. A rating peered at him. "Mr. Dicksteinr' "Yes. What do you wantT' "We've been searching the ship for you, sir . . . It's the radio, someone is calling the Coparelli. We haven't answered, sir, because we're not supposed to be the Coparelli, are we? But she says-~' "She?" "Yes, sir. She's coming over clear-speech, not Morse code. She sounds close. And she's upset. 'Speak to me, Nathaniel,' she says, stuff like that, sir."

  Dickstein grabbed the rating by his pea jacket. "Nathaniel?" he shouted. "Did she say Nathaniel?" "Yes, sir, I'm sorry, if--?' But Dickstein was heading for the bridge at a run.

  The voice of Nat Dickstein came over the radio: "Who Is calling Copamfli?" Suddenly Suza was speechless. Hearing his voice, after all she had been through, made her feel weak and helpleSL Who is calling Coparefli?- She found her voice. "Oh, Nat, at last." "Suza? Is that Suzar "Yes, yes." "Whom are you?" She gathered her thoughts. "I'm with David Rostov on a Russian ship called the Kar7a. Make a note of this." She gave him the position, course and speed just as the first officer had told them to her. "Tbat was at four-ten this morning. Nat, this ship is going to ram yours at six Am!' "Ram? Why? Oh, I see..." "Nat, theyll catch me at the radio any minute, what are we going to do, quickly --- r "Can you create a diversion of some kind at precisely fivethirty?99 "Diversion?" "Start a fire, shout !man overboard,' anything to keep them all very busy for a few minutes." Well-I'll try----~' "Do your best. I want them all running around, nobody quite sure what's going on or what to do-are they all KOB?" "Yes." 440kay, now--.?$ The door of the radio room opened---Suza ffipped the switch to TRANsmrr and Dickstein's voice was silenced and David Rostov walked in. He said, "Where's Aleksandr?" Suza tried to smile. "He went for coffee. Im minding the shop." "Me damn fool . His curses switched into Russian as he stormed out. Suza moved the lever to REcEm.

  Nat said, "I heard that You'd better make yourself scarce until five-thirty---~" "Wait," she shouted. "What are you going to do?" "Do?" he said. "I'm coming to get you." "Oh," she said. "Ob, thank you." "I love YOU." As she switched off, Morse began to come through on another set. Tyrin would have heard every word of her conversation, and now he would be trying to warn Rostov. She had forgotten to tell Nat about Tyrin. She could try to contact Nat again, but it would be very risky~ and Tyrin would get his message through to Rostov in the time it took Nat's men to search the Coparelli, locate Tyrin and destroy his equipment. And when Tyrin's message got to Rostov, he would know Nat was coming, and he would be prepared. She had to block that message. She also had to get away. She decided to wreck the radio. How? All the wiring must be behind the panels. She would have to take a panel off. She needed a screw
driver. Quickly, quickly before Rostov gives up looking for Aleksandrl She found Aleksandes tools inacornerand picked out a small screwdriver. She undid the screws on two, corners of the panel. Impatient, she pocketed the screwdriver and forced the panel out with her hands. Inside was a mass of wires like psychedelic spaghetti. She grabbed a fistful and pulled. Nothing happened: she had pulled too many at once. She selected one, and tugged: it came out. Furiously she pulled wires until fifteen or twenty were hanging loose. Still the Morse code chattered. She poured the remains of the vodka into the innards of the radio. The Morse stopped, and every light on the panel went out. There was a thump from inside the cupboard. Aleksandr must be coming round. Well, they would know everything as soon as they saw the radio now anyway. She went out, closing the door behind her. She went down the ladder and out on the deck, trying to figure out where she could hide and what kind of diversion she could create. No point now in shouting "man overboard'~--they certainly would not believe her after what she had done to their radio and their radio operator. Ut down the anchor? She would not know where to begin. What was Rostov likely to do now? He would look for Aleksandr in the galley, the mess, and his cabin. Not finding him, he would return to the radio room, and then would start a shipwide search for her. He was a methodical man. He would start at the prow and work backward along the main deck, then send one party to search the upperworks and another to sweep below, deck by deck, starting at the top and working down. What was the lowest part of the ship? The engine room. That would have to be her biding place. She went inside and found her way to a downward companionway. She had her foot on the top rung of the ladder when she saw Rostov. And he saw her. She had no idea where her next words came from. "Aleksandr's come back to the radio room, I'll be back in a moment.tv Rostov nodded grimly, and went off in the direction of the radio room. She headed straight down through two decks and emerged into the engine room. The second engineer was on duty at night. He stared at her as she came in and approached him. I "Ms is the only warm place on the ship," she said cheer. fully. "Mind if I keep you company?" He looked mystified, and said slowly, "I cannot ... speak English.. . please." "You don't speak English?" He shook his head. "rm cold," she said, and mimed a shiver. She held her hands out toward the throbbing engine. "Okay?" He was more than happy to have this beautiful girl for ConaPanY in his engine room. "Okay," he said, nodding vigorously. He continued to stare at her, with a pleased look on his face, until it occurred to him that he should perhaps show some hospitality. He looked about, then pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered her one. I don't usually, but I think I will," she said, and took a cigarette. It had a small cardboard tube for a filter. The engineer lit it for her. She looked up at the hatch, half expecting to see Rostov. She looked at her watch. It could not be five-twenty-five alreadyl She had no time to think. Diversion, start a diversion. Shout '~man overboard," drop the anchor, light a fire- Light a fire. With what? Petrol, there must be petrol, or diesel fuel, or something, right here in the engine room. She looked over the engine. Where did the petrol come in? The thing was a mass of tubes and pipes. Concentrate, concentrate! She wished she had learned more about the enginC Of -her Car. Were boat engines the same? No, sometimes they used truck fuel. Which kind was this? It was supposed to be a fast ship, so perhaps it used petrol, she remembered vaguely that petrol engines were more expensive to run but faster. If it was a petrol engine it would be simHar to the engine of her car. Were there cables leading to spark plugs? She had changed a spark plug once. She stared. Yes, it was like her car. There were six plugs, with leads from them to a round cap like a distributor. Somewhere there had to be a carburetor. The petrol went through the carburetor. It was a small thing that sometimes got blocked- The voice-pipe barked in Russian, and the engineer walked toward it to answer. His back was to Suza. She had to do it now. There was something about the size of a coffee tin with a lid held on by a central nut. It could be the carburetor. She stretched herself across the engine and tried to undo the nut with her fingers. It would not budge. A heavy plastic pipe led into it. She grabbed it and tugged. She could not pull it out She remembered she had put AleksandesscrewMver into her oilskin pocket. She took it out and jabbed at the pipe with the sharp end. Ile plastic was thick and tough. She stabbed the screwdriver into it with all her might. It made a small cut in the surface of the pipe. She stuck the point of the screwdriver into the cut and -worked it The engineer reached the voice-pipe and spoke into it in Russian. Suza felt the screwdriver break through the plastic. She tugged it out. A spray of clear liquid jetted out of the little hole, and the air was faled with the unmistakable smell of petrol. She dropped the screwdriver and ran toward the ladder.

  She heard the engineer answer yes in Russian and nod his head to a question from the voice-pipe. An order followed. The voice was angry. As she reached the foot of the ladder she looked back. The engineer's smiling face had been transformed into a mask of malice. She went up the ladder as he ran across the engine room deck after her. At the top of the ladder she turned around. She saw a pbol of petrol spreading over the deck, and the engineer stepping on the bottom rung of the ladder. In her hand she still held the cigarette he had given her. She threw it toward the engine, aimmg at the place where the petrot was squirting out of the pipe. She did not wait to see it land. She carried on up the ladder. Her head and shoulders were emerging on to the next deck when there was a loud whooosh, a bright red light from below, and a wave of scorching heat. Suza screamed as her trousers caught fire and the skm of her legs burned. She jumped the last few inches of the ladder and rolled. She beat at her trousers, then struggled out of her oilskin and managed to wrap it around her legs. The fire was killed, but the pain got worm She wanted to collapse. She knew if she lay down she would pass out and the pain would go, but she had to get away from the fire, and she had to be somewhere where Nat could find her. She forced herself to stand up. Her legs felt as if they were still burning. She looked down to see bits like burned paper falling off, and she wondered if they were bits of trouser or bits of leg. She took a step. She could walk. She staggered along the gangway. The fire alarm began to sound all over the ship. She reached the end of the gangway and leaned on the ladder. Up, she had to go up. She raised one foot, placed it on the bottom rang, and bo. San the longest climb of her life.

  Chapter Eighteen

  For the second time in twenty-four hours Nat Dickstein was crossing huge seas in a small boat to board a ship held by the enemy. He was dressed as before, with life jacket, oilskin, and sea boots; and armed as before with submachine gun, pistol and grenades; but this time he was alone, and he was terrified. There had been an argument aboard the Coparelli about what to do after Suza's radio message. Her dialogue with Dickstein had been listened to by the captain, Feinberg, and Ish. They had seen the jubilation in Nat's face, and they had felt entitled to argue that his judgment was being distorted by personal involvement. "It's a trap," argued Feinberg. "They can't catch us, so they want us to turn and fight." "I know Rostov," Dickstein said hotly. 'qbis is exactly how his mind works: he waits for you to make a break, then he pounces. This ramming idea has his name written an over it. Feinberg got angry. 'This isn't a game, Dickstein." "Listen, Nat," Ish said more reasonably, "let's us Oarry on and be ready to fight if and when they catch us. What have we got to gain by sending a boarding party?" "I'm not suggesting a boarding party. I'm going alone." "Don't be a damn fool," Ish said. "If you go, so do weyou can't take a ship alone." "Look," Dickstein said, trying to pacify them. "If I make it, the Karla will never catch this ship. If I don't, the rest of you can still fight when the Karla gets to you. And if the Karla really can't catch you, and it's a trap, then I'm the only one who falls into it. It's the best way." "I don't think it's the best way," Feinberg said. "Nor do I," Ish said.

  Dickstein smiled. 'Vell, I do, and it's my life, and besides, I'm the senior officer here and it's my decision, so to hell with all of YOU." So he had dressed and armed himself, and the captain had abown him h
ow to operate the launcYs radio and how to maintain an interception course with the Karla, and they had lowered the launch, and he had climbed down into it and pulled away. And he was terrified. It was impossible for him to overcome a whole boatload of KGB all on his own. However, he was not planning that. He would not fight with any of them if he could help it. He would get aboard, hide himself until Suza!s diversion began, and then look for her; and when he had found her, he would get off the Karla with her and flee. He had a small magnetic mine with him that he would fix to the Karla's side before boarding. Then, whether he managed to escape or not, whether the whole thing was a trap or genuine, the Karla would have a -hole blown in her side big enough to keep her from catching the Coparelli. He was sure it was not a trap. He knew she was.there, he knew that somehow she had been in their power and had been forced to help them, he knew she had risked her life to save his. He knew that she loved him. And that was why he was terrified. Suddenly he wanted to live. The blood-lust was gone: he was no longer interested in killing his enemies, defeating Rostov, frustrating the schemes of the Fedayeen or outwitting Egyptian Intelligence. He wanted to find Suza, and take her home and spend the rest of his life with her. He was afraid to die. He concentrated on steering his boat. Finding the Karla at night was not easy. He could keep a steady course but he bad to-estimate and make allowance for how much the wind and the waves were carrying him sideways. After fifteen minutes he knew he should have reached her, but she was nowhere to be seen. He began to zigzag in a search pattern, wondering desperately how far off course he was. He was contemplating radioing the Coparelli for a new fix when suddenly the Karla appeared out of the night alongside him. She was moving fast, faster than his launch could go, and he had to reach the ladder at her bows before she was past, and at the same time avoid a collision. He gunned the launch forward, swerved away as the Karla rolled toward him, then turned back, homing in, while she rolled the other way. He had the rope tied around his waist ready. The ladder came within reach. He flipped the engine of his launch into idle, stepped on the gunwale, and jumped. The Karla began to pitch forward as he landed on the ladder. He clung on while her prow went down into the waves. The sea came up to his waist, up to his shoulders. He took a deep breath as his head went under. He seemed to be under water forever. The Karla just kept on going down. When he felt his lungs would burst she hesitated, and at last began to come up; and that seemed to take even longer. At last he broke surface and gulped lungfuls of air. He went up the ladder a few steps, untied the rope around his waist and made it fast to the ladder, securing the boat to the Karla for his escape. ne magnetic mine was hanging from a rope across his shoulders. He took it off and slapped it on to the Karlds hull. The uranium was safe. He shed his oilskin and climbed up the ladder. The sound of the launch engine was inaudible in the noise of the wind, the sea, and the Karld's own engines, but something must have attracted the attention of the man who looked over the rail just as Dickstein came up level with the deck. For a moment the man stared at Dickstein, his face registering amazement. Then Dickstein reached out his hand for a pull as he climbed over the rail. Autornatically, with a natural instinct to help someone trying to get aboard out of the raging sea, the other man grabbed his arm. Dickstein got one leg over the rail, used his other hand to grab the outstretched arm, and threw the other man overboard and into the sea. His cry was lost in the wind. Dickstein brought the other leg over the, rail and crouched down on the deck. It seemed nobody had wen the incident. The Karla was a small ship, much smaller than the Coparelli. There was only one superstructure, located amidships, two decks high. There were no cranes. The foredeck had a big hatch over the foeard hold, but there was no aft hold: the crew accommodations and the engine room must occupy all the below-deck space aft, Dickstein concluded.