Triple (17 page)

TRIPLE

put a team on him. We could lose this race, do you realize that? Then

they'll have a nuclear bomb and we won't. And do you think they will use

it?" He had Kawash by the shoulders now, shaking him. "Mey're your people,

you tell me, will they drop the bomb on Israel? You bet your ass they

will!,,

"Stop shouting," Kawash said calmly. He detached Borg's hands from his

shoulders. "Theres a long road ahead before one side or the other has

won."

"Yeah." Borg turned away.

"You'll have to contact Dickstein and warn him," Kawash said. "Where is

he now?"

"Fucked if I know," said Pierre Borg.

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Five

The only completely innocent person whose life was ruined by the spies

during the affair of the yellowcake was the Euratom official whom Dickstein

named Stiffcollar.

After losing the surveillance team in France Dickstein returned to

Luxembourg by road, guessing they would have set a twenty-four-hours-a-day

watch for him at Luxembourg airport. And, since they had the number of

his,rented car, he stopped off in Paris to turn it in and hire another from

a different company.

On his first evening in Luxembourg he went to the discreet nightclub in the

Rue Dicks and sat alone, sipping beer, waiting for Stiflcollar to come in.

But it was the fair-haired friend who arrived first. He was a younger man,

perhaps twenty-five or thirty, broad-shouldered and in good shape

underneath his maroon double-breasted jacket. He walked across to the booth

they had occupied last time. He was graceful, like a dancer: Dickstein

thought he might be the goalkeeper on a soccer team. The booth was vacant.

If the couple met here every night it was probably kept for them.

7le fair-haired man ordered a drink and looked at his watch. He did not see

Dickstein observing him. Stiffcollar entered a few minutes later. He wore

a red V-necked sweater and a white shirt with a button-down collar. As

before, he went straight to the table where his friend sat waiting. They

greeted each other with a double handshake. They seemed happy. Dickstein

prepared to shatter their world.

He called a waiter. "Please take a bottle of champagne to that table for

the man in the red sweater. And bring me another beer."

Ile waiter brought his beer first, then took the champagne in a bucket of

ice to Stiffcollar's table. Dickstein saw the waiter point him out to the

couple as the donor of the cham-

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TIME

pagne. When they looked at him, he raised his beer glass in a toast, and

smiled. Stiffcollar recognized him and looked worried.

Dickstein left his table and went to the cloakroonL He washed his face,

killing time. After a couple of minutes Stiffcollar's friend came in. ne

young man combed his hair, waiting for a third man to leave the room.

Then he spoke to Dickstein. -

"My friend wants you to leave him alone."

Dickstein gave a nasty smile. "Let him tell me so himself."

"You're a journalist, aren't you? What if your editor were to hear that

you come to places like this?"

"I'm freelance."

The young man came closer. He was five inches taller than Dickstein and

at least thirty pounds heavier. "You're to leave us alone," he said.

S'No.09

"Why are you doing this? What do you wantT'

"I'm not interested in you, pretty boy. You!d better go home while I talk

to your friend."

"Damn you," the young man said, and be grabbed the lapels of Dickstein's

jacket in one large hand. He drew back his other arm and made a fist. He

never landed the punch.

With his fingers Dickstein poked the young man in the eyes. 'Me blond

head jerked back and to the side reflexively. Dickstein stepped inside

the swinging arm and hit him in the belly, very hard. 'Me breath rattled

out of him and he doubled over, turning away. Dickstein punched him once

again, very precisely, on the bridge of the nose. Something snapped, and

blood spurted. The young man collapsed on the tiled floor.

It was enough.

Dickstein went out quickly, straightening his tie and smoothing his hair

on the way. In the club the cabaret had begun and the German guitarist

was singing a song about a gay policeman. Dickstein paid his bill and

left. As he went he saw Stiffcollar, looking worried, making his way to

the cloakroom.

On the street it was a mild summer night, but Dickstein was shivering.

He walked a little way, then went into a bar and ordered brandy. It was

a noisy, smoky place with a tele-

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Ken Folleff

vision set on the counter. Dickstein carried his drink to a corner table

and sat facing the wall.

The fight in the cloakroom would not be reported to the police. It would

look like a quarrel over a lover, and neither Stiffoollar nor the club

management would want to bring that sort of thing to official notice.

Stiffcollar would take his friend to a doctor, saying he had walked into

a door.

Dickstein drank the brandy and stopped shivering. There was, he thought,

no way to be a spy without doing things like this. And there was no way

to be a nation, in this world, without having spies. And without a nation

Nat Dickstein could not feel safe.

It did not seem possible to live honorably. Even if he gave up this

profession, others would become spies and do evil on his behalf, and that

was almost as bad. You had to be bad to live. Dickstein recalled that a

Nazi camp doctor called Wolfgang had said much the same.

He had long ago decided that life was not about right and wrong, but

about winning and losing. Still there were times when that philosophy

gave him no consolation.

He left the bar and went into the street, heading for Stiffcollar's home.

He had to press his advantage while the man was demoralized. He reached

the narrow cobbled street within a few minutes and stood guard opposite

the old terraced house. There was no light in the attic window.

"Me night became cooler as he waited. He began to pace up and down.

European weather was dismal. At this time of year Israel would be

glorious: long sunny days and warm nights, hard physical work by day and

companionship and laughter in the evenings. Dickstein wished he could go

home.

At last Stiffcollar and his friend returned. The friend's head was

wrapped in bandages, and he was obviously having trouble seeing: he

walked with one hand on Stiffcollar's arm, like a blind man. They stopped

outside the house while Stiffcollar fumbled for a key. Dickstein crossed

the road and approached them. They had their backs to him, and his shoes

made no noise.

Stiffcollar opened the door, turned to help his friend, and aaw

Dickstein. He jumped with shock. "Oh, Godl"

The friend said, "What is it? What is itr

"It's him."

Dickstein said, "I have to talk to you."

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I TRIPLE

"Call the police," said the friend.

Stiffcollar took his friend!s arm and began to lead him through the door.

Dickstein put out a hand and stopped thenL "You'll have to let me in,"

be said. "Otherwise 12 create a scene in the street."

Stiffcoffar said, "Hell make our lives miserable until he gets what he

wants."

"But what does he want?"

-ru tell you in a minute," Dickstein said. He walked into the house ahead

of them and started up the stairs.

After a moment's hesitation, they followed.

The three men climbed the stairs to the top. Stiffcollar unlocked the

door of the attic flat, and they went in. Dickstein looked around. It was

bigger than he imagined, and very elegantly decorated with period

furniture, striped wallpaper, and many plants and pictures. Stiffcollar

put his friend in a chair, then took a cigarette from a box, lit it with

a table lighter and put it in his friend's mouth. They sat close

together, waiting for Dickstein to speak.

-rm a journalist," Dickstein began.

Stiffcollar interrupted, "Journalists interview people, they don't beat

them up."

"I didn't beat him up. I hit him twice."

"Why?"

"He attacked me, didn't he tell youT'

"I don't believe you," said StiffcoUar.

"How much time would you like to spend arguing about it?-

99

"None.

"Good. I want a story about Euratom. A good story-my career needs it.

Now, then, one possibility is the prevalence of homosexuals in

positions of responsibility within the organization."

"Yoxere a lousy bastard," said Stiffcollar's friend.

"Quite so," Dickstein said. "However, III drop the story if I get a

better one."

Stiffcollar ran a hand across his gray-tipped hair, and Dickstein

noticed that he wore clear nail polish. "I think I understand this,-

he said.

"What? What do you understand?" said his friend.

"He wants information."

'Mat's right," said Dickstein. Stiffcollar was looking relieved. Now

was the time to be a little friendly, to come

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Ken Folliff

across as a human being, to let them think that things might not be so bad

after all. Dickstein got up. There was whiskey in a decanter on a highly

polished side table. He poured small shots into three glasses as he said,

"Look, you're vulnerable and rve picked on you, and I expect you to hate

me for that; but Im not going to pretend that I hate you. I'm a bastard

and I'm using you, and that's all there is to it. Except that rm drinking

your booze as well." He handed them drinks and sat down again.

There was a pause, then Stiffcollar said, "What is it that you want to

know?"

"Well, now." Dickstein took the tiniest sip of whiskey: he hated the

taste. "Euratom keeps records of all movements of fissionable materials

into, out of and within the member countries, rightr

"Yes."

"To be more precise: before anyone can move an ounce of uranium from A

to B he has to ask your permission."

"Yes."

"Complete records are kept of all permits given."

"The records are on a computer."

"I know. If -asked, the computer would print out a list of all future

uranium shipments for which permission has been given."

"It does, regularly. A list is circulated once a month within the

office."

'Splendid," said Dickstein. "All I want is that list."

There was a long silence. Stiffcollar drank some whiskey. Dickstein left

his alone: the two beers and one large brandy he had already drunk this

evening were more than he normally took in a fortnight.

lie friend said, "What do you want the list forr'

"I'm going to check all the shipments in a given month. I expect to be

able to prove that what people do in reality bears little or no relation

to what they tell EuratoM."

Stiffbollar said, "I don't believe you."

The man was not stupid, Dickstein thought. He shrugged. "What do you

think I want it for?"

"I don't know. You're not a journalist. Nothing you've said has been

true."

"It makes no difference, does itr' Dickstein said. "Believe what you

like. You've no choice but to give me the list."

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