Triple (27 page)

Ken Fpliett

"V&Y 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 win-

dows or experiment on my body just because rm 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 sugge5don that the concept of fair play had any

role In international politics seemed like a sick joke to me. rm 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 thi"ut that's how I felt, anyway."

152

TJUPLE

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 con-

troversial.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 caf6 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 11 Jaguar had stopped on a double yellow line fifty yards

from the caf6. Now it reversed and backed into a side street, parking on

the comer within sight of the caf6. 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 caf6 opposite. He dialed its number.

:rYes?"

'Let me speak to Bill, please."

153

Ken Foliett

"Bill? Don!t know hini."

"Would you just ask, please?"

"Sure. Hey, anybody here called Bill?" A pause. 'Tea, he's con-ting.1,

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 caf6, 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. 154

TRIPLE

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$

Ken Folleff

"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 illurninated 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. rm 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 rm 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."

156

7RIPLE

"And if you put In an unknown he won't be experienced."

"Plus, rm 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 sa-

157