Triple (7 page)

Ken Folleff

Silver, and a half whisper for the mad Ben Gunn. Karen sat and watched the

two of them in the yellow electric light, thinking how boyish Dickstein

appeared, and how grown-up the child was.

When the chapter was finished they took Mottie to his dormitory, kissed

him goodnight, and went into the dining room. Karen thought: If we

continue to go about together like this, everyone will think we!re lovers

already.

They sat with Esther. After dinner she told them a story, and there was

a young womWs twinkle in her eye. "When I first went to Jerusalem, they

used to say that if you owned a feather pillow, you could buy a house."

Dickstein willingly took the bait. "How was that?"

"You could sell a good feather pillow for a pound. With that pound you

could join a loan society, which entitled you to borrow ten pounds. Then

you found a plot of land. The owner of the land would take ten pounds

deposit and the rest in promissory notes. Now you were a landowner. You

went to a builder and said, 'Build a house for yourself on this plot of

land. All I want is a small flat for myself and my family.' "

They all-Iaughed. Dickstein looked toward the door. Karen followed his

glance and saw a stranger, a stocky man in his forties with a coarse,

fleshy face. Dickstein got up and went to him.

Esther said to Karen, "Don't break your heart, child. That one is not

made to be a husband."

Karen looked at Esther, then back at the doorway. Dickstein had gone. A

few moments later she heard the sound of a car starting up and driving

away.

Esther put her old hand on Karen's young one, and squeezed.

Karen never saw Dickstein again.

Nat Dickstein and Pierre Borg sat in the back seat of a big black

CitroEn. Borg's bodyguard was driving, with his machine pistol lying on

the front seat beside him. They traveled through the darkness with

nothing ahead but the cone of light from the headlamps. Nat Dickstein was

afraid.

He had never come to see himself the way others did, as a competent,

indeed brilliant, agent who had proved his ability to survive just about

anything. Later, when the game was on

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and he was living by his wits, grappling at close quarters with strategy

and problems and personalities, there would be no room in his mind for

fear; but now, when Borg was about to brief him, he had no plans to make,

no forecasts to refine, no characters to assess. He knew only that he had

to turn his back on peace and simple hard work, the land and the sunshine

and caring for growing things; and that ahead of him there were terrible

risks and great danger, lies and pain and bloodshed and, perhaps, his

death. So he sat in the corner of the seat, his arms and legs crossed

tightly, watching Borg's dimly lit face, while fear of the unknown knotted

and writhed in his stomach and made him nauseous.

In the faint, shifting light, Borg looked like the giant in a fairy

story. He had heavy features: thick lips, broad cheeks, and protruding

eyes shadowed by thick brows. As a child he had been told he was ugly,

and so he had grown into an ugly man. When he was uneasy-like now-his

bands went continually. to his face, covering his mouth, rubbing his

nose, scratching his forehead, in a subconscious attempt to hide his

unsightliness. Once, in a relaxed moment, Dickstein had asked him, "Why

do you yell at everybody?" and he had replied, "Because they're all so

fucking handsome."

They never knew what language to use when they spoke. Borg was

French-Canadian originally, and found Hebrew a struggle. Dickstein's

Hebrew was good and his French only passable. Usually they settled for

English.

Dickstein had worked under Borg for ten years, and still he did not like

the man. He felt he understood Borg's troubled, unhappy nature; and he

respected his professionalism and his obsessional devotion to Israeli

Intelligence; but in Dickstein's book this was not enough 'cause to like

a person. When Borg lied to him, there were always good sound reasons,

but Dickstein resented the lie no less.

He retaliated by playing Borg's tactics back against him. He would refuse

to say where he was going, or he would lie about it. He never checked in

on schedule while he was in the field: bLe simply called or sent messages

with peremptory demands. And he would sometimes conceal from Borg part

or all of his game plan. This prevented Borg from- interfering with

schemes of his own, and it was almost more secure--for what Borg knew,

he might be obliged to tell the politicians, and what they knew might

find its way to the opposition.

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Ken Folleff

Dickstein knew the strength of his position-he was responsible for many

of the triumphs which had distinguished Bores career--and he played it for

all it was worth.

The CitroL% roared through the Arab town of Nazarethdeserted now,

presumably under curfew-and went on into the night, heading for Tel Aviv.

Borg lit a thin cigar and began to speak.

"After the Six-Day War, one of the bright boys in the Ministry of Defense

wrote a paper entitled 'The Inevitable Destruction of Israel! The

argument went like this. During the War of Independence, we bought arms

from Czechoslovakia. When the Soviet bloc began to take the Arab side,

we turned to France, and later West Germany. Germany called off all deals

as soon as the Arabs found out. France imposed an embargo after the

Six-Day War. Both Britain and the United States have consistently refused

to supply us with arms. We are losing our sources one by one.

"Suppose we are able to make up those losses, by continually finding new

suppliers and by building our own munitions industry: even then, the fact

remains that Israel must be the loser in a Middle East arms race. The off

countries will be richer than us throughout the foreseeable future. Our

defense budget is already a terrible burden on the national economy

whereas our enemies have nothing better to spend their billions on. When

they have ten thousand tanks, well need six thousand; when they have

twenty thousand tanks, we'll need twelve thousand; and so on. Simply by

doubling their arms expenditure every year, they will be able to cripple

our national economy without firing a shot.

. "Finally, the recent history of the Middle East shows a pattern of

limited wars about once a decade. The logic of this pattern is against us.

The Ambs can afford to lose a war from time to time. We can't: our first

defeat will be our last war.

"Conclusion: the survival of Israel depends on our breaking out of the

vicious spiral our enemies have prescribed for us."

Dickstein nodded. "It's not a novel line of thought. It's the usual

argument for 'peace at any price.' I should think the bright boy got

fired from the Ministry of Defense for that paper."

"Wrong both times. He went on to say, 'We must inflict, or have the power

to inflict, permanent and crippling damage to

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TRIPLE

the next Arab army that crosses our borders. We must have nuclear

weapons.9 Is

Dickstein was very still for a moment; then he let out his breath in a

long whistle. It was one of those devastating ideas that seems completely

obvious as soon as it has been sai(L It would change everything. He was

silent for a while, digesting the implications. His mind teemed with

questions. Was it technically feasible? Would the Americans help? Would

the Israeli Cabinet approve it? Would the Arabs retaliate with their own

bomb? What he said was, "Bright boy in the Ministry, hell. That was Moshe

Dayan's paper."

"No comment," said Borg.

Did the Cabinet adopt it?-

'There has been a long debate, Certain elder statesmen argued that they

had not come this far to see the Middle East wiped out in a nuclear

holocaust. But the opposition faction relied mainly on the argument that

if we have a bomb, the Arabs will get one too, and we will be back at

square one. As it UnWA out, that was their big mistake." Borg reached

into his pocket and took out a small plastic box. He handed it to

Dickstein.

Dickstein switched on the interior light and examined the box. It was

about an inch and a half square, thin, and blue in color. It opened to

reveal a small envelope made of heavy light-proof paper. "What!s this?"

he -said.

Borg said, "A physicist named Friedrich Schulz visited Cairo in February.

He is Austrian but he works in the United States. He was apparently on

holiday in Europe, but his plane ticket to Egypt was paid for by the

Egyptian government.

"I had him followed, but he gave our boy the slip and disappeared into

the Western Desert for forty-eight hours. We know from CIA satellite

pictures that there is a major construction Project going on in that part

of the desert. When Schulz came back, he had that in his pocket It's a

personnel dosimeter. The envelope, which is light-tight, contains a piece

of ordinary Photographic film. You carry the box in your pocket, or

pinned to your lapel or trouser belt. If you!re exposed to radiation, the

film will -show fogging when irs d&veloped. Dosimeters are carried, as

a matter of routine, by everyone who visits or works in a nuclear power

station."

Dickstein switched off the light and gave the box back to

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Ken Falloff

Borg. "You're telling me the Arabs are already making atom bombs," he said

softly.

"That's right." Borg spoke unnecessarily loudly.

"So the Cabinet gave Dayan the go-ahead to make a bomb of his own."

"In principle, yes."

"How so?"

"Mere are some practical difficulties. The mechanics of the business are

simple-the actual clockwork of the bomb, so. to speak. Anyone who can make

a conventional bomb can make a nuclear bomb. Ile problem is getting hold of

the explosive material, plutonium. You get plutonium out of an atomic

reactor. It's a by-product. Now, we have a reactor, at Dimona in the Negev

Desert. Did you know thair,

"Yes."

"It's our worst-kept secret. However, we don't have the equipment for

extracting the plutonium from the spent fuel. We could build a reprocessing

plant, but the problem is that we have no uranium of our own to put through

the reactor."

"Wait a minute." Dickstein frowned. "We must have uranium, to fuel the

reactor for normal use."

"correct. We get it from France, and it's supplied to us on condition we

return the spent fuel to them for reprocessing, so they get the plutonium."

"Other suppliers?"

"Would impose the same condition-it's part of all the nuclear

non-proliferation treaties."

Dickstein said, "But the people at Dimona could siphon off some of the

spent fuel without anyone noticing."

"No. Given the quantity of uranium originally supplied, it's possible to

calculate precisely how much plutonium comes out the other end. And they

weigh it very carefully-it's expensive stuff."

"So the problem is to get hold of some uranium."

"Right"

"And the solution?"

"Me solution is, you're going to steal it."

Dickstein looked out of the window. The moon came out, revealing a flock of

sheep huddled in a corner of a field, watched by an Arab shepherd with a

staff: a Biblical scene. So this was the game: stolen uranium for the land

of milk and honey. Last time it had been the murder of a terrorist leader

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