Triple (24 page)

Ken Falloff

why nobody comes rushing in to ask what is wrong, until she realizes with

relief that even the screams were dreamed; and consoled, she wonders

vaguely about the meaning of the dream while she drifts back Into sleep.

In the morning she is her usual cheerful self, except perhaps for a small

imprecise darkness, like a smudge of cloud in the sky of her mood, not

remembering the dream at all, only aware that there was once something

that troubled her, not worrying anymore, though, because, after all,

dreaming is instead of worrying.

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Seven

"Nat Dickstein is going, to steal some uranium," said Yasif Hassan.

David Rostov nodded agreement. His mind was elsewhere. He was trying to

figure out how to get rid of Yasif Hassan.

They were walking through the valley at the foot of the crag which was

the old city of Luxembourg. Here, on the banks of the Petrusse River,

were lawns and ornamental trees and footpaths. Hassan was saying, "Mey've

got a nuclear reactor at a place called Dimona in the Negev Desert. The

French helped them build it, and presumably supplied them with fuel for

it Since the Six-Day War, de Gaulle has cut off their supplies of guns,

so perhaps he's cut off the uranium as well.99

This much was obvious, Rostov thought, so it was best to allay Hassans

suspicions by agreeing vehemently. "It would be a completely

characteristic Mossad move to just go out and steal the uranium they

need," he said. 'ThaVs exactly how those people think. They have this

backs-to-the-wall mentality which enables them to ignore the niceties of

international diplomacy."

Rostov was able to guess a little farther than Hassanwhich was why he was

at once so elated and so anxious to get the Arab out of the way for a

while. Rostov knew about the Egyptian nuclear project at Qattara: Hassan

almost certainly did not-why should they tell such secrets to an agent

in Luxembourg?

However, because Cairo was so leaky it was likely the Israelis also knew

about the Egyptian bomb. And what would they do about it? Build their

own-for which they needed,. in the Euratom man's phrase, "fissionable

material." Rostov thought Dickstein was going to try to get some uranium

for an Israeli atom bomb. But Hassan would not be able to reach

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that conclusion, not yet; and Rostov was not going to help him, for he did

not want Tel Aviv to discover how close he was. ,

When the printout arrived that night it would take him farther still. For

it was the list from which Dickstein would probably choose his target.

Rostov did not want Hassan to have that information, either.

David Rostov's blood was up. He felt the way he did in a chess game at

the moment when three or four of the opponent's moves began to form a

pattern and he could see from where the attack would come and how he

would have to turn it into a rout. He had not forgotten the reasons why

he had entered into battle with Dickstein--that other conflict inside the

KGB between himself and Feliks Vorontsov, with Yuri Andropov as umpire

and a place at the Phys-Mat School as the prize-but that receded to the

back of his mind. What moved him now, what kept him tense and alert and

sharpened the edge of his ruthlessness, was the thrill of the chase and

the scent of the quarry in his nostrils.

Hassan stood in his way. Eager, amateur, touchy, bungling Hassan,

reporting back to Cairo, was at this moment a more dangerous enemy than

Dickstein himself. For all his faults, he was not stupid-indeed, Rostov

thought, he had a sly, intelligence that was typically Levantine,

inherited- no doubt from his capitalist father. He would know that Rostov

wanted him out of the way. Therefore Rostov would have to give him a real

job to do.

They passed beneath the Pont Adolphe, and Rostov stopped to look back,

admiring the view through the arch of the bridge. It reminded him of

Oxford, and then, suddenly, he knew what to do about Hassan.

Rostov said, "Dickstein knows someone has been following him, and

presumably hes connected that fact with his meeting with YOU."

"You think so?" Hassan said.

'Vell, look. He goes on an assignment, he bumps into an Arab who knows

his real name and suddenly he's tailed."

"Hes sure to speculate, but he doesn't know."

"You're right." Looking at Hassan's face, Rostov realized that the Arab

just loved him to say You're right. Rostov thought: He doesn't like me,

but he wants my approvalwants it badly. He's a proudman-I can use that.

"Dickstein

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TJUPLE

has to check," Rostov went on. "Now, are you on file in Tel Avivr9

Hassan shrugged, with a hint of his old aristocratic nonchalance. "Who

knowsr'

"How often have you had face-to-face contacts with other agents-Americans,

British, Israelis?"

"Never," Hassan said. "Im too careful."

Rostov almost laughed out loud. The truth was that, Hassan was too

insigufficant an agent to have come to the notice of the major intelligence

services, and had never done anything important enough to have met other

spies. "If you!re not on file," Rostov said, "Dickstein has to talk to your

friends. Have you any acquaintances in common?"

"No. I haven't seen him since college. Anyway, he could learn nothing from

my friends. They know nothing of my secret life. I don!t go around telling

people-7!'

"No, no," Rostov said, suppressing his impatience, "But all Dickstein would

have to do is ask casual questions about your general behavior to see

whether it conforms to the pattern of clandestine work-for example, do you

have mysteri. ous phone calls, sudden absences, friends whom you don!t

introduce around . - - Now, is there anybody from Oxford whom you still

see?"

"None of the students." Hassan!s tone bad become defensive, and Rostov knew

he was about to get what he wanted. 'Tve kept in touch with some of the

faculty, on and off: Professor Ashford, in particular-once or twice he hits

put me in touch with people who are prepared to give money to our cause."

"Dickstein knew Ashford, if I remember rightly."

"Of course. Ashford had the chair of Semitic Languages, which was what both

Dickstein and I read."

"T'here. All Dickstein has to do is call on Ashford and mention your name

in passing. Ashford will tell him what you're doing and how you behave.

Then Dickstein will know you're an agent."

"It's a bit hit-and-miss," Hassan said dubiously.

"Not at all," Rostov said brightly, although Hassan was right. "It's a

standard technique. rve done it myself. It works."

"And if he has contacted Ashford

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"We have a chance of picking up his traff again. So I want you to go to

Oxford."

"Ohl" Hassan had not seen where the conversation was leading, and now was

boxed in. "Dickstein might have just called on the phone. . ."

"He might, but that kind of inquiry is easier to make in person. Then you

can say you were in town and just dropped by to talk about old fines ...

It's hard to be that casual on the International telephone. For the same

reasons, you must go dim rather than call."

"I suppose you!re right," Hassan said reluctantly. "I was planning to

make a report to Cairo as soon as we've read the printout. .

That was exactly what Rostov was trying to avoid. "Good idea," he said.

"But the report will look so much better if you can also say that you

have picked up Dickstein!s traft again."

Hassan stood staring at the view, peering into the distance as if he was

hying to see Oxford. "Let's go back," he said abruptly. "I've walked far

enough.-

It was time to be chummy. Rostov put an arm around Hassan!s shoulders.

"You Europeans are soft"

'Won't try to tell me the KGB have a tough life in Moscow."

"Want to bear a Russian joke?" Rostov said as they climbed the side of

the valley toward the road. "Brezhnev was telling his old mother how well

he had done. He showed her his apartment-huge, with western furniture,

dishwasher, freezer, servants, everything. She didn't say a word. He took

her to his dacha on the Black Sea-a big villa with a swimming pool,

private beach, more servants. Still she wasn't impressed. He took her to

his hunting lodge in his ZU limousine, showed off the beautiful grounds,

the guns, the dogs. Finally he said, 'Mother, mother, why don't you say

something? Aren!t you proudr So she said, Ilts wonderful, Leonid. But

what will you do if the Communists come backr "

Rostov roared with laughter at his own story, but Hassan only smiled.

"You don't think it's funny?" Rostov said.

"Not very," Hassan told him. "It's guilt that makes you laugh at that

joke. I don't feel guilty, so I don't Imd it funny."

Rostov shrugged, thinking: Thank you Yasif Hassan, is-

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hm% answer to Sigmund Freud. They reached the road and stood there for a

while, watching the cars speed by as Hassan caught his breath. Rostov said,

"Oh, listen, there's something I've always wanted to ask you. Did you really

screw Ashford!s wife?"

"Only four or five times a week," Hassan said, and he laughed, loudly.

Rostov said, "Who feels guilty now?"

He arrived at the station early, and the train was late, so he had to wait

for a whole hour. It was the only time in his life he read Newsweek from

cover to cover. She came through the ticket barrier at a balf-run, smiling

broadly. Just like yesterday, she threw her arms around him and kissed him;

but this time the kiss was longer. He had vaguely expected to see her in a

long dress and a mink wrap, like a bankees wife on a night out at the 61

Club in Tel Aviv; but of course Suza belonged to another country and

another gen eratim and she wore high boots which disappeared under the hem

of . her below-the-knee skirt. with a silk shirt under an embroidered

waistcoat such as a matador might wear. Her face was not made up. Her hands

were empty: no coat, no handbag, no overnight case. 'Mey stood still,

smiling at eaclk other. for a moment Dickstein, not quite sure what to do,

gave her his arm as he had the day before, and that seemed to please her.

They walked to the taxi stand.

As they got into the cab Dickstem said, "Where do you want to go?"

"You haven't booked?"

I should have reserved a table, be thought. He said, "I don't know London

restaurants."

"Kings Road," Suza said to the driver.

As the cab pulled away she looked at Dickstein and sad, "Hello, Nathaniel."

Nobody ever caffed him Nathaniel. He liked it.

The Chelsea restaurant Ae chose was small, dim and

trendY. As theY walked to a table Dickstein thought he saw

one or two familiar faces, and his stomach tightened as he

strove to place them; then be realized they were pop singers

he had seen in magazines, and he relaxed again. He was glad

his reflexes still worked like this in spite of the. atypical way

be was spending his time this evening. He was also pleased

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