Triple

(penciled addendum) Feliks: Don't bother me with this again until you've got a result. And keep an eye on Rostov-he wants your job, and unless you shape up I'm going to give it to him. Yuri.

To: Deputy Chief, European Desk FRom: Office of the Chairman, Committee for State Security copy: Chief, European Desk DATE: 29 May 1968 Comrade Rostov: Cairo has now nominated the agent to serve with your team in the Dickstein investigation. He is in fact the agent who first spotted Dickstein in Luxembourg. His nitme is Yasif Hassan. (Signed) Maksim Bykov, personal assistant to the Chairman.

When he gave lectures at the training school, Pierre Borg would say, "Call in. Always call in. Not just when you need something, but every day if possible. We need to know what you're doing-and we may have vital information for you." Then the trainees went into the bar and heard that Nat Dickstein's motto was: "Never call in for less than $100,000." Borg was angry with Dickstein. Anger came easily to him, especially when he did not know what was happening. Fortu. nately anger rarely interfered with his judgment. He was angry with Kawash, too. He could understand why Kawash had wanted to meet in Rome-the Egyptians had a big team here, so it was easy for Kawash to find an excuse to visit-but there was no reason why they should meet in a godd bathhouse. Borg got angry by sitting in his office in Tel Aviv, wondering and worrying about Dickstein and Kawash and the others, waiting for messages, until he began to think they would not call because they did not like him.; and so he got mad and broke pencils and fired his secretary. A bathhouse in Rome, for God's sake-the place was bound to be full of queers. Also, Borg did not like his body. He slept in pajamas, never went swimming, never tried on clothes in shops, never went naked except to take a quick shower in the morning. Now he stood in the steamroom, wearing around his waist the largest towel he could find, conscious that he was white except for his face and hands, his flesh softly plump, with a pelt of graying hair across his shoulders. He saw Kawash. Ile Arab's body was lean and dark brown, with very little hair. Their eyes met across the steamroom and, Me secret lovers, they went side by side, not looking at one another, into a private room with a bed. Borg was relieved to get out of public view and impatient to hear KawasWa news. The Arab switched on the machine that made the bed vibrate: its hum would swamp a listening deviM N them were one. The two men stood close together and spoke in low voices. Embarrassed, Borg turned his body so that he was facing away from Kawash and had to speak over his shoulder. "Ne got a man into Qattara," Kawash said. "For?Wdable," Borg Wd, pronouncing it the French way In his great relief. "Your department isnt even involved in the project." "I have a cousin in Military Intelligence." "Well done. Who is the man in Qattara?" "Saman Hussein, one of yours." "Good, good, good. What did he findT' "The construction work is finished. They've built the reactor housing, plus an administration block, staff quarters, and an airstrip. They're much farther ahead than anyone imagined." "What about the reactor itself? That's what counts." "They're working on it now. It's hard to say how long it Will take-there's a certain amount of precision work." "Are they going to be able to manage that?" Borg wondered. "I mean, all those complex control systems . . ." "The controls don't need to be sophisticated, I understand. You slow the speed of the nuclear reaction simply by pushing metal rods into the atomic pile. Anyway, there!s been another development. Saman found the place crawling with Russions. Borg said, "Oh, fuck." "So now I guess they'll have all the fancy electronics they need.91 Borg sat on the chair, forgetting the bathhouse and the vibrating bed and his soft white body. "This is bad news," he said. "'Ibere's worse. Dickstein is blown." Borg stared at Kawash, thunderstruck. "Blown?" he said as if he did not know what the word meant. "Blown!' "Yes. Borg felt furious and despairing by turns. After a moment he said, "How did he manage that ... the prick?" "He was recognized by an agent of ours in Luxembourg." "What was he doing there?" "You should know." "Apparently it was just a chance meeting- The agent is called Yasif Hassan. He!s small fry-works for a Lebanese bank and keeps an eye on visiting Israelis. Of course, our people recognized the name Dickstein----~' "He's using his real nameT' Borg said incredulously. It got worse and worse. "I don't think so," Kawash said. "This Hassan knew him from way back." Borg shook his head slowly. "You wouldn't think we were the Chosen People, with our luck." "We put Dickstein under surveillance and informed Moscow," Kawash continued. "He lost the surveillance team quite quickly, of course, but Moscow is puffing together a big effort to find him again." Borg put his chin in his hand and stared without seeing at the erotic frieze on the tiled wall. It was as if there were a world-wide conspiracy to frustrate Israeli policy in general and his plans in particular. He wanted to give it all up and go back to Quebec; he wanted to hit Dickstein over the head with a blunt instrument; he wanted to wipe that imperturbable look off Kawash's handsome face. He made a gesture of throwing something away. "Great," he said. 'Me Egyptians are well ahead with their reactor; the Russians are helping them; Dickstein is blown; the KGB has 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.

Chapter 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. The 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 champagne. 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.

"Why are you doing this? What do you want?' "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 television 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."

"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? "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 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 I'm 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." "I have," Stiffcollar said. "I'm going to resign the job." "If you do," Dickstein said slowly, "I Will beat your friend to a pulp. "We'll go to the policel" the friend said. "I would go away," Dickstein said. "Perhaps for a year. But I would come back. And I'd find you. And I will very nearly kill you. Your face will be unrecognizable." Stiffcollar stared at Dickstein. "What are you?" "It really doesn!t matter what I am, does it? You know I can do what I threaten." "Yes," Stiffcollar said. He buried his face in his hands. Dickstein let the silence build. Stiffcollar was cornered, helpless. There was only one thing he could do, and he was now realizing this. Dickstein let him take his time. It was several moments before Dickstein spoke. "Me printout will be bulky," he said gently. Stiffcollar nodded without looking up. "Is your briefcase checked as you leave the office?" He shook his head. "Are the printouts supposed to be kept under lock and key?" "No." Stiffcollar gathered his wits with a visible effort. "No," he said wearily, "this information is not classified. It's merely confidential, not to be made public." "Good. Now, you'll need tomorrow to think about the details-which copy of the printout to take, exactly what you'll tell your secretary, and so on. The day after tomorrow you will bring the printout home. You'll find a note from me waiting for you. The note will tell you how to deliver the document to me."Dickstein smiled. "After that, you'll probably never see me again." Stiffcollar said, "By God, I hope so." Dickstein stood up. "You'd rather not be bothered by phone calls for a while," he said. He found the telephone -and pulled the cord out of the wall. He went to the door and opened it. The friend looked at the disconnected wire. His eyes seemed to be recovering. He said, "Are you afraid hell change his mind?" Dickstein said, "You're the one who should be afraid of that" He went out, closing the door softly behind him.

Life Is not a popularity contest, especially in the ROB. David Rostov was now very unpopular with his boss and with all those in the section who were loyal to his boss. Feliks, Vorontsov was boiling with anger atthe way he had been bypassed: from now on he would do anything he could to destroy Rostov. Rostov had anticipated this. He did not regret his decision to go for broke on the Dickstein affair. On the contrary, he was rather glad. He was already planning the finely stitched, stylishly tut dark blue English suit he would buy when he got his pass for Section 100 on the third floor of the GUM department store in Moscow. What he did regret was leaving the loophole for Vorontsov. He should have thought of the Egyptians and their reaction. That was the trouble with the Arabs, they were so clumsy and useless that you tended to ignore them as a force in the intelligence world. Fortunately Yuri Andropov, head of the KGB and confidante of Leonid Brezhnev, had seen what Feliks Vorontsov was trying to do, namely win back control of the Dickstein project; and he had not permitted it. So the only consequence of Rostov's error was that he would be forced to work with the wretched Arabs. That was bad enough. Rostov had his own littlie team, Nik Bunin and Pyotr Tyrin, and they worked well together. And Cairo was as leaky as a sieve: half the stuff that went through them got back to Tel Aviv. The fact that the Arab in question was Yasif Hassan might or might not help. Rostov remembered Hassan very clearly: a rich kid, indolent and haughty, smart enough but with no drive, shallow politics, and -too many clothes. His wealthy father had got him into Oxford, not his bmins; and Rostov resented that more now than he had then. Still, knowing the man should make it easier to control him. Rostov planned to start by making it clear Hassan was essentially superfluous, and was on the team for purely political reasons. He would need to be very clever about what he told Hassan and what he kept secret: say too little, and Cairo would bitch to Moscovr, too much, and Tel Aviv would be able to frustrate his every move. It was damned awkward, and he had only himself to blame for it.

He was uneasy about the whole affair by the time he reached Luxembourg. He had flown in from Athens, having changed identities twice and planes three times since Moscow. He took this little precaution because, if you came direct from Russia, the local intelligence people sometimes made a note of your arrival and kept an eye on you, and that could be a nuisance. There was nobody to meet him at the airport, of course. He took a taxi to his hotel. He had told Cairo he would be using the name David Roberts. When he checked into the hotel under that name, the desk clerk gave him a message. He opened the envelope as he, went up in the lift with the porter. It said simply "Room 179." He tipped the porter, picked up the room phone and dialed 179. A voice said, "Hello?" "I'm in 142. Give me ten minutes, then come here for a conference." "Fine. Listen, is that-" 'Shut up!" Rostov snapped. "No names. Ten minutes." "Of course, I'm sorry, 1-2' Rostov hung up. What kind of idiots was Cairo hiring now? The kind that used your real name over the hotel phone system, obviously. It was going to be even worse than he had feared. TUere was a time when he would have been over-professional, and turned out the lights and sat watching the doorway with a gun in his hand until the other man arrived, in case of a trap. Nowadays be considered that sort of behavior to be obsessive and left it to the actors in the television shows. Elaborate personal precautions were not his style, not anymore. He did not even carry a gun, in case customs officials searched his luggage at airports. But there were precautions and precautions, weapons and weapons- he did have one or two KOB gadgets subtly concealed-including an electric toothbrush that gave out a hum calculated to jam listening devioes, a miniature Polaroid camera, and a bootlace garrote. He unpacked his small case quickly. There was very little in it: a safety razor, the toothbrush, two American-made wash-and-wear shirts and a change of underwear. He made himself a drink from the room bar-scotch whiskey was one of the perks of working abroad. After exactly ten minutes there was a knock on the door. Rostov opened it~ and Yasif Hassan came in. Hassan smiled broadly. "How are you?" "How do you do," said Rostov, and shook his hand. "It's twenty years ... how have you been?" to BUSY. "Ibat we should meet again, after so long, and because of Dickstein!" "Yes. Sit down. Let's talk about Dickstein." Rostov sat, and Hassan followed suit. "Bring me up to date," Rostov continued. "You spotted Dickstein, then your people picked him up again at Nice airport. What happened next?" "He went on a guided tour of a nuclear power station, then shook off his tail," Hassan said. "So we've lost him again.st Rostov gave a grunt of disgust. "We'll have to do better than that." Hassan smiled-a salesman's smile, Rostov thought-and said, "If he wasn't the sort of agent who is bound to spot a tail and lose it, we wouldn't be so concerned about him, would wer, Rostov Ignored that. "Was he using a carr' 'Yes. He hired a Peugeot." "OkaY. What do you know about his movements before that, when he was here in Luxembourg?" Hassan spoke briskly, adopting Rostov's businesslike air. "He Stayed at the Alfa Hotel for a week under the name Ed Rodgers. He gave as his address the Paris bureau of a mag*zffie called Sciewe International. There is such a magazine; theY do have a Paris address, but ifs only a forwarding address for mail; they do use a freelance called Ed Rodgers, but theY haven't heard from him for over a year." Rostov nodded. "As you may know, that is a typical Mossad cover story. Nice and tight. Anything else?" "Yes. The night before he left there was an incident in the Rue Dicks. Two men were found quite savagely beatem It had the look of a professional job-neatly broken bones, you know the kind of Oft. The police aren't doing anything about It: the men were known thieves, thought to have been lying in wait close to a homosexual nightclub." "Robbing the queers as they come out!'

'That's the general idea. Anyway, there's nothing to connect Dickstein with the incident, except that he is capable of it and he was here at the time." "llat's enough for a strong presumption," Rostov said. "Do you think Dickstein is a homosexual?" "It's possible, but Cairo says there's nothing like that in his file, so he must have been very discreet about it all these years." "And therefore too discreet to go to queer clubs while he~s on assignment. Your argument is self-defeating, isn't it?" A trace of anger showed in Hassan's face. "So what do you think?" he said defensively. "My guess is that he had an informant who is queer." He stood up and began to pace the room. He felt he had made the right start with Hassan, but enough was enough: no point in making the man surly. It was time to ease up a little. "Let's speculate for a moment. Why would he want to look around a nuclear power station?" Hassan said, 'The Israelis have been on bad terms with the French since the Six-Day War. De Gaulle cut off the supply of arms. Maybe the Mossad plans some retaliation: like blowing up the reactor?" Rostov shook his head. "Even the Israelis aren!t that irresponsible. Besides, why then would Dickstein be in Luxembourg?" "Who knows!' Rostov sat down again. "What is there, here In Luxembourg? What makes it an important place? Why is your bank here, for exampler' "It's an important European capital. My bank is here because the Euronean Investment Bank is here. But there are also several Common Market institutions-in fact, there's a European Center over on the Kitchberg." "Which institutions?" "Me Secretariat of the European Parliament, the Council of Ministers, and the Court of Justice. Oh, and Euratom." Rostov stared at Hassan. "Euratom?" "It's short for the European Atomic Energy Community, but everybody----~' "I know what it is," Rostov said. "Don't you see the connection? He comes to Luxembourg, where Euratom has its headquarters, then he goes to visit a nuclear reactor." Hassan shrugged. "An interesting hypothesis. What's that you're drinking?' "Whiskey. Help yourself. As I recall, the French helped the Israelis build their nuclear reactor. Now they've probably cut off their aid. Dickstein may be after scientific secrets." Hassan poured himself a drink and sat down again. "How shall we operate, you and I? My orders are to cooperate with You! " "My, team is arriving this evening," Rostov said. He was thinking: Cooperate, hell-youll follow my orders. He said, "I always use the same two men-Nik Bunin and Pyotr Tyrin. We operate very well together. They know how I like things done. I want you to work with them, do what they say-youll learn a lot, they're very good agents." "And my people. . ." "We won't need them much longer," Rostov said briskly. "A small team is best. Now, our first job is to make sure we we Dickstein if and when he comes back to Luxembourg." "I've got a man at, the airport twenty-four hours a day." "Hell have thought of that, he won't fly in. We must cover sorni other spots. He might go to Euratom. . 'vMe Jean-Monnet building, yes." "We can cover the Alfa Hotel by bribing the desk clerk, but he won't go back there. And the nightclub in the Rue Dicks. Now, then, you said he hired a car." "Yes, in France." "Hell have dumped it by now-he knows that you know the number. I want you to call the rental company and find out where it was left-that may tell us what direction hes traveling in." "Very well." "Moscow has put his photograph on the wire, so our people will be looking out for him in every capital city in the world." Rostov finished his drink. "We'll catch him. One way or another." 94M you really think sor Hassan asked. "I've played chess with him, I know how his mind works. His opening moves are routine, predictable; then suddenly he does something completely unexpected, usually something highly risky. You just have to wait for him to stick out his neck-then you chop his head off." Hassan said, "As I recall, you lost that chess match."

Rostov gave a wolfish grin. "Yes, but this is real life," he mdd.

There are two kinds of shadow: pavement artists and bulldogs. Pavement artists regard the business of shadowing people as a skill of the highest order, comparable with acting or cellular biophysics or poetry. They are perfectionists, capable of being almost invisible. They have wardrobes or unobtrusive clothes, they practice blank expressions in front of their mirrors, they know dozens of tricks with shop doorways and bus queues, policemen and children, spectacles and shopping bags and hedges. They despise the bulldogs, who think that shadowing someone is the same as following him, and trail the mark the way a dog follows its master. Nik Bunin was a bulldog. He was a young thug, the type of man who always becomes either a policeman or a criminal, depending on his luck. Luck had brought Nik into the KOB: his brother, back in Georgia, was a dope dealer, running hashish from Tbilisi to Moscow University (where it was consumed by--among othem-Rostov's son Yuri). Nik was officially a chauffeur, unofficially a bodyguard, and even more unofficially a full-time professional ruffian. It was Nik who spotted The Pirate. Nick was a little under six feet tall, and very broad. He wore a leather jacket across his wide shoulders. He had short blond hair and watery green eyes, and he was embarrassed about the fact that at the age of twenty-five he still did not need, to shave every day. At'the nightclub in the Rue Dicks they thought he was cute as bell. He came in at seven-thirty, soon after the club opened, and sat in the same comer all night, drinking iced vodka with lugubrious relish, Just watching. Somebody asked him to dance, and he told the man to piss off in bad French. When he turned up the second night they wondered if he was a jilted lover lying in wait for a showdown with his ex. He had about him the air of what the gays called rough trade, what with those shoulders and the leather jacket and his dour expression. Nik knew nothing of these undercurrents. He had been shown a photograph of a man and told to go to a club and look out for the man; so he memorized the face, then went to the club and looked. It made little difference to him whether the place was a whorehouse or a cathedral. He liked occasionally to get the chance to beat people up, but otherwise all he asked was regular pay and two days off every week to devote to his enthusiasms, which were vodka and coloring books. When Nat Dickstein came into the nightclub, Nik felt no sense of excitement. When he did well, Rostov always assumed it was because he had scrupulously obeyed precise orders, and he was generally right. Nik watched the mark sit down alone, order a drink, get served and sip his beer. It looked like he, too, was waiting. Nik went to the phone in the lobby and called the hotel. Rostov answered. "Mis is Nik. The mark just came in." "Goodl". said Rostov. "Whafs he doing?" "Waiting." "Good. Alone?" "Yes. "Stay with him and call me if he does anything."

"I'm sending Pyotr down. Hell wait outside. If the mark leaves the club you follow him, doubling with Pyotr. The Arab will be with you in a car, well back. It's a ... wait a minute . . . its a green Volkswagen hatchback." "Okay." "Get back to him now." Nik hung up and returned to his table, not looking at Dickstein as he crossed the club. A few minutes later a well-dressed, good-looking man of about forty came into the club. He looked around, then walked past Dickstein's table and went to the bar. Nik saw Dickstein pick up a piece of paper from the table and put it in his pocket. It was all very discreet: only someone who was carefully observing Dickstein would know anything had happened. Nik went to the phone again. "A queer came in and gave him something-it looked like a ticket," he told Rostov. "Like a theater ticket, maybeT' "Don't know." "Did they speak?"

"No, the queer just dropped the ticket on the table as he went by. They didn't even look at each other." "All right. Stay with it. Pyotr should be outside by now." 'Wait," Nik said. "Me mark just come into the lobby. Hold on . . . he's going to the desk ... he's handed over the ticket, that!s what it was, it was a cloakroom ticket." "Stay on the line, tell me what happens." Rostov's voice was deadly calm. "The guy behind the counter is giving him a briefcase. He leaves a tip . . ." "Ira a delivery. Good." "Ibe mark is leaving the club." "Follow him." "Shall I snatch the briefcase?" "No, I don!t want us to show ourselves until we know what he!& doing, just find out where he goes, and stay low. Go!" Nik hung up. He gave the cloakroom attendant some notes, saying: "I have to rush, this will cover my bill." Then he went up the staircase after Nat Dickstein. Out on the street it was a bright summer evening, and there were plenty of people making their way to restaurants and cinemas or just strolling. Nik looked left and right, then saw the mark on the opposite side of the road, fifty yards away. He crossed over and followed. Dickstein was walking quickly, looking straight ahead, carrying the briefcase under his arm. Nik plodded after him for a couple of blocks. During this time, if Dickstein looked back he would see some distance behind him a man who had also been in the nightclub, and he would begin to wonder if he were being shadowed. Then Pyotr came alongside Nik, touched his arm, and went on ahead. Nik dropped back to a position from which he could see Pyotr but not Dickstein. If Dickstein looked again now, he would not see Nik and he would not recognize Pyotr. It was very difficult for the mark to sniff this kind of surveillance; but of course, the longer the distance for which the mark was shadowed, the more men were needed to keep up the regular switches. After another half mile the green Volkswagen pulled to the curb beside Nik. Yasif Hassan leaned across from the driving seat and opened the door. "New orders," he said. "Jump in." Nik got into the car and Hassan steered back toward the nightclub in the Rue Dicks.

"You did very well," Hassan said. Nik ignored this. "We want you to go back to the club, pick out the delivery man and follow him home," Hassan said. "Colonel Rostov said this?" "Yes." "Okay." Hassan stopped the car close to the club. Nil went in. He stood in the doorway, looking carefully all about the club. The delivery man had gone.

The computer printout ran to more than one hundred pages. Dickstein's heart sank as he flicked through the prized sheets of paper he had worked so hard to get. None of it made sense. . He returned to the first page and looked again. There were a lot of jumbled numbers and letters. Could it be in code? No-this printout was used every day by the ordinary office workers of Euratom, so it had to be fairly easily comprehensible. Dickstein concentrated. He saw you." He knew that to be an isotope of uranium. Another group of letters and numbers was "180KG"---one hundred and eighty kilograms. "17F68" would be a date, the seventeenth of February this year. Gradually the lines of computer-alphabet letters and numbers began to yield up their meanings: he found placenames from various European countries, words such as "TamN" and "TRucx!I with distances affixed next to them and names with suffixes "SA" or "mc," indicating companies. Eventually the layout of the entries became clear: the first line gave the quantity and type of material, the second line the name and address of the sender, and so on. His. spirits lifted. He read on with growing comprehension and a sense of achievement. About sixty consignments were listed in the printout. There seemed to be three main types: large quantities of crude uranium ore coming from mines in South Africa, Canada and France to European refineries; fuel elements-oxides, uranium metal or enriched mixtures-moving from fabrication plants to reactors; and spent fuel from reactors going for reprocessing and disposal. There were a few nonstandard shipments, mostly of plutonium and transuranium elements extracted from spent fuel and sent to laboratories in universities and research institutes. Dickstein!s head ached and his eyes were bleary by the time he found what he was looking for. On the very last page there was one shipment headed "NON-NUCLEAR." He had been briefly told, by the Rehovot physicist with the flowered tie, about the non-nuclear uses of uranium and its compounds in photography, in dyeing, as coloring agents for glass and ceramics and as industrial catalysts. Of course the stuff always had the potential for fission no matter how mundane and innocent its use, so the Euratom regulations still applied. However, Dickstein thought it likely that in ordinary industrial chemistry the security would be less strict. The entry on the last page referred to two hundred tons of yellowcake, or crude uranium oxide. It was in Belgium, at a metal refinery in the countryside near the Dutch border, a site licensed for storage of fissionable material. The refinery was owned by the Soci6t6 Generale de la Chimie, a mining conglomerate with headquarters in Brussels. SGC had sold the yelloweake to a German concern called F.A. Pedler of Wiesbaden. Pedler planned to use it for "manufacture of uranium compound especially uranium carbide, in commercial quantities." Dickstein recalled that the -carbide was a catalyst for the production of synthetic ammonia. However, it seemed that Pedler were not going to work the uranium themselves, at least not initially. Dickstein's interest sharpened as he read that they had not applied for their own works In Wiesbaden to be licensed, but instead for permission to ship the yellowcake to Genoa by sea. There it was to undergo "non-nuclear processing" by a company called Angeluzzi e Bianco. By seat The implications struck Dickstein instantly: the load would be passed through a European port by someone else. He read on. Transport would be by railway from SGCs refinery to the docks at ' Antwerp. There the yelloweake would be loaded on to the motor vessel Coparelli for shipment to Genoa. The short journey from the Italian port to the Angeluzzi e Bianco works would be made by road. For the trip the yellowcake-looking like sand but yellower-would be packed into five hundred and sixty 200-liter oil drums with heavily sealed lids. The train would require eleven cars, the ship would carry no other cargo for this voyage, and the Italians would use six trucks for the last leg of the journey. It was the sea journey that excited Dickstein: through the English Channel, across the Bay of Biscay, down the Atlantic coast of Spain, through the Strait of Gibraltar and across one thousand miles of the Mediterranean. A lot could go wrong in that distance. Journeys on land were straightforward, controlled: a train left at noon one day and arrived at eight-thirty the following morning; a truck traveled on roads that always carried other traffic, Including police cars; a plane was continually in contact with someone or other on the ground. But the sea was unpredictable, with its own laws-a trip could take ten days or twenty, there might be storms and collisions and engine trouble, unscheduled ports of call and sudden changes of direction. Hijack a plane and the whole world would see it on television an hour later; hijack a ship and no one would know about it for days, weeks, perhaps forever. The sea was the inevitable choice forThe Pirate. Dickstein thought on, with growing enthusiasm and a sense that the solution to his problem was within his reach. Hijack the Coparelli ... then what? Transfer the cargo to the hold of the pirate ship. The Coparelli would probably have its own derricks. But transferring a cargo at sea could be chancy. Dickstein looked on the printout for the proposed date of the voyage: November. That was bad. There might be storms--even the Mediterranean could blow up a gale in November. What, then? Take over the Coparelli and sail her to Haifa? It would be hard to dock a stolen ship secretly, even in top-secarity Israel. Dickstein glanced at his wristwatch. It was past midnight. He began to undress for bed. He needed to know more about the Coparelth her tonnage, bow many crew, present whereabouts, who owned her, and if possible her layout. Tomorrow he would go to London. You could find out anything about ships at Iloyd's of London. There was something else be needed to know- who was following him around Europe? There had been a big team in France. Tonight as he left the nightclub in the Rue Dicks a thuggish face had been behind him. He had suspected a tail, but the face had disapptared---coincidence, or another big team? It rather depended on whether Hassan was In the game. He could make inquiries about that, too, in England. He wondered how to travel. If somebody had picked up his scent tonight he ought to take some precautions tomorrow. Even if the thuggish face were nobody, Dickstein had to make sure. he was not spotted at Luxembourg airport He picked up the phone and dialed the desk. When the clerk answered, he said, "Wake me at six-thirty, please." 'Wery good, sir." I He hung up and got into bed. At last he had a definite target: the Caparelli. He did not yet have a plan, but he knew in outline what had to be done. Whatever other difficulties came up, the combination of a non-nuclear consignment and sea journey was irresistible. He turned out the light and closed his eyes, thinking: What good day.

David Rostov had always been a condescending bastard, and he had not improved with age, thought Yasif Hassan. "What you probably don't realize . . ." he would say with a patronizing smile; and, "We won't need your people much longer-a small team is better"; and, "You ran tag along in the car and keep out of sight"; and now, "Man the phone while I go to the Embassy." Hassan had been prepared to work under Rostov's orders as one of the team, but it seemed his status was lower than that. It was, to say the least, insulting to be considered inferior to a man like Nik Bunin. The trouble was, Rostov had some justification. It was not that the Russians were smarter than the Arabs; but the KGB was undoubtedly a larger, richer, more powerful and more professional organization than Egyptian Intelligence. Hassan bad no choice but to suffer Rostov's attitude, justified or not. Cairo was delighted to have the KGB hunting one of the Arab world's greatest enemies. If Hassan were to complain, he rather than Rostov would be taken.off the case. Rostov might remember, thought Hassan, that it was the Arabs who had first spotted Dickstein; there would be no investigation at all had it not been for my original discovery. All the same, he wanted to win Rostov's respect; to have the Russian confide in him, discuss developments, ask his opinion. He would have to prove to Rostov that he was a competent and professional agent, easily the equal of NO: Bunin and Pyotr Tyrin. The phone rang. Hassan picked it up bastily. "Hello?" "Is the other one there?" It was I)rriWs voice. "'He's out. What's happening?" Tyrin hesitated. "When will be be back?" "I don't know," Hassan lied. "Give me your reporV' "Okay. The client got off the train at Zurich." "Zurich? Go on." "He took a taxi to a bank, entered and went down into the vault. This particular bank has safe-deposit boxes. He came out carrying a briefcase." "And then?" "He went to a car dealer on the outskirts of the city and bought a used E-type Jaguar, paying with cash he had in the case. "I see." Hassan thought he knew what was corriing next. "He drove out of Zurich in the car, got onto the E17 autobahn and increased his speed to one hundred and forty miles per hour." "And you lost him," said Hassan, feeling gratification and anxiety in equal parts. "We had a taxi and an embassy Mercedes." Hassan was visualizing the road map of Europe. "He could be headed for anywhere in France, Spain, Germany, Scandinavia ... unless he doubles back, in which case Italy, Austria . . . Hes vanished, then. All right--come back to base." He hung up before Tyrin could question his authority. So, he thought, the great KGB is not invincible after all. Much as he liked to see them fall on their collective face, his malicious pleasure was overshadowed by the fear that they had lost Dickstein permanently. He was still thinking about what they ought to do next when Rostov came back. "Anythingr'the Russian asked. "Your people lost Dickstein," Hassan said, suppressing a smile. Rostov's face darkened. "How?" Hassan told him. Rostov asked, "So what are they doing now?" "I suggested they might come back here. I guess they're on their way."

Rostov grunted. Hassan said, "rve been thinking about what we should do next." "We've got to find Dickstein again." Rostov was fiddling with something in his suitcase, and his replies were distracted. "Yes, but apart from that." Rostov turned around. "Get to the point" "I think we should pick up the delivery man and ask him what he passed to Mckstein." Rostov stood still, considering. "Yes," he said thoughtfully. Hassan was delighted. "We'll have to find him ... 'rbat shouldn't be impossible," Rostov said. "If we keep watch on the nightclub, the airport, the Alfa Hotel and the Jean-Monnet building for a few days. . ." Hassan watched Rostov, studying his tall thin figure, and his impassive, unreadable face with its high forehead and close-cropped graying hair. I'm right, Hassan thought, and hes got to admit ft. "Yoiere right," Rostov said. "I should have thought of that" Hassan felt a glow of pride, and thought: maybe he's not such a bastard after all.

Chapter Six

The city of Oxford had not changed as much as the people. The city was predictably different: it was bigger, the cars and shops were more numerous and more garish, and the streets were mom crowded. But the predominant characteristic of the place was still the cream-colored stone of the college buildings, with the occasional glimpse, through an arch, of the startling green turf of a deserted quadrangle. Dickstein noticed also the curious pale English light, such a contrast with the brassy glare of Israeli sunshine: of course it had al ways been them, but as a native he had never seen it. How ever, the students seemed a totally new breed. In the Middle East and all over Europe Dickstein had seen men with hair growing over their ears, with orange and pink neckerchiefs, with bell-bottom trousers and high-heeled shoes; and he had not been expecting people to be dressed as they were in 1948, in tweed jackets and corduroy trousers, with Oxford shirts and Paisley ties from Hall's. All the same he was not prepared for this. Many of them were barefoot in the streets, or wore peculiar open sandals without socks. Men and women had trousers which seemed to Dickstein to be vulgarly tight-fitting. After observing several women whose breasts wobbled freely inside loose, colorful shirts, he concluded that brassieres were out of fashion. There was a great deal of blue denim--not just jeans but shirts, jackets, skirts and even coats.-And the hairl It was this that really shocked him. The men grew it not just over their ears but sometimes halfway down their backs. He saw two chaps with pigtails. Others, mate and female, grew it upward and outward in great masses of curls so that they always looked as if they were peering through a hole in a hedge. This apparently being in sufficiently outrageous for some, they had added Jesus beards, Mexican mustaches, or swooping side-whiskers. They might have been men from Mars. He walked through the city center, marveling, and headed out. It was twenty years since he had followed this route, but he remembered the way. Little things about his college days came back to him: the discovery of Louis Armstrong's astonishing comet-playing; the way he had been secretly self-conscious about his Cockney accent; wondering why everyone but him liked so much to get drunk; borrowing books faster than he could read them so that the pile on the table in his room always grew higher. He wondered whether the years had changed him. Not much, he thought. Then he had been a frightened man looking for a fortress: now he had Israel for a fortress, but instead of hiding there he had to come out and fight to defend it. Then as now he had been a lukewarm socialist, knowing that society was unjust, not sure how it might be changed for the better. Growing older, he had pined skills but not wisdom. In fact, it seemed to him that he knew more and understood less. He was somewhat happier now, he decided. He knew who he was and what he had to do; he had figured out what life was about and discovered that he could cope with it; although his attitudes were much the same as they had been in 1948, he was now more sure of them. However, the young Dickstein had hoped for certain other kinds of happiness which, in the event, had not come his way; indeed, the possibility had receded as the years passed. This place reminded him uncomfortably of all that. This house, especially. He stood outside, looking at it. It had not changed at all: the paintwork was still green and white, the garden still a jungle In the front. He opened the gate, walked up the path to the door, and knocked. This was not the efficient way to do it. Ashford might have moved away, or died, or simply gone on holiday. Dickstein should perhaps have called the university to check. However, if the inquiry was to be casual and discreet it was necessary to risk wasting a little time. Besides, he had rather liked the idea of seeing the old place again after so many years. Tle door opened and the woman said, "Yes?" Dickstein went cold with shock. His mouth dropped open. He staggered slightly, and put a hand against the wall to steady himself. His face creased into a firown of astonishment. It was she, and she was still twenty-five years old. In a voice full of incredulity, Dickstein said, "Eila . . .

She stared at the odd little man on the doorstep. He looked like a don, with his round spectacles and his old gray suit and his bristly short hair. There had been nothing wrong with him when she opened the door, but as soon as he set eyes on her he had turned quite gray This kind of thing had happened to her once before, walking down the High Street. A delightful old gentleman had stared at her, doffed his hat, stopped her and said, "I say, I know we haven!t been introduced but. . ." This was obviously the same phenomenon, so she said, "rin not Eila. I'm Suza. "Suza!" said the stranger. 'They say I look exactly like my mother did when she was my age. You obviously knew her. Will you come in?" The man stayed where he was. He seemed to be recovering from the surprise, although he was still pale. "I'm Nat Dickstein," he said with a little smile. "How do you do," Suza said. "Won't you---~' Then she realized what he had said. It was her turn to be surprised. "Mister Dicksteiril" she said, her voice rising almost to a squeal. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. "You remembered," he said when she let go. He looked pleased and embarrassed. "Of coursel" she said. "You used to pet Hezekiah. You were the only one who could understand what he was saying." He gave that little smile again. "Hezekiah the catrd forgotten." "Well, come inl" He stepped past her into the house, and she closed the door. Taking his arm, she led him across the square hall. "This is wonderful," she said. "Come into the kitchen, rve been messing about trying to make a cake." She gave him a stool. He sat down and looked about slowly, giving little nods of recognition at the old kitchen table, the fireplace, the view through the window.

"Let's have some coffee," Suza said. "Or would you prefer tear, "Coffee, please. Thank you." "I expect you want to see Daddy. He's teaching this morning, but hell be back soon for lunch." She poured coffee beans into a hand-operated grinder. "And your motherr, "She died fourteen years ago. Cancer." Suza looked at him, expecting the automatic "I'm sorry." The words did not come, but the thought showed on his face. Somehow she Red him more for that She ground the beans. The noise filled the silence. When she had finished, Dickstein said, "Professor Ashford is still teaching ... I was just trying to work out his age." "Sixty-five," she said. "He doesn't do a lot." Sixty-five sounded ancient but Daddy didn't seem old, she thought fondly: his mind was still sharp as a knife. She wondered what Dickstein did for a living. "Didift you emigrate to Palestine?" she asked him. "Israel. I live on a kibbutz. I grow grapes and make wine." Israel. In this house it was always called Palestine. How would Daddy react to this old friend who now stood for everything Daddy stood against? She knew the answer: it would make no difference, for Daddy's politics were theoretical, not practical. She wondered why Dickstein had come. "Are you on holidayr' "Business. We now think the wine is good enough to export to Europe." "'Mat's very good. And you're selling it?" "Looking out the possibilities. Tell me about yourself. rIl bet you're not a university professor." The remark annoyed her a little, and she knew she was blushing faintly just below her ears: she did not want this man to think she was not clever enough to be a don. "What makes you say thatT' she said coolly. "You're so . . . warm." Dickstein looked away, as if he immediately regretted the choice of word. "Anyway, too young. She had misjudged him. He had not been condescending. "I have my father's ear for languages, but not his academic turn of mind, so I'm an air hostess," she said, and wondered if it were true that she did not have an academic mind, whether she really was not clever enough to be a don. She poured boiling water into a filter, and the smell of coffee filled the room. She did not know what to say next. She glanced up at Dickstein and discovered that he was openly gazing at her, deep in thought. His eyes were large and dark brown. Suddenly she felt shy-which was most unusual. She told him so, "Shy?" he said. "That's because I've been staring at you as if you were a painting, or something. I'm trying to get used to the fact that you're not Eila, you're the little girl with the old gray cat." "Hezekiah died, it must have been soon after you left." "'Ilere's a lot that's changed." "Were you great friends with my parentsr "I was one of your father's students. I admired your mother from a distance. Eila . . ." Again he looked away, as if to pretend that it was someone else speaking. "She wasn't just beautiful--she was striking." Suza looked into his face. She thought: You loved her. Tlie thought came unbidden; it was intuitive; she immediately suspected it might be wrong. However, it would explain the severity of his reaction on the doorstep when he saw her. She said, "My mother was the original hippy-did you know thatT' "I don't know what you mean." "She wanted to be free. She rebelled against the restrictions put on Arab women, even though she came from an affluent, liberal home. She married my father to get out of the Middle East. Of course she found that western society had its own ways of repressing women --- so she proceeded to break most of the rules." As she spoke Suza remembered how she had re alized, while she was becoming a woman and beginning to understand passion, that her mother was promiscuous. She had been shocked, she was sure, but somehow she could not recall the feeling. "'Mat makes her a hippy?" Dickstein said. "Hippies believe in free love." I'll see." And from his reaction to that she knew that her mother had not loved Nat Dickstein. For no reason at all this made her sad. "Tell me about your parents," she said. She was talking to him as if they were the same age.

"Only if you pour the coffee." She laughed. "I was forgetting." "My father was a cobbler," Dickstein began. "He was good at mending boots but he wasn't much of a businessman. Still, the Thirties were good years for cobblers in the East End of London. People couldn't afford new boots, so they had their old ones mended year after year. We were never rich, but we had a little more money than most of the people around us. And, of course, there was some pressure on my father from his family to expand the business, open a second shop, employ other men." Suza passed him his coffee. "Milk, sugar?" "Sugar, no milk. Thank you." "Do go on." It was a different world, one she knew nothing about: it had never occurred to her that a shoe repairer would do well in a depression. "Me leather dealers thought my father was a tartar-they could never sell him anything but the best. If there was a second-rate hide they would say, 'Don't bother . giving that to Dickstein, hell send it straight back.' So I was told, anyway." He gave that little smile again. "Is he still alive?" Suza asked. "He died before the war." "What happened?" "Well. The Thirties were the Fascist years in London. They used to hold open-air meetings every night. The speakers would tell them how Jews the world over were sucking the blood of working people. The speakers, the organizers, were respectable middle-class men, but the crowds were unemployed ruffians. After the meetings they would march through the streets, breaking windows and roughing-up pashersby. Our house was a perfect target for them. We were Jews; my father was a shopkeeper and therefore a bloodsucker; and, true to their propaganda, we were slightly better off than the people around us." He stopped, staring into space. Suza waited for him to go on. As he told this story, he seemed to 'huddle-crossing his legs tightly, wrapping his arms around his body, hunching his back. Sitting there on the kitchen stool, in his ill-fitting suit of clerical,gray, with his elbows and knees and shoulders pointing at all angles, he looked like a bundle of sticks in a bag. "We lived over the shop. Every damn night I used to lie awake, waiting for them to go past. I was blind terrified, mainly because I knew my father was so frightened. Sometimes they did nothing, just went by. Usually they shouted out slogans. Often, often they broke the windows. A couple of times they got Into the shop and smashed it up. I thought they were going to come up the stairs. I put my head under the pillow, crying, and cursed God for making me Jewish." "Didn!t the police do anything?" 'Vhat they could. If they were around they stopped it. But they had a lot to do in those days. The Communists were the only people who would help us fight back, and my father didn't want their help. All the political parties were against the Fascists, of course-but it was the Reds who gave out pickaxe handles and crowbars and built barricades. I tried to join the Party but they wouldn't have me--too young." "And your father?" "He just sort of lost heart. After the shop was wrecked the second time there was no money to fix it. It seemed be didn't have the energy to start again somewhere else. He went on the dole, and just kind of wasted. He died in 1938." "And you?" "Grew up fast Joined the army as soon as I looked old enough. Got taken prisoner early. Came to Oxford after the war, then dropped out and went to Israel." "Have you got a family out there?" "The whole kibbutz is my family but I never mar. ried." "Because of my mother?" "Perhaps. Partly. You're very direct." She felt the glow of a faint blush below her ears again: it had been a very intimate question to ask someone who was practically a stranger. Yet it had come quite naturally. She said, "rm sorry." "Don't apologize," Dickstein said. "I rarely talk like this. Actually, this whole trip is, I don't know, full of the past. There's a word for it. Redolent." "That means smelling of death." Dickstein shrugged. There was a silence. I like this man a lot, Suza thought. I like his conversation and his silences, his big eyes and his old suit and his memories. I hope he'll stay a while. She picked up the coffee cups and opened the dishwasher.

A spoon slid off a saucer and bounced under the large old freezer. She said, "Damn."

Dickstein got down on his knees and peered underneath.

"It's there forever, now," Suza said. '~Mat thing is too heavy to move."

Dickstein lifted one end of the freezer with his right hand and reached underneath it with his left. He lowered the end of the freezer, stood up and handed the spoon to Suza.

She stared at him. "What are you-Captain America? That thing is heavy."

"I work in the fields. How do you know about Captain America? He was the rage in my boyhood."

"Hes the rage now. 1he art in those comics is fantastic."

"Well, stone the crows," he said. "We had to read them in secret because they were trash. Now they're art. Quite right, too.91

She smiled. "Do you really work in the fields?" He looked Eke a clerk, not a field hand.

"Of course."

"A wine salesman who actually gets dirt under his fingernails in the vineyard. That's unusual."

"Not in Israel. Were a little ... obsessive, I suppose ... about the soil." *

Suza looked at her watch and was surprised to see how late it was. "Daddy should be home any minute. Youll eat with us, won't you? Im afraid Ws only a sandwich."

'qbat would be lovely."

She sliced a French loaf and began to make salad. Dickstein offered to wash lettuce, and she gave him an apron. After a while she caught him watching her again, smiling. "What are you thinking?"

"I was remembering something that would embarrass you," he said.

'Tell me anyway."

"I was here one evening, around six," he began. "Your mother was out. I had come to borrow a book from your,father. You were in your bath. Your father got a phone call from France, I can't remember why. While he was talking you began to cry. I went upstairs, took you out of the bath, dried you and put you into your nightdress. You must have been four or five years old."

Suza laughed. She had a sudden vision of Dickstein in a steamy bathroom, reaching down and effortlessly lifting her out of a hot bath full of soap bubbles. In the vision she was not a child but a grown woman with wet breasts and foam between her thighs, and his hands were strong and sure as he drew her against his chest. Then the kitchen door opened and her father came in and the dream vanished, leaving only a sense of intrigue and a trace of guilt.

Nat Dickstein thought Professor Ashford had aged wen. He was now bald except for a monkish fringe of white hair. He had put on a little weight and his movements were slower, but he still had the spark of intellectual curiosity in his eyes. Suza said, "A surprise guest, Daddy." Ashford looked at him and, without hesitation, said, "Young Dicksteinl Well, I'm blessedl My dear fellow." Dickstein shook his hand. ne grip was firm. "How are you, professorr, "In the Pink, dear boy, especially when my daughter's here to look after me. You remember Suza?" "Weve spent the morrung remmiscing," Dickstein said. "I see shes put you In an apron already. That's fast even for her. I've told her shell never get a husband this way. Take it off, dear boy, and come and have a drink." - With a rueful grin at Suza, Dickstein did as he was told and followed Ashford Into the drawingroom. "Sherryr Ashford asked. "'Ibank you, a small one." Dickstein suddenly remembered he was here for a purpose. He had to get information out of Ashford without the old.man realizing it. He-had been, as it were, off-duty, for a couple of hours, and now he had to turn his mind back to work. But softly, softly, he thought Ashford handed him a small glass of pale sherry. "Now tell me, what have you been up to all these years?" Dickstein sipped the sherry. It was very dry, the way they liked it at Oxford. He told the professor the story he had given to Hassan and to Suza, about finding export markets for Israeli wine. Ashford asked informed questions. Were Young People leaving the kibbutzim for the cities? Had time and Prosperity eroded the communalist ideas of the kibbutzaiks? Did European Jews mix and intermarry with African and Levantine Jews? Dickstein's answers were yes, no, and not much. Ashford courteously avoided the question of their opposing views on the political moralit~ of Israel, but nevertheless there was, underlying his detached inquiries about Israeli problems, a detectable trace of eagerness for bad news. Suza called them to the kitchen for lunch before Dickstein had an opportunity to ask his own questions. Her French sandwiches were vast and delicious. She had opened a bottle of red wine to go with them. Dickstein could see why Ashford had put on weight Over coffee Dickstein said, "I ran into a contemporary of mine a couple of weeks ago-in Luxembourg, of all places:' Ashford said, "Yasif Hassan?" "How did you knowT' "We've kept in touch. I know he lives In Luxembourg." "Have you seen him muchr' Dickstein asked, thinking: Softly, Softly. "Several times, over the years." Ashford paused. "It needs to be said, Dickstein, that the wars which have given You everything took everything away from him. His family lost all their money and went into a refugee camp. Res understandably bitter about Israel." 'Dickstein nodded. He was now almost certain that Hassan was in the game. "I had very little time with him-I was on my way to catch a plane. How is he otherwise?" Ashford frowned. "I find him a bit - . . distrait," he finished, unable to find the right English word. 'Sudden errands he has to run, canceled appointments, odd phone calls at all times, mysterious absences. Perhaps it's the behavior of a dispossessed aristocrat." "Perhaps," Dickstein said. In fact it was the typical behavior of an agent, and he was now one hundred percent sure that the meeting with Hassan had blown him. He said, "DO you see anyone else from my year?" "Only old Toby. He's on the Conservative Front Bench now." "Perfectf" Dickstein said delightedly. "He always did talk Me an opposition spokesman-pompous and defensive at the same time. I'm glad he's found his niche." Suza said, "More coffee, Nat?" "No, thank you." He stood up. "Ill help you clear away, then I must get back to London. I'm so glad I dropped in on you.

"Daddy will clear up," Suza said. She grinned. "We have an agreement." "I'm afraid it is so," Ashford confessed. "She won't be anybody's drudge, least of all mine." The remark surprised Dickstein because it was so obviously untrue. Perhaps Suza didn't wait on him hand and foot, but she seemed to look after him the way a working wife wouldL "niwalkinto town with you," &=a said. "Let me get my

Ashford shook Dickstein's hand. "A real pleasure to see you, dear boy, a real pleasure." Suza came back wearing a velvet jacket. Ashford saw them to the door and waved, smiling. As they walked along the street Dickstein talked just to have an excuse to keep looking at her. The jacket matched her black velvet trousers, and she wore a loose cream-colored shirt that looked like silk. Like her mother, she knew how to dress to make the most of her shining dark hair and perfect tan skin. Dickstein gave her his arm, feeling rather old-fashioned, just to have her touching him. There was no doubt that she had the same physical magnetism as her mother: there was that something about her which filled men with the desire to possess her, a desire not so much like lust as greed; the need to own such a beautiful object, so that it would never be taken away. Dickstein was old enough now to know how false such desires were, and to know that Eila Ashford would not have made him happy. But the daughter seemed to have something the. mother had lacked, and that was warmth. Dickstein was sorry he would never see Suza again. Given time, he might ... Well. It was not to be. When they reached the station he asked her, "Do you ever go to London?" "Of course," she said. "rm going tomorrow." "What forTI ."To have dinner with you," she said.

When Suza's mother died, her father was wonderful. She was eleven years of age: old enough to understand death, but too young to cope with it. Daddy had been calm and comforting. He had known when to leave her to weep alone and when to make her dress up and go out to lunch.

Quite unembarrassed, he had talked to her about menstruation and gone with her cheerfully to buy new brassieres. He gave her a new role in life: she became the woman of the house, giving instructions to the cleaner, writing the laundry list, handing out sherry, on Sunday mornings. At the age of fourteen she was in charge of the household finances. She took care of her father better than Eila ever had. She would throw away worn shirts and replace them with identical new ones without daddy ever knowing. She learned that it was possible to be alive and secure and loved even without a mother. Daddy gave her a role, just as he had her mother; and, like her mother, she had rebelled against the role while continuing to play it. He wanted her to stay at Oxford, to be first an undergraduate, then a graduate student, then a teacher. It would have meant that she was always around to take care of him. She said she was not smart enough, with an uneasy feeling that this was an excuse for something else, and took a job that obliged her to be away from home and unable to look after Daddy for weeks at a time. High in the air and thousands of miles from Oxford, she served drinks and meals to middleaged men, and wondered if she really had changed anything. Walking home from the railway station, she thought about the groove she was in and whether she would ever get out of it She was At the end of a love affair which, like the rest of her life, had wearily followed a familiar pattern. Julian was in his late thirties, a philosophy lecturer specializing in the pre-Socratic Greeks: brilliant, dedicated and helpless. He took drugs for everything-cannabis to make love, amphetamine to work, Mogadon to sleep. He was divorced, without children. At first she had found him interesting, charming and sexy. When they were in bed he liked her to get on top. He took her to fringe theaters in London and bizarre student parties. But it all wore off: she realized that he wasn't really very interested in sex, that he took her out because she looked good on his arm. that he liked her company just because she was so impressed by his intellect. One day she found herself ironing his clothes while he took a tutorial-, and then it was as good as over. Sometimes she went to bed with men her own age or younger, mostly because she was consumed with lust for their bodies. She was usually disappointed and they all bored her eventually. She was already regretting the impulse which had led her to &ake a date with Nat Dickstein. He was depressingly true to type: a generation older than she and patently in need of care and attention. Worst of all, he had been in love with her mother. At first sight he was a father-figure like all the rest But he was different in some ways, she told herself. He was a faimer, not an academic--he would probably be the least well-read person she had ever dated. He had gone to Palestine instead of sitting In Oxford coffee shops talking about it He could pick up one end of the freezer with his right hand. In the time they had spent together he had more than once sur. prised her by not conforming to her expectations. Maybe Nat Dickstein will breA the pattern, she thought. And maybe rin. kidding myself, - Nat Dickstein called the Israeli Embassy from a phone booth at Paddington Station. When he got through he asked for the Commercial Credit Office. There was no such department: this was a code for the Mossad message center. He was answered by a young man with a Hebrew accent. This pleased Dickstein, for ft was good to know there were people for whom Hebrew was a native tongue and not a dead language. He knew the conversation would automatically be tape-recorded, so he went straight into his message: "Rush to Bill, Sale jeopardized by presence of opposition team. Henry~" He hung up without waiting for an acknowledgment. He walked to his hotel from the station, thinking about Suza Ashford. He was to meet her at Paddington tomorrow evening. She would spend the night at the flat of a friend. Dickstein did not really know where to begin-he could not remember ever taking a woman out to dinner just for pleasure. As a teenager he had been too poor; after the war he had been too nervous and awkward; as he grew older he somehow never got into the habit There had been dinners with colleagues, of course, and with kibbutzniks after shopping expeditions in Nazareth; but to take a woman, just the two of you, for nothing more than the pleasure of each otheescompany... What did you do? You were supposed to pick her up in your car, wearing your dinner jacket, and give her a box of chocolates tied with a big ribbon. Dickstein was meeting Suza at the train station, and he had neither car nor dinner jacket. Where would he take her? He did not know any posh restaurants in Israel, let alone England. WaWng alone through Hyde Park~ he smiled broadly. This was a laughable situation for a man of forty-three to be in. She knew he was no sophisticate, and obviously she did not care, for she had invited herself to dinner. She would also know the restaurants and what to order. It was hardly a matter of life and death. Whatever happened, he was going to enjoy it. There was now a hiatus in his work. Having discovered that he was blown, he could do nothing until he had talked to Pierre Borg and Borg had decided whether or not to abort. That evening he went to see a French film called Un Homme et Une Femme. It was a simple love story, beautifully told, with an insistent Latin-American tune on the soundtrack. He left before the movie was halfway through, because the story made him want to cry; but the tune ran through his mind all night. In the morning he went to a phone booth in the street near his hotel and phoned the Embassy again. When he got through to the message center he said, 'This is Henry. Any reply?" The voice said, "Go to ninety-three thousand and confer tomorrow." Dickstein said, "Reply: conference agenda at airport information." Pierre Borg would be flying in at nine-thirty tomorrow.

The four men sat in the car with the patience of spies, silent and watchful, as the day darkened. Pyotr Tyrin was at the wheel, a stocky middle-aged man in a raincoat, drumming his fingernails on the dashboard, makIng a noise like pigeone feet on a roof. Yasif Hassan sat beside him. David Rostov and Nik Bunin were in the back. Nik had found the delivery man on the third day, the day he spent watching the Jean-Monnet building on the Kirchberg. He had reported a positive identification. "He doesn't look quite so much of a nancy-boy in his office suit, but I'm quite sure iirs him. I should say he must work here."

"I should have guessed," Rostov had said. "If Dickstein is after secrets his informants won't be from the airport or the Alfa Hotel. I should have sent Nik to Euratom first." He was addressing Pyotr Tyrin, but Hassan heard and said, "You can't think of everything." "Yes, I can," Rostov told him. He had instructed Hassan to get hold of a large dark car. The American Buick they now sat in was a little conspicuous,but it was black and roomy. Nik had followed the Euratom man home, and now the four spies waited in the cobbled street close to the old terraced house. Rostov hated this cloak-and-dagger stuff. It was so oldfashioned. It belonged to the Twenties and Thirties, to places like Vienna and Istanbul and Beirut, not to western Europe in 1968. It was just dangerous to snatch a civilian off the street, bundle him into a car, and beat him until he gave you information. You might be seen by passersby who were not afraid to go to the police and tell what they had observed. Rostov liked things to be straightforward and clear-cut and predictable, and he preferred to use his brains rather than his fists. But this delivery man had gained in importance with each day that Dickstein failed to surface. Rostov had to know what he had delivered to Dickstein. and he had to know today. Pyotr Tyrin said, "I wish he would come out." "We're in no hurry," Rostov said. It was not true, but he did not want the team to get edgy and impatient and make mistakes. To relieve the tension he continued speaking. "Dickstein did this, of course. He did what we've done and what we're doing. He watched the Jean-Monnet building, he followed this man home, and he waited here in the street. The man came out and went to the homosexual club, and then Dickstein knew the man's weakness and used it to turn him into an informant." Nik said, "He hasn't been at the club the past two nights." Rostov said, "He's discovered that everything has its price, especially love." "Love?" Nik said with scorn in his voice. Rostov did not reply. The darkness thickened and the street lights came on. The air coming through the open car window tasted faintly damp: Rostov saw a swirl or two of mist around the lights. The vapor came from the river. A fog would be too much to hope for in June. Tyrin said, "What's this." A fair-haired man in a double-breasted jacket was walking briskly along the sm*t towud them. diQuiet now," Rostov W& The man stopped at the house they were watching. He rang a doorbell. Hassan put a hand on the door handle. Rostov hissed: "Not yet." A net curtain was briefly drawn aside in the attic window. The fair-haired man waited, tapping his foot. Hassan said, 'Me lover, perhaps?' "For God's sake shut up," Rostov told him. After a mmute the front door opened and the fair-haired inan stepped inside. Rostov got a glimpse of the person who had opened up: it was the delivery man. The door closed and their chance was gone. Too quick,- Rostov said. -Damn It.- Tyrin began to drum his fingers again, and Nik scratched himself. Hamm gave an exasperated sign, as if he had known all along that it was foolish to wait. Rostov decided that it was time to bring him down a peg or two. Nothing happened for an hour. Tyrin said, 'Ibey're spending an evening Indoors." "If they've had a brush with Dickstein they're probably afraid to go out at night," Rostov said. Nik asked, "Do we go in? 'Theres a problem" Rostov answered. 'From the window they can see who's at the door. I guess they won't open up for strangers. "Me lover might stay the night," T~Tk said. $&Quite." Nik said, 'Vell just have to bust in." Rostov ignored him. Nik always wanted to bust In, but he would not start any rough stuff until he was told to. Rostov was thinking that they might now have to snatch two people, which was more tricky and more dangerous. "Have we got any firearms?" he said. Tyrin opened the glove box in front of him and drew out a pistol. "Good," Rostov said. "So long as you don!t fire it"

"It's not loaded," Tyrin said. He stuffed the gun into his raincoat pocket. Hassan said, "If the lover stays the night do we take them in the morningr' "Certainly not," Rostov said. "We cant do this sort of thing in broad daylight." "What, thenT' "I haven't decided." He thought about it until midnight, and then the problem solved itself. Rostov was watching the doorway through half-closed eyes. He saw the first movement of the door as it began to operL He said: "Now." Nik was first out of the car. Tyrin was next. Hassan took a moment to realize what was happening, then he followed suit. The two men were saying goodnight, the younger one on the pavement, the older just inside the door wearing a robe. The older one, the delivery man, reached out and gave his lover's arm a farewell squeeze. They both looked up, alarmed, as Nik and Tyrin burst out of the car and came at them. "Don't move, be silent," Tyrin said softly in French, showing them the gun. Rostov noticed -that Nik's sound tactical instinct had led him to stand beside and slightly behind the younger man. The older one said, "Oh, my God, no, no more please." "Get in the car," Tyrin said. The younger man said, "Why can't you fuckers leave us alone? Watching and listening from the back seat of the car, Rostov thought: This is the moment they decide whether to come quietly or make trouble. He glanced quickly up and down the darkened street. It was empty. Nik, sensing that the younger man was thinking of disobedience, seized both his arms jug below the shoulders and held him tightly. "Don't hux-t him, ru go," said the older man. He stepped out of the house. His friend said, "The bell you willl" Rostov thought: Damn. Ile younger man struggled in Nik's grip, then tried to stamp on NWs foot. Nil stepped back a pace and bit the boy in the kidney with his right fist "No, Pierrel" the older one said, too loud. Tyrin jumped him and put a big hand over the man!s mouth. He struggled, got his head free, and shouted "Helpl" before Tyrin gagged him again. Pierre had fallen to one knee and was groaning. Rostov leaned across the back seat of the car and called through the open window, "Izes Rol" Tyrin lifted the older man off his feet and carried him bodily across the pavement toward the car. Pierre suddenly recovered from Nik's punch and sprinted away. Hassan stuck out a leg and tripped him. The boy went sprawling on to the cobbled road. . Rostov saw a light go on in an upstairs window at a neighboring-house. if the fracas continued much longer they would all get arrested. Tyrin bundled the delivery man into the back of the car. Rostov grabbed hold of him and said to Tyrin: "I've got him. Start the car. Quick." Nil had picked up the younger one and was carrying him to the car. Tyrin got Into the driver's seat and Hassan opened the other door. Rostov said, "Hassan, shut the door of the house, idiotl" Nik pushed the young man into the car next to his friend, then got into the back seat so that the two captives were between Rostov and himself. Hassan closed the door of the house and jumped into the front passenger seat of the car. Tyrin gunned the car away from the curb. Rostov said in English, "Jesus Christ almighty,. what a fuck-up." Pierre was still groaning. The older prisoner said, "We haven!t done anything to hurt you." "Haven't you?" Rostov replied. 'qbree nights ago, at the club in the Rue Dicks, you delivered a briefcase to an Englishman.- 64M Rodsersr 'Orhat's not his name," Rostov said. "Are you the police?" "Not exactly." Rostov would let the man believe what he wanted to. "I'm not interested in collecting evidence, building a case, and bringing you to a trial. I'm interested in what was in that briefcase." There was a silence Tyrm spoke over his shoulder 'Want me to head out of town, look for a quiet spot?" Vait,- Rostov said. The older man said, "I'll tell you." "Just drive around town," Rostov told Tyrin. He looked at the Euratom, man. "So tell me." "It was a Euratom computer printouV' "And the information on it?" "Details of licensed shipments of fissionable materials." "Fissionable? You mean nuclear stuff?" "Yellowcake, uranium metal, nuclear waste, plutonium.. ." Rostov sat back in the seat and looked out of the window at the fights of the city going by. His blood raced with excitement: Dickstein!s operation was becoming visible. Ilcensed shipments of fissionable materials ... the Israelis wanted nuclear fuel. Dickstein would be looking for one of two thing& on that list--either a holder of uranium who might be prepared to sell some on the black market, or a consignment of uranium he might be able to steal. As for what they would do with the staff once they got ft.. . The Euratom man interrupted his thoughts. "NM you let us go home now?" Rostov said, "I'll have to have a copy of that printout." "I can't take another one, the disappearance of the first was suspicious enough I" "I'm afraid you'll have to," Rostov said. "But if you like, you can take ft back to the office after we've photographed it. "Oh, God," the man groaned. "You've got no choice." "All right." -"Head back to the house," Rostov told Tyrin. To the Euratom man he said, "Bring the printout home tomorrow night Someone will come to your house during the evening to photograph it." The big car moved through the streets of the city. Rostov felt the snatch had not been such a disaster after all. Nik Bunin said to Pierre, "Stop looking at me."

They.reached the cobbled street Tyrin stopped the car. "Okay," Rostov said. "Let the older man out. His friend stays with us." The Euratom man yelped as if hurt. "Why?" "In case you're tempted to break down and confess everything to your bosses tomorrow. Young Pierre will be our hostage. Get out." Nik opened the door and let the man out He stood on the pavement for a moment. Nik got back in and Tyrin drove off. Hassan said, "Will he be all right? Will he do it?" "He'll work for us until he gets his friend back," Rostov said. "And then?" Rostov said nothing. He was thinking that it would probably be prudent to kill them both.

Ibis is Suza's nightmare. It is evening at the green-and-wbite house by the river. She is alone. She takes a bath, lying for a long time in the hot scented water. Afterward she goes into the master bedroom, sits in front of the three-sided mirror, and dusts herself with powder from an onyx box that belonged to her mother. She opens the wardrobe, expecting to find her mother's clothes moth-eaten, falling away from the hangers in dun colored tatters, transparent with age; but it is not so: they are all clean and new and perfect, except for a faint odor of mothballs. She chooses a nightgown, white as a shroud, and puts it on. She gets into the bed. I She lies still for a long time, waiting for Nat Dickstein to come to his Eila. IMe evening becomes night. The river whis. pers. The door opens. The man stands at the foot of the bed and takes off his clothes. He lies on top of her, and her panic begins like the first small spark of a conflagration as she realizes that it is not Nat Dickstein but her father; and that she is, of course, long dead: and as the nightgown crumbles to dust and her hair falls out and her flesh Withers and the skin of her face dries and shrinks baring the teeth and the skull and she becomes, even as the man thrusts at her, a skeleton, so she screams and screams and screams and wakes up, and she lies perspiring and. shivering and frightened, wondering 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.

"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. 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 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 has to check," Rostov went on. "Now, are you on file in Tel Avive 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-!' "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.

"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, ishm% 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 that the other diners in the place were of all ages, for he had been a little afraid he might be the oldest man in sight. They sat down, and Dickstein said, "Do you bring all your young men hereT' Suza gave him a cold smile, 'Thats the first witless thing you've said." "I stand corrected." He wanted to kick himself. She said, "What do you like to eat?" and the moment passed. "At home I eat a lot of plain, wholesome, communal food. When I'm away I live in hotels, where I get junk tricked out as haute cuisine. What I like is the kind of food you don't get in either sort of place: roast leg of lamb, steak and kidney pudding, Lancashire hot-pot" "What I Eke about you," she grinned, "is that you have no idea whatsoever about what is trendy and what isnl; and furthermore you don't give a damn." He touched his lapels. "You don't like the suit" "I love it," she said. "It must have been out-of-date when you bought it." He decided on roast beef from the trolley, and she had some kind of sauteed liver which she ate with enormous relish. He ordered a bottle of Burgundy: a more delicate wine would not have gone well with the liver. His knowledge of wine was the only polite accomplishment he possessed. Still, he let her drink most of it: his appetites were small. She told him about the time she took I.M. "It was quite unforgettable. I could feel my whole body, inside and out. I could hear my heart. My skin felt wonderful when I touched it. And the colors, of everything ... Still, the question is, did the drug show me amazing things, or did it just make me amazed? Is it a new way of seeing the world, or does it merely synthesize the sensations you would have if you really saw the world in a new way?" "You didn't need more of it, afterwards?" he asked. She shook her head. "I don't relish losing control of myself to that extent. But rm. glad I know what irs like." "That's what I hate about getting drunk-the loss of selfpossession. Although I'm sure it's not in the same league. At any rate, the couple of times I've been drunk I haven't felt I've found the key to the universe!' She made a dismissing gesture with her hand. it was a long, slender hand, just like Efla!s; and suddenly Dickstein remembered Eila making exactly the same graceful gesture. Suza said, "I don't believe in drugs as the solution to the world's problems." "What do you believe in. Suzar' She hesitated, looking at him, smiling faintly. "I believe that all you need is love." Her tone was a little defensive, as if she anticipated scom ~ "Tbat philosophy is more likely to appeal to a swinging Londoner than an embattled Israeli:' "I guess there's no point In tying to convert you~" "I should be so lucky." She looked into his eyes. "You never know your luck~" He looked down at the menu and said, "It's got to be strawberries." Suddenly, she said, "rell me who you love, Nathaniel." "An old woman, a child and a ghosV' he said immediately, for he had been asking himself the same question. 'The old woman is called Esther, and she remembers the pogroms in Czarist Russia. The child is a boy called Mottle. He likes Treasure Island His father died in the Six-Day War~" And the ghostT' "You will have some strawberries?" "Yes, please." "CreamV "No, thanks. You're not going to tell me about the ghost are YOU?" "As soon as I know, you'll know." It was June, and the strawberries were perfect. Dickstein said, "Now tell me who you love." "Well," she said, and then she thought for a minute. "Well She put down her spoon. "Oh, shit, Nathaniel, I think I love you.

Her first thought was: What the hell has got into me? Why did I say that? Then she thought: I don't care, it's true. And finally: But why do I love him? - She did not know why, but she knew when. There had been two occasions when she had been able to look inside him and see the real Dickstein: once when he spoke about the London Fascists in the Thirties, and once when he mentioned the boy whose father had been killed in the Six-Day War. Both times he had dropped his mask. She had expected to see a small, frightened man, cowering in a corner. In fact, he had appeared to be strong, confident and determined. At those moments she could sense his strength as if it were a powerful scent. It made her feel a little dizzy. The man was weird, intriguing and powerful. She wanted to get close to him, to understand his mind, to know his secret thoughts. She wanted to touch his bony body, and feel his strong hands grasping her, and look into his sad brown eyes when he cried out in passion. She wanted his love. It had never been like this for her before.

Nat Dickstein knew it was all wrong. Suza had formed an attachment to him when she was five years old and he was a kind grown-up who knew how to talk to children and cats. Now he was exploiting that childhood affection. He had loved Eila, who had died. There was something unhealthy about his relationship with her look-alike daughter. He was not just a Jew, but an Israeli; not just an Israeli, but a Mossad agent. He of all people could not love a girt who was half Arab. Whenever a beautiful girl falls in love with a spy, the spy is obliged to ask himself which enemy intelligence service she might be working for. Over the years, each time a woman had become fond of Dickstein, he had found reasons like these for being cool to her, and sooner or later she had understood and gone away disappointed; and the fact that Suza bad outmaneuvered his subconscious by being too quick for his defenses was just another reason to be suspicious. It was all wrong. But Dickstein did not care.

,They took a taxi to the flat where she planned to stay the night. She invited him in-her friends, the owners of the flat, were away on holiday-and they went to bed together, and that was when their problems began. At first Suza thought he was going to be too eagerly paisionate when, standing in the little hallway, he gripped her arms and kissed her roughly, and when he groaned, "Oh, God," as she took his hands and placed them on her breasts. There flashed through her mind the cynical thought: I've seen this act before, he is so overcome by my beauty that he practically rapes me, and five minutes after getting into bed he is fast asleep and snoring. Then she pulled away from his kiss and looked into his soft, big, brown eyes, and she thought: Whatever happens, it won't be an act She led him into the little single bedroom at the back of the flat, overlooking the courtyard. She stayed here so often that it was regarded as her room; indeed some of her clothes were in the wardrobe and the drawers. She sat on the edge of the single bed and took off her shoes. Dickstein stood in the doorway, watching. She looked up at him and smiled. "Undress," she said. He turned out the light. She was intrigued: it ran through her like the first tingle of a cannabis high. What was he really like? He was a Cockney, but an Israeli; he was a middle-aged schoolboy; a thin rnsin as strong as a horse; a little, gauche and nervous superficially, but confident and oddly powerful underneath. What did a man like that do in bed? She got in beneath the sheet, curiously touched that he wanted to make love in the dark. He got in beside her and kissed her, gently this time. She. ran her hands over his hard, bony body, and opened her mouth to his kisses. After a moInentarY hesitation, he responded; and she guessed he had not kissed like that befom or at least not for a long time. He touched her tenderly now, with his fingertips, exploring, and he said "Ohl" with a sense of wonder in his voice when he found her nipple taut. His caresses had none of the facile expertise so familiar to her from previous affairs: be, was like - - - well, he was -like a virgin. The thought made her smile in the darkness. "Your breasts am beautiful," he said. "So are yours," she said, touching them. The magic began to work, and she became immersed in sensation: the roughness of his skin, the hair on his legs, the faint masculine smell Of him. Then, suddenly, she sensed a change in him. There was no apparent reason for it, and for a Moment she wondered if she might be imagining it, for he continued to caress her; but she knew that now it was mechanical. he was thinking of something else, she had lost him. She was about to speak of it when he withdrew his hands and said "It's not working. I can't do it." She felt panic, and fought it down. She was frightened, not for herself-You've known enough stiff pricks in your time, girl, not to mention a few UmP ones,-but for him, for his reaction, in case he should be defeated or ashamed and- She put both arms around him and held him tightly, saying, "Whatever you do, please don't go away." I won't. She wanted to put the, light on, to see his face, but it seemed like the wrong thing to do right now. She pressed her cheek against his chest. "Have you got a wife somewhere?" "No." She put Gut her tongue and tasted his skin. "I just think you might feel guilty about something. Like, me being half an Arab?" "I don't think so." "Or, me being Efla Ashford's daughter? You loved her, didn't you?" "How did you know?" "From the way you talked about her." Oh. Well, I don't think I feel guilty about that, but I could be wrong, doctor." "Mmm." He was coming out of his shell. She kissed his chest. "Will you tell me sbraething?" "I expect so." "When did you last have sex?" "Nineteen forty-four.,' "You're kidding!" she said, genuinely astonished. "I"hat's the first witless thing you've said." "I ... you're right, I'm sorry." She hesitated. "But why?" He sighed. "I can't ... I'm not able to talk about it." "But you must." She reached out to the bedside lamp and tamed on the light. Dickstein closed his eyes against the glare. Suza propped herself up on one elbow. "Listen," she said, "there are no rules. We're grown-ups, we're naked in bed, and this is nineteen sixty-eight: nothing is wrong, it's whatever turns you on." "There isn't anything." His eyes were still closed. "And there are no secrets. If you're frightened or disgusted or inflamed, you can say so, and you must I've never said 'I love you' before tonight, Nat Speak to me, please. There was a long silence. He lay stiff, impassive, eyes closed. At last he began to talk. "I didn't know where I was-still don't I was taken there in a cattle truck, and in those days I coul(Wt tell one country from another by the landscape. It was a special camp, a me& ical research center. The prisoners were selected from other camps. We were all young, healthy and Jewish. "Conditions were better than in the first camp I was at. We had food, blankets, cigarettes; there was no thieving, no fightIng. At fint I thought I had struck lucky. There were lots of tests--blood, urine, blow into this tube, catch this ball, read the letters on the card. It was like being in a hospital. Then the experiments began. 'To this day I don't know whether there was any real scientific curiosity behind itA mean, if somebody did those things with animals, I could see that it might be, you know, quite interesting, quite revealing. On the other hand, the dootors must have been insane. I don't know." ' He stopped, and swallowed. It was becoming more difficult for him to speak calmly. Suza whispered, "You must tell me what happened-everything." He was pale, and his voice was very low. Still he kept his eyes shut. "They took me to this laboratory. The guards who escorted me kept winking and nudging and telling me I was glikkIlch-lucky. It was a big room with a low ceiling and very bright lights. There were six or seven of them there, with a movie. camera. In the middle of the room was a low bed with a mattress on it, no sheets. There was a woman on the mattress. They told me to fuck her. She was naked, and shivering-she was a prisoner too. She whispered to me, 'You save my life and I'll save yours.' And then we did it. But that was only the beginning." Suza ran her hand over his loins and found his penis taut. Now she understood. She stroked him, gently at first, and waited for him to go on-4or she knew that now he would tell all of the story. "After that they did variations on the experiment. Every day for months, there was something. Drugs, sometimes. An old woman. A man, once. Intercourse in different posttions-standing up, sitting, everything. Oral sex, anal sex, masturbation, group sex. If you didn't perform, you were flogged or shot. Thafs why the story never came out after the war, do you see? Because all the survivors were guilty." Suza stroked him harder. She was certain, without knowing why, that this was the right thing to do. 'Tell me. All of it." He was breathing faster. His eyes opened and he stared up at the blank white ceiling, seeing another place and another time. "At the end . . . the most shameful of all ... she was a nun. At first I thought they were lying to me, they had just dressed her up, but then she started praying, in French. She had no legs ... they had amputated her, just to observe the effect on me... it was horrible, and I... and I.. ." I Then he jerked, and Suza bent and closed her mouth over his penis, and he said, "Oh, no, no, nol" in rhythm with his spasms, and then it was all over and he wept.

She kissed his tears, and told him it was all right over and over agaiii. Slowly he calmed down, and eventually he seemed to sleep for a few minutes. She lay there watching his face as the tension seeped away and he became peacefuL Then he opened his eyes and said, 'Ttrhy did you do that?" Well.- At that time she had not understood exactly why, but now she thought she did. "I could have given you a lecture," she said. "I could have told you that there is nothing to be ashamed of; that everybody has grisly fantasies, that women dream of being flogged and men have visions of flogging them; that you can buy, here in London, pornographic books about sex with amputees, including full-color pictures. I could have told you that many men would have been able to summon up enough bestiality to perform in that Nazi labomtory. I could have argued with you, but it wouldn't have made any difference. I had to show you. Besides--' She smiled ruefully. "Besides, I have a dark side, too." He touched her cheek, then leaned forward and kissed her lips. "Where did you get this wisdom child?" "It isn't wisdom it's love." Then he held her very tightly and kissed her and called her darling and after a while they made love, very simply, hardly speaking, without confessions or dark fantasies or bizarre lusts, giving and taking pleasure with the familiarity of an old couple who know each other very well; and afterward they went to sleep full of peace and joy.

David Rostov was bitterly disappointed with the Euratoin printout. After he and Pyotr Tyrin had spent hours getting it doped out, it became clear that the list of consignments was very long. They could riot possibly cover every target. The only way they could discover which one would be hit was to pick up Dickstein's trail again. Yasif Hassan's mission to Oxford thereupon assumed much greater importance. They waited for the Arab to call. After ten &clock Nik Bunin, who enjoyed sleep the way other people enjoy sunbathing, went to bed. Tyrin stuck it out until midnight, then he too retired. Rostov's phone finally rang at One A.M. He jumped as if frightened, grabbed the phone, then waited a few moments before speaking in order to compose himself. "Yes?" Hassan's voice came three hundred miles along the international telephone cables. "I did it The man was here. Two days ago." Rostov clenched a fist in suppressed excitement. "Jesus. What a piece of luck." "What now?" Rostov considered. "Now, he knows that we know." "Yes. Shall I come back to base?" "I don't think so. Did the professor say how long the man plans to be in England?" "No. I asked the question directly. "Me professor didn!t know: the man didn't tell him." "He wouldn't." Rostov frowned, calculating. "First thing the man has to do now is report that he's blown. That means he has to contact his London office.- "Perhaps be already has.", "Yes, but-he may want a meeting. This man takes precautions, and precautions take time. All right, leave it with me. I'll be in London later today. Where are you now?" "I'm still in Oxford. I came straight here off the plane. I -can't get back to London until the morning." "All right. Check into the Hilton and I'll contact you there around lunchtime." "Check. A bient6t." "Wait." "Still here."

"Don't do anything on your own initiative, now. Wait until I get there. You've done well, don't screw it up." Hassan hung up. Rostov sat still for a moment, wondering whether Hassan was planning some piece of foolishness or simply resented being told to be a good boy. Ile latter, he decided. Anyway, there was no damage he could do over the next few hours. Rostov turned his mind back to Dickstein. The man would not give them a second chance to pick up his trail. Rostov had to move fast and he had to move now. He put on his jacket, left the hotel and took a taxi to the Russian Embassy. . He had to wait some time, and identify himself to four different people, before they would let him in in the middle of the night. The duty operator stood at attention when Rostov entered the communications room. Rostov said, "Sit down. There's work to do. Get the London office first." The operator picked up the scrambler phone and began to Fall the Russian Embassy in London. Rostov took off his jacket and rolled up his, sleeves. Ile operator said, "Comrade Colonel David Rostov will speak to the most senior security officer there." He motioned Rostov to pick up the extension. "Colonel Petrov." It was the voice of a middle-aged Soldier. "Petrov, I need some help," Rostov said without preamble. "An Israeli agent named Nat Dickstein is believed to be in England.- "Yes, we've had his picture sent to us In the diplomatic pouch-but we werenI notified he was thought to be hem" I'Llsten. I think he may contact his embassy. I want you to put all known Israell legals in Landon under surveillance from dawn today~" "Hang on, Rostov," said Petrov with a half laugh. "That's a lot, of manpower." "Don!t be stapid. You've got hundreds of men, the Israelis only have a dozen or two." "Sorry, Rostov, I can't mount an operation like that on your say-so. Rostov wanted to get the man by the throat. 'This is ur. gentl" "Let me have the proper documentation, and I'm at your disposal."

"By then hell be somewhere elsel" "Not my fault, comrade." Rostov slammed the phone down, furious, and said, "Bloody Russiansl Never do anything without six sets of authorization. Get Moscow, tell them to find Feliks, Vorontsov and patch him through to me wherever he is." . The operator got busy. Rostov drummed his fingers on the desk impatiently. Petrov was probably an old soldier close to retirement, with no ambition for anything but his pension. There were too many men like that in the KGB. A few minutes later the sleepy voice of Rostov's boss, Feliks, came on the line. "Yes, who is it?" "David Rostov. I'm in Luxembourg. I need some backing. I think The Pirate is about to contact the Israeli Embassy in London and I want their legals watched." "So call London." "I did. They want authorization." '~Ihen apply for it." "For God's sake, Feliks, I'm applying for it now!" "IMeWs nothing I can do at this time of night Call me in the morning." "What is this? Surely you can--" Suddenly Rostov realized what was happening. He controlled himself with an effort. "All right, Feliks. In the morning." "Goodbye.,,

"YesT' "I'll remember this." The line went dead. "Where next?" the operator asked. Rostov frowned. "Keep the Moscow line open. Give me a minute to think." He might have guessed he would get no help from Feliks. The old fool wanted him to fail on this mission, to prove that be, Feliks, should have been given control of it in the first place. It was even possible that Feliks was pally with Petrov in London and had unofficially told Petrov not to cooperate. There was only one thing for Rostov to do. It was a dangerous course of action and might well get him pulled off the case-in fact it could even be what Feliks was hoping for. But he could not complain if the stakes were high, for it was he who had raised them. He thought'for a minute or two about- exactly how he should do it. Then he said, "rell Moscow to put me through to Yuri Andropov's apartment at number twenty-six Kutuzov Prospekt." The operator raised his eyebrows-it was probably the first and last time he would be instructed to get the head of the KGB on the phone-but he said nothing. Rostov waited, fidgeting. "I bet it isn't like this working for the CM" he muttered. The operator gave him the sign, and he picked up the phone. A voice said, "Yes?" Rostov raised his voice and barked: "Your name and ranklot "Major Pyotr Eduardovitch Scherbitsky." 'This is Colonel Rostov. I want to speak to Andropov. It's an emergency, and if he isn!t on this phone within one hundred and twenty seconds you'll spend the rest of your life building dams in Bratsk, do I make myself clear?" "Yes, colonel. Please hold the line." A moment later Rostov heard the deep,. confident voice of Yuri Andropov, one of the most powerful men in the world. "You certainly managed to panic young Eduardovitch, David." "I had no alternative, sir." "All right, let's have it. It had better be goo&" "Me Mossad are after uranium." "Good God." "I think The Pirate is in England. He may contact his embassy. I want surveillance on the Israelis there, but an old fool called Petrov in London is giving me the runaround.,, "I'll talk to him now, before I go back to bed.,, 'Mank you, sir. "And, David?" "Yesr, "It was worth waking me up-but only just." There was a click as Andropov hung up. Rostov laughed as the tension drained out of him, and he thought: Let them do their worst-Dickstein, Hassan, Feliks-I can handle them. "Success?" the operator asked with a smile. "Yes," Rostov said, "Our system is inefficient and cumber. some and corrupt, but in the end, you know, we get what we Want.

Chapter Eight

It was quite a wrench for Dickstein to leave Suza in the morning and go back to work. He was still ... well, stunned . . . at eleven A.M., sitting in the window of a restaurant in the Fulham Road waiting for Pierre Borg to show. He had left a message with airport information at Heathrow telling Borg to go to a cafe opposite the one where Dickstein now sat He thought he was likely to stay stunned for a long tim maybe permanently. He had awakened at six eclock, and suffered a montept of panic wondering where he was. Then he saw Suza!s long brown hand lying on the pillow beside his head, curled up like a small animal sleeping, and the night had come flooding back, and he could hardly believe his good fortime. He thought he should not wake her, but suddenly he could not keep his hands off her body. She opened her eyes at his touch, and they made love playfully, smiling at one another, laughing sometimes, and looking into each other's eyes at the moment of climax. Then they fooled around in the kitchen, half-dressed, making the coffee too weak andburning the toast. Dickstein wanted to stay there forever. Suza had picked up his undershirt with a cry of horror. $619VItairs this? "My undershirt!" "Undershirt? I forbid you to wear undershirts. They're old-fashioned and unhygienic and theyll get in the way when I want to feel your nipplm" Her expression was so lecherous that he burst out laughing. "All right," he said. "I watet wear them." "Clood." She opened the window and threw the undershirt out into the street, and he laughed all over again. He said, "But you mustn't wear trousers~"

"WHYY 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 windows or experiment on my body just because I'm 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 suggestion that the concept of fair play had any role In international politics seemed like a sick joke to me. I'm 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 that that's how I felt, anyway."

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 controversial.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 cafe 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 II Jaguar had stopped on a double yellow line fifty yards from the cafe. Now it reversed and backed into a side street, parking on the comer within sight of the cafe. 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 cafe opposite. He dialed its number. :rYes?" 'Let me speak to Bill, please."

"Bill? Don!t know hini." "Would you just ask, please?" "Sure. Hey, anybody here called Bill?" A pause. 'Tea, he's con-ting. 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 cafe, 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.

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 "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. I'm 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 I'm 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."

"And if you put In an unknown he won't be experienced." "Plus, I'm 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 sadistic, or insubordinate-so long as he knew about it He could make allowances for faults: but he could not allow for unknown factors. He would be unsure of his hold over Dickstein until he had figured out the cause of the change. That was all. He had Do objection in principle to one of his agents acquiring a sunny disposition. He came within sight of the Embassy. He would put Dickmein under surveillance, he decided. It would take two cars and three teams of man working in eight-hour shifts. The Head of London Station would complain. I'lie. hell with him. The need to know why Dickstein's disposition had changed was only one reason Borg had decided not to pull him out The other reason was more important Dickstein had half a plan; another man might not be able to complete it Dickstein had a mind for this sort of thing. Once Dickstein had figured it all out, then somebody else could take over. Borg had decided to take him off the assignment at the first opportunity. Dickstein would be furious: he would consider he had been shafted. The hell with him, too.

Major-Pyotr Alekseivitch Tyrin did not actually like Rostov. He did not like any of his superiors: in his view, you had to be a rat to get promoted above the rank of major in the KGB. SO, he had a sort of awestruck affection for his clever, helpful boss. Tyrin had considerable skills, particularly with electronics, but he could not manipulate people. He was a major only because he was on Rostov's incredibly successful team. Abba Allon. High Street exit. Fifty-two, or nine? Where are you, fifty-two? Fifty-two. We're close. Well take him. What does he look like? Plastic raincoat, green hat, mustache. As a friend Rostov was not much; but he was a lot worse as an enemy. This Colonel Petrov in London had discovered that. He had tried to mess around with Rostov and had been surprised by a middle-of-the-night phone call from the head of the KGB, Yuri Andropov himself. The people in the Lon. don Embassy said Petrov,had looked like a ghost when he hung up. Since then Rostov could have anything he wanted: if he sneezed five agents rushed out to buy handkerchiefs.

Okay, this Is Ruth Davisson, and she's going north ... Nineteen, we can take her- Relax, nineteen. False alarm. les a secretary who looks like her. Rostov had commandeered all Petrov's best pavement artists and most of his cars. -The area around the Israeli Embassy in London was crawling with agent&--someone had said, "There are more Reds here than in the Kremlin Clinid'!--but it was hard to spot them. They were in cars, vans, minicabs, trucks and one vehicle that looked remarkably like an unmarked Metropolitan Police bus. There were more on foot, some in public buildings and others walking the streets and the footpaths of the park. There was even one inside the Embassy, asking in dreadfully broken English what he had to do to emigrate to Israel. The Embassy was ideally suited for this kind of exercise. It was in a little diplomatic ghetto on the edge, of Kensington Gardens. So many of the lovely old houses -belonged to foreign legations that it was known as Embassy Row. Indeed, the Soviet Embassy was close by in Kensington Palace Gardens. The little group of streets formed a private estate, and you, had to tell a policeman your business before you could get in. Nineteen, this time It is Ruth Davisson . . . nineteen, do you hear me? Nineteen here, yes. Are you still on the north side? Yes. And we know what she looks like. None of the agents was actually in sight of the Israeli Embassy. Only one member of the team could see the doorRostov, who was a half mile away, on the twentieth floor of a hotel, watching thr-ough a powerful Zeiss telescope mounted on a tripod. Several high buildings in the West End of London had clear views across the park of Embassy Row. Indeed, certain suites in certain hotels fetched inordinately high prices because of rumors that from them you could see into Princess Margaret's backyard at the neighboring palace, which gave its name to Palace Green and Kensington Palace Gardens. Rostov was in one of those suites, and he had a radio transmitter as well as the telescope. Each of his sidewalk squads had a walkie-talkie. Petrov spoke to his men in fast Russian, using confusing codewords, and the wavelength on which he transmitted and on which the men replied was changed every five minutes according to a computer program built into all the sets. The system was working very well, Tyrin thought-he had invented it-except that somewhere in the cycle everyone was subjected to five minutes of BBC Radio One. Eight, move up to the north side. Understood. If the Israelis had been in Belgravia, the home of the more senior embassies, Rostov's job would have been more difficult. There were almost no shops, cafes or public offices in Belgravia-nowhere for agents to make themselves unobtrusive; and because the whole district was quiet, wealthy and stuffed with ambassadors it was easy for the police to keep an eye open for suspicious activities. Any of the standard surveillance ploys-telephone repair van, road crew with striped tentwould have drawn a crowd of bobbies in minutes. BY contrad the am around the little oasis of Embassy Row was Kensington, a major shopping area with several colleges and four museums. Tyrin himself was in a pub in Kensington Church Street. The resident KGB men had told him that the pub was frequented by detectives from "Special Branch!-the rather coy name for Scotland Yard's political police. The four youngish men in rather sharp suits drinking whiskey at the bar were probably detectives. They did not know Tyrin, and would not have been much interested in him if they had. Indeed, if Tyrin were to approach them and say, "By the way, the KGB is tailing every Israeli legal in London at the moment," they would probably say "What, again?" and order another round of drinks. in any event Tyrin knew he was not a man to attract second glances. He was small and rather rotund, with a big nose and a drinkees veined face. He wore a gray raincoat over a green sweater. The rain had removed the last memory of a crease from his charcoal flannel trousers. He sat in a comer with a glass of English beer and a small bag of potato chips. no radio in his shirt pocket was connected by a fine, fleshcolored wire to the plug-it looked like a hearing aid-in his left car. His left side was to the wall. He could talk to Rostov by pretending to fumble in the inside pocket of his raincoat turning his face away from the room and muttering into the perforated metal disc on the top edge of the radio. He was watching the detectives drink whiskey and thinking that the Special Branch must have better expense accounts than its Russian equivalent: he was allowed one pint of beer per hour, the potato crisps he had to buy himself. At- one time agents in England had even been obliged to buy beer in half pints, until the accounts department had been told that in many pubs a man who drank halves was as peculiar as a Russian who took his vodka in sips instead of gulps. Thirteen, pick up a green Volvo, two men, High Street. Understood, And one on foot . . . I think that's Yigael Meier Twenty? Tyrin was "Twenty." He turned his face into his shoulder and said, "Yes. Describe him." Tall, gray hair, umbrella, belted coat. High Street gate. Tyrin said, "rm on my way." He drained his glass and left the pub. It was raining. Tyrin took a collapsible umbrella from his raincoat pocket and opened it. The wet sidewalks were crowded with shoppers. At the traffic lights he spotted the green Volvo and, three cars behind it, 'Mirteen!l in an Austin. Another car. Five, this one's yours. Blue Volkswagen beetle. Understood. Tyrin reached Palace Gate, looked up Palace Avenue, saw a man fitting the description heading toward him, and walked on without pausing. When he had calculated that the an had had time to reach the street he stood at the curb, as if about to cross, and looked up and down. The mark emerged from Palace Avenue and turned west, away from Tyrin. Tyrin followed. Along High Street tailing was made easier by the crowds. Then they turned south into a maze of side streets, and Tyrin became a bit nervous; but the Israeli did not seem to be watching for a shadow. He simply butted ahead through the rain, a tall, bent-figure under an umbrella, walking fast, intent on his destination. He did not go far. He turned into a small modern hotel just off the Cromwell Road. Tyrin walked past the entrance and, glancing through the glass door, saw the mark step Into a phone booth In the lobby. A little farther along the road Tyrin passed the green Volvo, and concluded that the Israeli and his colleagues in the green Volvo were staking out the hotel. He crossed the road and came back on the opposite side, just In case the mark were to come out again immediately. He looked for the blue Volkswagen beetle and did not see it, but he was quite sure it would be close by. He spoke into his shirt pockeL "M is Twenty Meier and the green Volvo have staked out the Jacobean HoteL" Confirwd, Twenty. Five and Thirteen ham the Israeli cars covered. Where is Meier? ,in the lobby." Tyrin looked up and down and saw the Austin which was following the green Volvo. Stay with him. "Understood." Tyrin now had a difficult decision to make. If he went straight into the hotel Meier might spot lum, but if he took the time to find the back entrance Meier might go away in the meanwhile. He decided tD chance the back entrance, on the grounds that he was supported by two cars which could cover for a few minutes if the worst happened. Beside the hotel there was a narrow alley for delivery vans. Tyrin walked along it and came to an unlocked fire exit In the blank side wall of the building. He went in and found himself in a concrete stair- well, obviously built to be used only as a fire escape. As he climbed the stairs he collapsed his umbrella, put it in his raincoat pocket and took off the raincoat He folded it and left it In a little bundle on the first half landing, w1we he could quickly pick it up N he needed to make a fast exlL He went to the second floor and took the elevator down to the lobby. When he emerged in his sweater and trousers he looked like a guest at the hotel. The Israeli was still in the phone bootlL Tyrin went up to the glass door at the front of the lobby, looked out, chocked his w&hratch and returned to the waiting area to sit down as if he were ineeting someone. It did not seem to be his lucky day. The object: of the whole exercise was to find Nat Dickstein. He was known to be in England and it was hoped that he would have a meeting with one of the legals. The Russians were following the legals in order to witness that meeting and pick up Dickstein's trail. The Israeli team at this hotel was clearly not involved in a meeting. They were staking out someone, presumably with a view to tailing him as soon as he showed, and that someone was not likely to be one of their own agents. Tyrin could only hope that what they were doing would at least turn out to be of some interesL He watched the mark come out of the phone booth and walk off in the direction of the ' bar. He wondered if the lobby could be observed from the bar. Apparently not, because the mark came back a few minutes later with a drink in his hand, then sat down across from Tyrin and picked up a newspaper. The mark did not have time to drink his beer. The elevator doors hissed open, and out walked Nat Dickstein. Tyrin was so surprised that he made the mistake of staring straight at Dickstein for several seconds. Dickstein caught his eye, and nodded politely. Tyrin smiled weakly and looked at his watch. It occurred to him-more in hope than conviction-that staring was such a bad mistake that Dickstein might take it as proof that Tyrin was not an agent. There was no time for reflection. Moving quickly withTyrin thought-something of a spring in his step, Dickstein crossed to the counter and dropped a room key, then proceeded quickly out Into the street. The Israeli tail, Meier, put his newspaper on the table and followed. When the plate-glass door closed behind Meier, Tyrin got up, thinkingrm an agent following an agent following an agent. Wen, at least we keep each other in employment. He went Into the elevator and pressed the button for the first floor. He spoke into his radio. "This is Twenty. I have Pirate." There was no reply-the walls of the building were blocking his transmission. He got out of the elevator at the first floor and ran down the fire stairs, picking up his raincoat at the half landing. As soon as he was outside he tried the radio again. "This, is Twenty, I have the Pirate.,' All right, Twenty. Thirteen has him too. Tyrin saw the mark crossing Cromwell Road. "I'm follow. ing Meier," he said into his radio.

Five and Twenty, both of you listen to me'. Do not follow. Have you got that-Five? Yes. Twenty? Tyrin said, "Understood." He stopped walking. and stood on the comer watching Meier and Dickstein disappear in the direction of Chelsea. Twenty, go back into the hotel. Get his room number. Book a room close to his. Call nte on the telephone as soon as it's done. "Understood." Tyrin turned back, rehearsing his dialogue: Excuse me, the fellow that just walked out of here, short an with glasses, I think I know him but he got into a cab before I could catch up with him ... his name is John but we all used to call him Jack, what room . . . ? As it turned out, none of that was necessary. Dickstein's key was still on the desk. Tyrin memorized the number. The desk clerk came over. "Can I help your, "I'd Eke a room," Tyrin said.

He kissed her, and he was like a man who has been thirsty all day. He savored the smell of her skin and the soft motions of her lips. He touched her face and said, I'Ms, this, this is what I need." They stared into each other's eyes, and the truth between them was like nakedness. He thought: I can do anything I want. The idea ran through his mind again and again like an incantation, a magic spell. He touched her body greedily. He stood face to face with her in the little blueand-yellow kitchen, looking into her eyes while he fingered the secret places of her body. Her red mouth opened a fraction and he felt her breath coming faster and hot on his face; he inhaled deeply so as to breathe the air from her. He thought: If I can do anything I want, so can she; and, as if she had read his mind, she opened his shirt, and bent to his chest, and took his nipple between her teeth, and sucked. The sudden, astonishing pleasure of it made him gasp aloud. He held her head gently in his hands and rocked to and fro a little to intensify the sensation. He thought: Anything I wantl He reached behind her, lifted her skirt, and feasted his eyes on the white panties clinging to her curves and contrasting with the brown, skin of her long legs. His right hand stroked her face and gripped her shoulder and weighed her breasts, his left hand moved over her hips and inside her panties and between her legs; and everything felt so good, so good, that he wished he had four hands to feel her with, six. Then, suddenly, he wanted to we her face, so he gripped her shoulder and made her stand upright, saying, "I want to look at you." Her eyes filled with tears, and he knew that these were sips not of sadness but of intense pleasure. Again they stared into each other's eyes, and this time it was not just truth between them but raw emotion gushing ft-om one to another in rivers, in torrents. Then he knelt at her feet like a supplicant First he lay his head on her thighs, feeling the heat of her body through her clothing Then he reached beneath her skirt with both hands, found the waist of her panties, and drew them down slowly, holding the shoes on her feet as she stepped out He got up from the floor. 'They were still standing on the spot where they had kissed when he had first come into the room. Just there, standing up, they began to make love. He watched her face. She looked peaceful, and her eyes were half closed. He wanted to do this, moving slowly, for a long time: but his body would not wait. He was compelled to thrust harder and faster. He felt himself losing his balance, so he put both arms around her, lifted her an inch off the floor, and without withdrawing from her body moved two paces so that her back was against the wall. She pulled his shirt out of his waistband and dug her fingers into the hard muscles of his back. He linked his hands beneath her buttocks and took her weight. She lifted her legs high, her thighs gripping his hips, her ankles crossed behind his back, and, incredibly, he seemed to penetrate even deeper inside her. He felt he was being wound up like a clockwork motor, and everything she did, every look on her face, tightened the spring. He watched her through a haze of lust. Them came into her eyes an ex pression of something like panic; a wild, wide-eyed animal emotion; and it pushed him over the edge, so that he knew that it was coming, the beautiful thing was going to happen now, and he wanted to tell her, so he said, "Suza, here it comes," andshe said, "Oh, and me," and she dug her nails into the skin of his back and drew them down his spine in a long sharp tear which went through him like an electric shock and he felt the earthquake in her body just as his own erupt ed and he was still looking at her and he saw her mouth open wide, wide as she drew breath and the peak of delight overtook them both and she screamed.

"We follow the Israelis and the Israelis follow Dickstein. All it needs is for Dickstein to start following us and we can all go around in a circle for the rest of the day," Rostov said. He strode down the hotel corridor. Tyrin hurried beside him, his short plump legs almost running to keep up. Tyrin said, "I was wondering what, exactly, was your thinking in abandoning the surveillance as soon as we saw him? "It's obvious," Rostov said irritably; then he reminded himself -that Tyrin's loyalty was valuable, and he decided to explain. "Dicksteia has been under surveillance a great deal during the last few weeks. Each time he has eventually spotted us and thrown us off. Now a certain amount of surveillance is inevitable for someone who has been in the game as long as Dickstein. But on a particular operation, the more he is followed the more likely he is to abandon what he's doing and hand it over to someone els&-and we might not know who. All too often the information we pin by following someone is canceled out because they discover that we're following them and therefore they know that we've got the information in question. This way-by abandoning the surveillance as we have done today-we know where he is but he doesn't know we know." "I see," said Tyrin. "Hell spot those Israelis in no time at all," Rostov added. "He must be hypersensitive by now." "Why do you suppose they're following their own man?" "I really can't understand that." Rostov frowned, thinking aloud. -rm sure Dickstein met Borg this morning-which would explain why Borg threw off his tail with that tax! maneuver. it's possible Borg puffed Dickstein out and now he's simply checking that Dickstein really does come out, and doesn't try to carry on unofficially." He shook his head, a gesture of frustration. 'That doesn't convince me. But the alternative is that Borg doesn't trust Dickstein anymore, and I find that unlikely, too. Careful, now." They were at the door to Dickstein's hotel room. TYrin took out a small, powerful flashlight and shone it around the edges of the door. "No telltales," he said.

Rostov nodded, waiting. This was Tyrin!s province. The little round man was the best general technician in the KGB, in Rostov's opinion. He watched as Tyrin took from his pocket a skeleton key, one of a large collection of such keys that he had. By tying several on the door of his own room here, he had already established which one fitted the locks of the Jacobean Hotel. He opened Dickstein's door slowly and stayed outside, looking in. "No booby traps," be said after a minute. He stepped inside and Rostov followed, closing the door. This part of the game gave Rostov no pleasure at all. He liked to watch, to speculate, to plot: burglary was not his style. He felt exposed and vulnerable. If a maid should come in now, or the hotel manager, or even Dickstein who might evade the sentry in the lobby . . . it would be so undignified, so humiliating. 'Let's make it fast," he said. The room was laid out according to the standard plan: the door opened into a little passage with the bathroom on one side and. the wardrobe opposite. Beyond the bathroom the room was square, with the single bed against one wall and the television set against tke other. There was a large window in the exterior wall opposite the door. Tyrin picked up the phone and began to unscrew the mouthpiece. Rostov stood at the foot of the bed, looking around, ft*g to get an impression of the man who was staying in this room. There was not much to go on. TIle room had been cleaned and the bed made. On the bedside table were a book of chew problems and an evening newspaper. There were no signs of tobacco or alcohol. The wastepaper basket was empty. A small black vinyl suitcase on a stool contained clean underwear and one clean shirt. Rostov muttered. "Me man travels with one spare shirtl" The drawers of the dresser were empty Rostov looked into the bathroom. He saw a toothbrush, a rechargeable electric shaver with spare plugs for different kinds of electrical outlets, and-the only personal touch-a pack of indigestion tablets. Rostov went back into the bedroom, where Tyrin was reassembling the telephone. "Its done." "Put one behind the headboard," Rostov said. Tyrin was taping a bug to the wall behind the bed when the phone rang. If Dickstein returned the sentry in the lobby was to call Dickstein's room on the house phone, let it ring twice, then hang up. It rang a second time. Rostov and Tyrin stood still, silent waiting. It rang They rel ed. It stopped after the seventh ring. Rostov said, "I wish he had a car for us to bug." "I've got a shirt button." 'NVhat?" "A bug like a shirt button." "I didn't know such things existed." That's new. "Got a needle? And thread?" "Of course." 'Then go ahead." Tyrin went to Dickstein's case and without taking the shirt out snipped off the second button, carefully removing all the loose thread. With a few swift strokes he sewed on the new button. His pudgy hands were surprisingly dexterous. Rostov watched but his thoughts were elsewhere. He wanted desperately to do more to ensure that he would hear what Dickstein said and did. The Israeli might find the bugs in the phone and the headboard; he would not wear the bugged shirt all the time. Rostov liked to be sure of things, and Dickstein was maddeningly slippery: there was nowhere you could hook on to him Rostov had harbored a faint hope that somewhere in this room there would be a photograph of someone Dickstein loved. "There." Tyrin showed him his handiwork. The shirt was plain white nylon with the commonest sort of white button. The new one was indistinguishable from the others. "Good," Rostov said. "Close the case." Tyrin did so. "Anything else?" "Take another quick look around for telltales. I can't believe Dickstein would go out without taking any precautions at all." They searched again, quickly, silently, their movements practiced and economical, showing no signs of the haste they both felt. There were dozens of ways of planting telitales. A hair lightly stuck across the crack of the door was the most simple; a scrap of paper jammed against the back of a drawer would fall out when the drawer was opened; a lump of sugar,under a thick carpet would be silently crushed by a footstep; a penny behind the lining of a suitcase Rd would slide from front to back if the case were opened They found nothing. Rostov said, "All Israelis are paranoid. Why should he be different?" "Maybe hes been pulled out." Rostov grunted. "Why else would he suddenly get carelessT, "He could have fallen in love," Tyrin suggested. Rostov laughed. "Sure," he said. "And Joe Stalin could have been canonized by the Vatican. Lets get out of here." He went out, and Tyrin followed, closing the door softly behind him.