Triple (56 page)

TJUPLE

fan by Pedler's multilingual secretary, was perfectly plain and at the same

time totally incomprehensible. It said:

PLEASE ADVISE SOONEST OF NEW EXPECTED

DELIVERY DATE OF YELLOWCAKE.

As far as Pedler knew there was nothing wrong with the old expected

delivery date, which was a couple of days away. Clearly Angeluzzi e Bianco

knew something he did not. He had already wired the shippers:

IS YELLOWCAKE DELAYED?

He felt a little annoyed with them. Surely they should have informed him as

well as the receiving company if there was a delay. But maybe the Italians

had their wires crossed. Pedler had formed the opinion during the war that

you could never trust Italians to do what they were told. He had thought

they might be different nowadays, but perhaps they were the same.

He stood at his window, watching the evening gather over his little cluster

of factory buildings. He could almost wish he had not bought the uranium.

The deal with the Israeli Army, all signed, sealed and delivered, would

keep his company in profit for the rest of his life, and he no longer

needed to speculate.

. His secretary came in with the reply from the shippers, already

translated:

COPARELLI SOLD TO SAVILE SHIPPING OF ZU-

RICH WHO NOW HAVE RESPONSIBILITY FOR

YOUR CARGO. WE ASSURE YOU OF COMPLETE

RELIABILITY OF PURCHASERS.

There followed the phone number of Savile Shipping and the words

SPEAK TO PAPAGOPOLOUS.

Pedler gave the telegram back to the secretary. "Would you can that number

in Zurich and get this Papagopolous on the line please?"

She came back a few minutes later. "PapagDpolous will call you back."

Pedler looked at his watch. "I suppose I'd better wait for his call. I

might as well get to the bottom of this now that I've started."

Papagopolous came through ten minutes later. Pedler said to him, "Im told

you are now responsible for my cargo on board the Coparelli. I've had a

cable from the Italians asking for a new delivery date-is there some

delay?"

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Kon Folloff

"Yes, there is," Papagopolous said. "You should have been informed-I'm

terribly sorry." The man spoke excellent German but it was stiff clear he

was not a German. It was also clear he was not really terribly sorry. He

went on, 'qbe Coparelli's oil pump broke down at sea and she is becalmed.

We're making arrangements to have your cargo delivered as early as

possible."

"Well, what am I to say to Angeluzzi e Bianco?"

"I have told them that I will let them know the new date just as soon as I

know it myself," Papagopolous. said. "Please leave it to me. I will keep

you both informed."

"Very well. Goodbye."

Odd, Pedler thought as he hung up the phone. Looking out of the window, he

saw that all the workers had left. The staff car parking lot was empty.

except for his Mercedes and his secretary's Volkswagen. What the hell, time

to go home. He put on his coat The uranium was insured. If it was lost he

would get his money back. He turned out the office lights and helped his

secretary on with her coat, then he got into his car and drove home to his

wife.

Stiza Ashford did not close her eyes all night

Once again, Nat Dickstein's life was in danger. Once again, she was the

only one who could warn him. And this time she could not deceive others

into helping her.

She had to do it alone.

It was simple. She had to go to the Karld's radio room, get rid of

Aleksandr, and call the Coparelli.

ril never do it, she thought. The ship is full of KGB. Aleksandr is a big

man. I want to go to sleep. Forever. It!8 impossible. I can't do it

Oh, Nathaniel.

At four A.M. she put on leans, a sweater, boots and an oilskin. The full

bottle of vodka she had taken from the mess"to help me sleep'~-went in the

inside pocket of the oilskhL

She had to know the Karla!s position.

She went up to the bridge. The first officer smiled at her. "Can't sleep?"

he said in English,

'The suspense is too much," she told him. The BOAC Big Smile. Is your seat

belt fastened, sir? Just a little turbulence, nothing to worry about. She

asked the first officer, "Where are we?"

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He showed her their position on the map, and the estimated position of

the Copareffl.

"What's that in numbersr, she said.

He told her the coordinates, the course, and the speed of the Karla. She

repeated the numbers once aloud and twice more in her head, trying to

burn them into her brain. "It's fascinating," she said brightly.

"Everyone on a ship has a special skill ... Will we reach the Coparell!

on time, do you think?"

"Oh, yes," he said. "Tben-boom."

She looked outside. It was completely black-there were no stars and no

ships' lights in sight. The weather was getting worse.

"You're shivering," the lbst officer said. "Are you cold?"

"Yes," she said, though it was not the weather making her shiver. "When

is Colonel Rostov getting upr

"He's to be called at &6."

"I think I'll try to get another hour's sleep."

She went down to the radio room. Aleksandr was there. "Couldn't you

sleep, either?" she asked him.

"No. I've sent my number two to bed."

She looked over the radio equipment. "Aren't you listening to the

Strvmberg anymorer,

"rhe signal stopped. Either they found the beacon, or they sank the ship.

We think they sank her."

Suza sat down and took out the bottle of vodka. She unscrewed the cap.

"Have a drink." She handed him the bottle.

"Are you coldr,

"A little."

"Your hand is shaking." He took the bottle and put it to his lips, taking

a long swallow. "Ah, thank you." He handed it back to her.

Suza drank amouthful for courage. It was rough Russian vodka, and it

burned her throat, but it had the desired effect. She screwed down the

cap and waited for Aleksandr to turn his back to her.

'Tell me about life in England," he said conversationally. "Is it true

that the poor starve while the rich get fat?"

"Not ma y people starve," she said. Turn around, damn it, turn around.

I can't do this facing you. "But there is great inequality."

"Are there different laws for rich and poor?"

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Ken Folle"

"There's a saying: 'the law forbids rich and poor alike to steal bread

and sleep under bridges.' "

Aleksandr laughed. "In the Soviet Union people are equal, but some have

privileges. Will you live in Russia now?"

'I don't know." Suza opened the bottle and passed it to him again.

He took a long swallow and gave it back. "In Russia you won't have such

clothes."

Ile time was passing too quickly, she had to do it now. She stood up to

take the bottle. Her oilskin was open down the front. Standing before

him, she tilted her head back to drink from the bottle, knowing he would

stare at her breasts as they jutted out. She allowed him a good look,

then shifted her grip on the bottle and brought it down as hard as she

could on the top of his head.

There was a sickening thud as it hit him. He stared at her dazedly. She

thought: You're supposed to be knocked out! His eyes would not shut. What

do I do? She hesitated, then she gritted her teeth and hit him again.

His eyes closed and he slumped in the chair. Suza got hold of his feet

and pulled. As he came off the chair his head hit the deck, making Suza

wince, but then she thought: It's just as well, bell stay out longer.

She dragged him to a cupboard. She was breathing fast, from fear as well

as exertion. From her jeans pocket she took a long piece of baling twine

she had picked up in the stem. She tied Aleksandr's feet, then turned him

over and bound his hands behind his back.

She had to get him into the cupboard. She glanced at the door. Oh, God,

don't let anyone come in nowl She put his feet in, then straddled his

unconscious body and tried to lift him. He was a heavy man. She got him

half upright, but when she tried to shift him into the cupboard he

slipped from her grasp. She got behind him to try again. She grasped him

beneath the armpits and lifted. This way was better: she could lean his

weight against her chest while she shifted her grip. She got him half

upright again, then wrapped her arms around his chest and inched

sideways. She had to go into the cupboard with him, let him go, then

wriggle out from underneath him.

He was in a sitting position now, his feet against one side of

thecupboard, his knees bent, and his back against the op-

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posite side. She checked his bonds: still tight. But he could still shoutl

She looked about for something to stuff in his mouth to gag him. She could

see nothing. She could not leave the room to search for something because

he might come round in the meantime. The only thing that she could think

of was her pantyhose.

It seemed to take her forever to do it. She had to pull off her borrowed

sea boots, take off her jeans, pull her pantyhose Off, put her jeans on,

get into her boots, then crumple the nym Ion cloth into a ball and stuff

it between his slack jaws.

She could not close the cupboard door. "Oh, God!" she said out loud. It

was Aleksandes elbow that was in the way. His bound hands rested on the

floor of the cupboard, and because of his slumped position his arms were

bent outward. No matter how she pushed and shoved at the door that elbow

stopped it from closing. Finally she had to get back into the cupboard

with him and turn, him slightly sideways so that he leaned into the

comer. Now his elbow was out of the way.

She looked at him a moment longer. How long did people stay knocked out?

She had no idea. She knew she should hit him again, but she was afraid

of killing him. She went and got the bottle, and even lifted it over her

head; but at the last moment she lost her nerve, put the bottle down, and

slammed the cupboard door.

She looked at her wristwatch and gave a cry of dismay: it was ten minutes

to live. The Coparelli would soon appear on the Karld's radar screen, and

Rostov would be here, and she would have lost her chance.

She sat down at the radio desk, switched the lever to TMNSMrr, selected

the set that was already tuned to the Coparelli's wavelength and leaned

over the microphone.

"CAftg Coparelli, come in please."

She waited.

Nothing.

"Calling Coparelli, come in please."

Nothing.

"Damn you to hell, Nat Dickstein, speak to me. Nathaniell"

Nat Dickstein stood in the amidships hold of the CopareHi, staring at the

drums of sandy metallic ore that had cost so much. They looked nothing

special-just large black oil

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Ken Felleff

drums with the word PLUMBAT stenciled on their sides. He would have liked

to open one and feel the stuff, just to know what it was like, but the

lids were heavily sealed.

He felt suicidal. Instead of the elation of victory, he had only

bereavement. He could not rejoice over the terrorists he had killed, he

could only moum for his own dead.

He went over the battle again, as he had been -doing throughout a

sleepless night. If he had told Abbas to open fire as soon as he got

aboard it might have distracted the Fedayeen long enough for Gibli to get

over the rail without being shot. If he had gone with three men to take

out the bridge with grenades at the very start of the fight the mess

might have been taken earlier and lives would have been saved. If . . .

but there were a hundred things he would have done differently if he bad

been able to see into the future, or if he were just a wiser man.

Well, Israel would now have atom bombs to protect her forever.

Even that thought gave him no joy. A year ago it would have thrilled him.

But a year ago he had not met Suza Ashford.

He beard a noise and looked up. It sounded as if people were running

around on deck. Some nautical crisis, no doubt.

Suza had changed him. She had taught him to expect more out of life than

victory in battle. When he had anticipated this day, when he had thought

about what it would feel like to have pulled off this tremendous coup,

she had always been in his daydream, waiting for him somewhere, ready to

share his triumph. But she would not be there. Nobody else would do. And

there was no joy in a solitary celebration.

He had stared long enough. He climbed the ladder out of the hold,

wondering what to do with the rest of his life. He emerged on deck. A

rating peered at him. "Mr. Dicksteinr'

"Yes. What do you wantT'

"We've been searching the ship for you, sir . . . It's the radio, someone

is calling the Coparelli. We haven't answered, sir, because we're not

supposed to be the Coparelli, are we? But she says-~'

"She?"

"Yes, sir. She's coming over clear-speech, not Morse code. She sounds

close. And she's upset. 'Speak to me, Nathaniel,' she says, stuff like

that, sir."

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