Triple

  Okay, this is Ruth Davisson, and she's going . . . north . . .

  Nineteen, we can take her--

  Relax, nineteen. False alarm. It's 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 agents--someone had said, "There are more Reds here than in the Kremlin Clinic"--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 door--Rostov, who was a half mile away, on the twentieth floor of a hotel, watching through 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 tent--would have drawn a crowd of bobbies in minutes. By contrast the area 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 drinker's 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 corner with a glass of English beer and a small bag of potato chips. The radio in his shirt pocket was connected by a fine, flesh-colored wire to the plug--it looked like a hearing aid--in his left ear. 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, "I'm 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, "Thirteen" 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 man 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 pocket. "This is Twenty. Meier and the green Volvo have staked out the Jacobean Hotel."

  Confirmed, Twenty. Five and Thirteen have 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 him, but if he took the time to find the back entrance Meier might go away in the meanwhile.

  He decided to 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 stairwell, 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, where he could quickly pick it up if he needed to make a fast exit. 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 booth.

  Tyrin went up
to the glass door at the front of the lobby, looked out, checked his wristwatch and returned to the waiting area to sit down as if he were meeting 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 interest.

  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 with--Tyrin 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, thinking: I'm an agent following an agent following an agent. Well, 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 following 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 corner 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 me 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 man 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 you?"

  "I'd like 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, "This, 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 blue-and-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 want! 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 see her face, so he gripped her shoulders and made her stand upright, saying, "I want to look at you." Her eyes filled with tears, and he knew that these were signs 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 from 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. There came into her eyes an expression 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," and she 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 erupted 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. "Dickstein 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 else--and we might not know who. All too often the information we gain 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.

  "He'll 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. "I'm sure Dickstein met Borg this morning--which would explain why Borg threw off his tail with that taxi maneuver. It's possible Borg pulled 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 trying 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," he 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 the 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, trying to get an impression of the man who was staying in this room. There was not much to go on. The room had been cleaned and the bed made. On the bedside table were a book of chess 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. "The man travels with one spare shirt!" 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.