Yes. Plain white nylon, button cuffs, collar size fourteen and a half.
Here we are. This one is thirty-two and sixpence.
That's fine.
Tyrin said, "I'll bet he charges it to expenses."
Thank you. Would you like to put it on now, perhaps?
Yes, please.
The fitting room is just through here.
Footsteps, then a brief silence.
Would you like a bag for the old one, sir?
Perhaps you'd throw it away for me.
"That button cost two thousand rubles!" Tyrin said.
Certainly, sir.
"That's it," Hassan said. "We won't get any more now."
"Two thousand rubles!" Tyrin said again.
Rostov said, "I think we got our money's worth."
"Where are we heading?" Tyrin asked.
"Back to the Embassy," Rostov told him. "I want to stretch my legs. I can't feel the left one at all. Damn, but we've done a good morning's work."
As Tyrin drove west, Hassan said thoughtfully, "We need to find out where the Coparelli is right now."
"The squirrels can do that," Rostov said.
"Squirrels?"
"Desk workers in Moscow Center. They sit on their behinds all day, never doing anything more risky than crossing Granovsky Street in the rush hour, and get paid more than agents in the field." Rostov decided to use the opportunity to further Hassan's education. "Remember, an agent should never spend time acquiring information that is public knowledge. Anything in books, reports and files can be found by the squirrels. Since a squirrel is cheaper to run than an agent--not because of salaries but because of support work--the Committee always prefers a squirrel to do a given job of work if he can. Always use the squirrels. Nobody will think you're being lazy."
Hassan smiled nonchalantly, an echo of his old, languid self. "Dickstein doesn't work that way."
"The Israelis have a completely different approach. Besides, I suspect Dickstein isn't a team man."
"How long will the squirrels take to get us the Coparelli's location?"
"Maybe a day. I'll put in the inquiry as soon as we get to the Embassy."
Tyrin spoke over his shoulder. "Can you put through a fast requisition at the same time?"
"What do you need?"
"Six more shirt buttons."
"Six?"
"If they're like the last lot, five won't work."
Hassan laughed. "Is this Communist efficiency?"
"There's nothing wrong with Communist efficiency," Rostov told him. "It's Russian efficiency we suffer from."
The van entered Embassy Row and was waved on by the duty policeman. Hassan asked, "What do we do when we've located the Coparelli?"
"Obviously," said Rostov, "we put a man aboard."
Chapter Nine
The don had had a bad day.
It had started at breakfast with the news that some of his people had been busted in the night. The police had stopped and searched a truck containing two thousand five hundred pairs of fur-lined bedroom slippers and five kilos of adulterated heroin. The load, on its way from Canada to New York City, had been hit at Albany. The smack was confiscated and the driver and co-driver jailed.
The stuff did not belong to the don. However, the team that did the run paid dues to him, and in return expected protection. They would want him to get the men out of jail and get the heroin back. It was close to impossible. He might have been able to do it if the bust had involved only the state police: but if only the state police had been involved, the bust would not have happened.
And that was just the start. His eldest son had wired from Harvard for more money, having gambled away the whole of his next semester's allowance weeks before classes started. He had spent the morning finding out why his chain of restaurants was losing money, and the afternoon explaining to his mistress why he could not take her to Europe this year. Finally his doctor told him he had gonorrhea, again.
He looked in the dressing-room mirror, adjusting his bow tie, and said to himself, "What a shitty day."
It had turned out that the New York City police had been behind the bust: they had passed the tip to the state police in order to avoid trouble with the city Mafia. The city police could have ignored the tip, of course: the fact that they did not was a sign that the tip had originated with someone important, perhaps the Drug Enforcement Agency of the Treasury Department. The don had assigned lawyers to the jailed drivers, sent people to visit their families and opened negotiations to buy back the heroin from the police.
He put on his jacket. He liked to change for dinner; he always had. He did not know what to do about his son Johnny. Why wasn't he home for the summer? College boys were supposed to come home for the summer. The don had thought of sending somebody to see Johnny; but then the boy would think his father was only worried about the money. It looked like he would have to go himself.
The phone rang, and the don picked it up. "Yes."
"Gate here, sir. I got an Englishman asking for you, won't give his name."
"So send him away," said the don, still thinking about Johnny.
"He said to tell you he's a friend from Oxford University."
"I don't know anybody . . . wait a minute. What's he look like?"
"Little guy with glasses, looks like a bum."
"No kidding!" The don's face broke into a smile. "Bring him in--and put out the red carpet!"
It had been a year for seeing old friends and observing how they had changed; but Al Cortone's appearance was the most startling yet. The increase in weight which had just begun when he returned from Frankfurt seemed to have continued steadily through the years, and now he weighed at least two hundred and fifty pounds. There was a look of sensuality about his puffy face that had been only hinted at in 1947 and totally absent during the war. And he was completely bald. Dickstein thought this was unusual among Italians.
Dickstein could remember, as clearly as if it were yesterday, the occasion when he had put Cortone under an obligation. In those days he had been learning about the psychology of a cornered animal. When there is no longer any possibility of running away, you realize how fiercely you can fight. Landed in a strange country, separated from his unit, advancing across unknown terrain with his rifle in his hand, Dickstein had drawn on reserves of patience, cunning and ruthlessness he did not know he had. He had lain for half an hour in that thicket, watching the abandoned tank which he knew--without understanding how--was the bait in a trap. He had spotted the one sniper and was looking for another when the Americans came roaring up. That made it safe for Dickstein to shoot--if there were another sniper, he would fire at the obvious target, the Americans, rather than search the bushes for the source of the shot.
So, with no thought for anything but his own survival, Dickstein had saved Al Cortone's life.
Cortone had been even more new to the war than Dickstein, and learning just as fast. They were both streetwise kids applying old principles to new terrain. For a while they fought together, and cursed and laughed and talked about women together. When the island was taken, they had sneaked off during the buildup for the next push and visited Cortone's Sicilian cousins.
Those cousins were the focus of Dickstein's interest now.
They had helped him once before, in 1948. There had been profit for them in that deal, so Dickstein had gone straight to them with the plan. This project was different: he wanted a favor and he could offer no percentage. Consequently he had to go to Al and call in the twenty-four-year-old debt.
He was not at all sure it would work. Cortone was rich now. The house was large--in England it would have been called a mansion--with beautiful grounds inside a high wall and guards at the gate. There were three cars in the gravel drive, and Dickstein had lost count of the servants. A rich and comfortable middle-aged American might not be in a hurry to get involved in Mediterranean political shenanigans, even for the sake of a man who had saved his life.
Cortone seemed ve
ry pleased to see him, which was a good start. They slapped each other on the back, just as they had on that November Sunday in 1947, and kept saying, "How the hell are you?" to each other.
Cortone looked Dickstein up and down. "You're the same! I lost all my hair and gained a hundred pounds, and you haven't even turned gray. What have you been up to?"
"I went to Israel. I'm sort of a farmer. You?"
"Doing business you know? Come on, let's eat and talk."
The meal was a strange affair. Mrs. Cortone sat at the foot of the table without speaking or being spoken to throughout. Two ill-mannered boys wolfed their food and left early with a roar of sports-car exhaust. Cortone ate large quantities of the heavy Italian food and drank several glasses of California red wine. But the most intriguing character was a well-dressed, shark-faced man who behaved sometimes like a friend, sometimes like an adviser and sometimes like a servant: once Cortone called him a counselor. No business was talked about during dinner. Instead they told war stories--Cortone told most of them. He also told the story of Dickstein's 1948 coup against the Arabs: he had heard it from his cousins and had been as delighted as they. The tale had become embroidered in the retelling.
Dickstein decided that Cortone was genuinely glad to see him. Maybe the man was bored. He should be, if he ate dinner every night with a silent wife, two surly boys and a shark-faced counselor. Dickstein did all he could to keep the bonhomie going: he wanted Cortone in a good mood when he asked his favor.
Afterward Cortone and Dickstein sat in leather armchairs in a den and a butler brought brandy and cigars. Dickstein refused both.
"You used to be a hell of a drinker," Cortone said.
"It was a hell of a war," Dickstein replied. The butler left the room. Dickstein watched Cortone sip brandy and pull on the cigar, and thought that the man ate, drank and smoked joylessly, as though he thought that if he did these things long enough he would eventually acquire the taste. Recalling the sheer fun the two of them had had with the Sicilian cousins, Dickstein wondered whether there were any real people left in Cortone's life.
Suddenly Cortone laughed out loud. "I remember every minute of that day in Oxford. Hey, did you ever make it with that professor's wife, the Ay-rab?"
"No." Dickstein barely smiled. "She's dead, now."
"I'm sorry."
"A strange thing happened. I went back there, to that house by the river, and met her daughter . . . She looks just like Eila used to."
"No kidding. And . . ." Cortone leered. "And you made it with the daughter--I don't believe it!"
Dickstein nodded. "We made it in more ways than one. I want to marry her. I plan to ask her next time I see her."
"Will she say yes?"
"I'm not sure. I think so. I'm older than she is."
"Age doesn't matter. You could put on a little weight, though. A woman likes to have something to get hold of."
The conversation was annoying Dickstein, and now he realized why: Cortone was set on keeping it trivial. It might have been the habit of years of being close-mouthed; it might have been that so much of his "family business" was criminal business and he did not want Dickstein to know it (but Dickstein had already guessed); or there might have been something else he was afraid of revealing, some secret disappointment he could not share: anyhow, the open, garrulous, excitable young man had long since disappeared inside this fat man. Dickstein longed to say, Tell me what gives you joy, and who you love, and how your life runs on.
Instead he said, "Do you remember what you said to me in Oxford?"
"Sure. I told you I owe you a debt, you saved my life." Cortone inhaled on his cigar.
At least that had not changed. "I'm here to ask for your help."
"Go ahead and ask."
"Mind if I put the radio on?"
Cortone smiled. "This place is swept for bugs about once a week."
"Good," said Dickstein but he put the radio on all the same. "Cards on the table, Al. I work for Israeli Intelligence."
Cortone's eyes widened. "I should have guessed."
"I'm running an operation in the Mediterranean in November. It's . . ." Dickstein wondered how much he needed to tell, and decided very little. "It's something that could mean the end of the wars in the Middle East." He paused, remembering a phrase Cortone had used habitually. "And I ain't shittin' you."
Cortone laughed. "If you were going to shit me, I figure you would have been here sooner than twenty years."
"It's important that the operation should not be traceable back to Israel. I need a base from which to work. I need a big house on the coast with a landing for small boats and an anchorage not too far offshore for a big ship. While I'm there--a couple of weeks, maybe more--I need to be protected from inquiring police and other nosy officials. I can think of only one place where I could get all that, and only one person could get it for me."
Cortone nodded. "I know a place--a derelict house in Sicily. It's not exactly plush, kid . . . no heat, no phone--but it could fill the bill."
Dickstein smiled broadly. "That's terrific," he said. "That's what I came to ask for."
"You're kidding," said Cortone. "That's all?"
TO: Head of Mossad
FROM: Head of London Station
DATE: 29 July 1968
Suza Ashford is almost certainly an agent of an Arab intelligence service.
She was born in Oxford, England, 17 June 1944, the only child of Mr. (now Professor) Stephen Ashford (born Guildford, England, 1908) and Eila Zuabi (born Tripoli, Lebanon, 1925). The mother, who died in 1954, was a full-blooded Arab. The father is what is known in England as an "Arabist": he spent most of the first forty years of his life in the Middle East and was an explorer, entrepreneur and linguist. He now teaches Semitic Languages at Oxford University, where he is well known for his moderately pro-Arab views.
Therefore, although Suza Ashford is strictly speaking a U.K. national, her loyalties may be assumed to lie with the Arab cause.
She works as an air hostess for BOAC on intercontinental routes, traveling frequently to Tehran, Singapore and Zurich, among other places. Consequently, she has numerous opportunities to make clandestine contacts with Arab diplomatic staff.
She is a strikingly beautiful young woman (see attached photograph--which, however, does not do her justice, according to the field agent on this case). She is promiscuous, but not unusually so by the standards of her profession nor by those of her generation in London. To be specific: for her to have sexual relations with a man for the purpose of obtaining information might be an unpleasant experience but not a traumatic one.
Finally--and this is the clincher--Yasif Hassan, the agent who spotted Dickstein in Luxembourg, studied under her father, Professor Ashford, at the same time as Dickstein, and has remained in occasional contact with Ashford in the intervening years. He may have visited Ashford--a man answering his description certainly did visit--about the time Dickstein's affair with Suza Ashford began.
I recommend that surveillance be continued.
(Signed)
Robert Jakes
TO: Head of London Station
FROM: Head of Mossad
DATE: 30 July 1968
With all that against her, I cannot understand why you do not recommend we kill her.
(Signed)
Pierre Borg
TO: Head of Mossad
FROM: Head of London Station
DATE: 31 July 1968
I do not recommend eliminating Suza Ashford for the following reasons: 1. The evidence against her is strong but circumstantial.
2. From what I know of Dickstein, I doubt very much that he has given her any information, even if he is romantically involved.
3. If we eliminate her the other side will begin looking for another way to get at Dickstein. Better the devil we know.
4. We may be able to use her to feed false information to the other side.
5. I do not like to kill on the basis of circumstantial evidence. We are not barb
arians. We are Jews.
6. If we kill a woman Dickstein loves, I think he will kill you, me and everyone else involved.
(Signed)
Robert Jakes
TO: Head of London Station
FROM: Head of Mossad
DATE: 1 August 1968
Do it your way.
(Signed)
Pierre Borg
POSTSCRIPT (marked Personal): Your point 5 is very noble and touching, but remarks like that won't get you promoted in this man's army.--P.B.
She was a small, old, ugly, dirty, cantankerous bitch.
Rust bloomed like a skin rash in great orange blotches all over her hull. If there had ever been any paint on her upperworks it had long ago been peeled away and blasted off and dissolved by the wind and the rain and the sea. Her starboard gunwale had been badly buckled just aft of the prow in an old collision, and nobody had ever bothered to straighten it out. Her funnel bore a layer of grime ten years thick. Her deck was scored and dented and stained; and although it was swabbed often, it was never swabbed thoroughly, so that there were traces of past cargoes--grains of corn, splinters of timber, bits of rotting vegetation and fragments of sacking--hidden behind lifeboats and under coils of rope and inside cracks and joints and holes. On a warm day she smelled foul.
She was some 2,500 tons, 200 feet long and a little over 30 feet broad. There was a tall radio mast in her blunt prow. Most of her deck was taken up by two large hatches opening into the main cargo holds. There were three cranes on deck: one forward of the hatches, one aft and one in between. The wheelhouse, officers' cabins, galley and crew's quarters were in the stern, clustered around the funnel. She had a single screw driven by a six-cylinder diesel engine theoretically capable of developing 2,450 b.h.p. and maintaining a service speed of thirteen knots.
Fully loaded, she would pitch badly. In ballast she would yaw like the very devil. Either way she would roll through seventy degrees of arc at the slightest provocation. The quarters were cramped and poorly ventilated, the galley was often flooded and the engine room had been designed by Hieronymous Bosch.
She was crewed by thirty-one officers and men, not one of whom had a good word to say for her.
The only passengers were a colony of cockroaches in the galley, a few mice and several hundred rats.
Nobody loved her, and her name was Coparelli.
Chapter Ten