inherited his father's unbending logic. Ddving home through the rush-hour traffic, Rostov looked forward to a dull, pleasant evening at home. The four of them would have dinner together, then watch a television serial about heroic Russian spies outwitting the CIA. He would have a glass of vodka before bed. Rostov parked in the road outside his home. His building was occupied by senior bureaucrats, about half of whom had small Russian-built cars like his, but there were no garages. The apartments were spacious by Moscow standards: Yuri and Vladimir had a bedroom each, and nobody had to sleep in the living room. There was a row going on when he entered his home. He heard Mariya's voice raised in anger, the sound of something breaking, and a shout; then he heard Yuri call his mother a foul name. Rostov flung open the kitchen door and stood there, briefcase still in hand, face as black as thunder. Mariya and Yuri confronted one another across the kitchen table; she was in a rare rage and close to hysterical tears, he was full of ugly adolescent resentment. Between them was Yuri's guitar, broken at the neck. Mariya has smashed it, Rostov thought instantly; then, a moment later: but this is not what the row is about. They both appealed to him immediately. 'She broke my guitarl' Yuri said. Mariya said, 'He has brought disgrace upon the family with this decadent music.' Then Yuri again called his mother the same foul name again. Rostov dropped his briefcase, stepped forward and slapped the boy's face. Yuri rocked backward with the force of the blow, and his cheeks reddened with -pain and humiliation. The son was as tall as his father, and broader: Rostov had not struck him like this since the boy became a man. Yuri struck back immediately, his fist shooting out: if the blow had connected it would have knocked Rostov cold. Rostov moved quickly aside with the instincts of many years' training and, as gently as possible, threw Yuri to the floor. 'Leave the house,' he said quietly. 'rome back when you're ready to apologize to your mother.' Yuri scrambled to his feet. 'Neverl' he shouted. He went out, slamming the door. Rostov took off his hat and coat and sat down at the kitchen table. He removed the broken guitar and set it carefully on the floor. Mariya poured tea and gave it to him: his hand was shaking as he took the cup. Finally he said, 'What was that all about?' 'Vladimir failed the exam.' I'Vladimir? What has that to do with Yuri's guitar? What exam did he fail?' 'For the Phys-Mat. He was rejected.' Rostov stared at her dumbly. Mariya said, 'I was so upset, and Yuri laughed-he is a little jealous, you know, of his younger brother-and then Yuri started playing this western music, and I thought it could not be that Vladimir is not clever enough, it must be that his family has not enough influence, perhaps we are considered unreliable because of Yuri and his opinions and his music, I know this is foolish, but I broke his guitar in the heat of the moment.' Rostov was no longer listening. Vladimir rejected? Impossible. The boy was smarter than his teachers, much too smart for ordinary schools, they could not handle him. The school fof exceptionally gifted children was the Phys-Mat. Besides, the boy had said the examination was not difficult, he thought he had scored one hundred percent, and he always knew how he had done in examinations. 'Where's Vladimir?' Rostov asked his wife. 'In his room.' Rostov went along the corridor and knocked at the bedroom door. There was no answer. He went in. Vladimir was sitting on the bed, staring at the wall, his face red and streaked with tears. Rostov said, 'What did you score In that exam?' Vladimir looked up at his father, his face a mask of childish incomprehension. 'One hundred percent,' he said. He handed over a sheaf of papers. 'I remember the questiOns. I remember my answers. I've checked them all twice: no mistakes. And I left the examination room five minutes before the time was up.' Rostov turned to leave. 'Don!t you believe me?' 'Yes, of course I do,' Rostov told him. He went into the living room, wherethe phone was. He called the school. The head teacher was still at work. 'Vladimir got full marks in that test,' Rostov said. The head teacher spoke soothingly. 'I'm sorry, Comrade Colonel. Many very talented youngsters apply for places
'Did they all get one hundred percent in the exam?' -rm afraid I can't divulge----~' 'You know who I am,' Rostov -said bluntly. 'You know I can find out.' 'Comrade Colonel, I like you and I want to have your son in my school. Please don't make trouble for yourself by creating a storm about this. If your son would apply again in one year's time, he would have an excellent chance of gaining a place.' People did not warn KGB officers against making trouble for themselves. Rostov began to understand. 'But he did score full marks.' 'Several applicants scored full marks in the written paper----Thank you,' Rostov said. He bung up. The living room was dark, but he did not put the lights on. He sat in his armchair, thinking. The head teacher could easily have told him that all the applicants had scored full marks; but lies did not come easily to people on the spur of the moment, evasions were easier. However, to question the results would create trouble for Rostov. So. Strings had been pulled. Less talented youngsters had gained places because their fathers had used more influence. Rostov refused to be angry. Don't get mad at the system, he told himself: use it. He had some strings of his own to pull. He picked up the phone and called his boss, Feliks Vorontsov, at home. Feliks sounded a little odd, but Rostov ignored it. 'Listen, Feliks, my son has been turned down for the Phys-Mat.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' Vorontsov said. 'Still, not everybody can get in.' It was not the expected response. Now Rostov paid attention to Vorontsov's. tone of voice. 'What makes you say that?' 'My son was accepted. Rostov was silent for a moment. He had not known that Feliks' son had even applied. The boy was smart, but not half as clever as Vladimir. Rostov pulled himself together. 'Then let me be the first to congratulate you.' 'Thank you,' Feliks said awkwardly. 'What did you call about, though?' 'Oh ... look, I won't interrupt your celebration. It will keep until morning.' 'An right. Goodbye.' Rostov hung up and put the phone gently down on the floor. If the son of some bureaucrat or politico had got into the school because of string-pulling, Rostov could have fought it: everyone's file had something nasty in it. The only kind of person he could not fight was a more senior KGB man. There was no way he could overturn this year's awards of places. So, Vladimir would apply again next year. But the same thing could happen again. Somehow, by this time next year, he had to get into a position where the Vorontsovs. of this world could not nudge him aside. Next year he would handle the whole thing differently. He would call on the head teacher's KOB file, for a start. He would get the complete list of applicants and work on any who might be a threat. He would have phones tapped and mail opened to find out who was putting on the pressure. But first he had to get into a position of strength. And now he realized that his complacency about his career so far had been erroneous. If they could do this to him, his star must be fading fast. That coup which he was so casually scheduling for some time in the next two
or three years had to be brought forward. He sat In the dark living room, planning his first moves. Mariya came in after a while and ' sat beside him, not speaking. She brought him food on a tray and asked him if he wanted to watch TV. He shook his head and put the food aside. A little later, she went quietly to bed. Yuri came in at midnight, a little drunk. He entered the living room and switched on the light. He was surprised to see his father sitting there. He took a frightened step back. Rostov stood up and looked at his elder son, remembering the growing pains of his own teenage years, the misdirected anger, the clear, narrow vision of right and wrong, the quick humiliations and the slow acquisition of knowledge. 'YurL' he said, 'I want to apologize for hitting you.' Yuri burst into tears. Rostov put an arm around his broad shoulders and led him toward his room. 'We were both wrong, you and I,' he continued. 'Your mother, too. I'm going away again soon, rfl try to bring back a new guitar.' He wanted to kiss his son, but they had gotten like Westerners, afraid to kiss. Gently, he pushed him into the bedroom and closed the door on him. Going back to the living room, he realized that in the last few minutes his plans had hardened into shape in his mind. He sat in the armchair again, this time with a soft pencil and a sheet of paper, and began to draft a memorandum.
TO: Chairman, Committee for State Security, PRom: Acting Chief, European Desk copy: Chief, European Desk DATE: 24 May 1968 Comrade Andropov: My department chief, Feliks Vorontsov, is absent today and I feel that the following matters are too urgent to await his return. An agent in Luxembourg has reported the sighting there of the Israeli operative Nathaniel ('Nat') David Jonathan Dickstein, alias Edward ('Ed') Rodgers, known as The Pirate. Dickstein was born in Stepney, East London, in 1925, the son of a shopkeeper. The father died in 1938, the mother in 1951. Dickstein joined the British Army in 1943, fought in Italy, was promoted sergeant and taken prisoner at La Molina. After the war he went to Oxford University to read Semitic Languages. In 1948 he left Oxford without graduating and emigrated to Palestine, where he began almost immediately to work for the Mossad. At first he was involved in stealing and secretly buying arms for the Zionist state. In the Fifties he mounted an operation against an Egyptian-supported group of Palestinian freedom fighters based in the Gaza Strip, and was personally responsible for the booby-trap bomb which killed Commander Aly. In the late Fifties and early Sixties he was a leading member of the assassination team which hunted escaped Nazis. He directed the terrorist effort against German rocket scientists working for Egypt in 1963-4. - On his file the entry under 'Weaknesses' reads: 'None known.' He appears to have no family, either in Palestine or elsewhere. He is not interested in alcohol, narcotics or gambling. He has no known romantic liaisons, and there is on his file a speculation that he may be sexually frozen as a result of being the subject of medical experiments conducted by Nazi scientists. I, personally, knew Dickstein intimately in the fortnative years 1947-8, when we were both at Oxford University. I played chess with him. I initiated his file. I have followed his subsequent career with special interest. He now appears to be operating in the territory which has
