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
