fast and has certain extra equipment-we use her quite often.' Rostov was staring up at the ceiling, an expression of mild distaste on his face. Hassan guessed that Rostov wanted to keep some of these details from the Egyptians: perhaps that was what he and Vorontsov had been arguing abouL Vorontsov went on, IrYour job Is to get an Egyptian vessel and make contact with the Karla in the Mediterranean.' 'And then?' Hassan said. 'We wait for T`yft aboard the Copawift, to tell us when the Israeli hijack takes place. He will also tell us whether the uranium is traiisferred from the Coparelli to the Stroynberg, or simply left aboard the Coparell! to be taken to Haifa and unloaded.' 'And then?' Hassan persisted. Vorontsov began to speak, but Rostov forestalled him. 'I want you to tell Cairo a cover story,' he said to Hassan. 'I want your people to think that we don!t know about the Coparelft, we Just know the Israelis an planning something in the Mediterranean and we are still tying to discover what.' Hassan nodded, keeping his face impassive. He had to know what the plan was, and Rostov did not want to tell binif He said, 'Tee, Ill tell them that-if you tell me the aotual plan.- Rostov looked at Voronstov and shrugged. Vorontsov said, 'After the hijack the Karla will set a course for Dickstein!s ship, whichever one carnes, the uranium, The Karla Will coIlide with that ship.'
'Your ship will witness the collision, report it, and observe that the crew of the vessel are Israelis and their cargo is uranium. You will report these facts too. There will be an international inquiry into the collision. The presence of both ls~ raefis and stolen uranhun. on the ship will be established beyond doubt. Meanwhile the uranium will be returned to its rightful owners and the Israelis will be covered with opprobrim.' 'Me Israelis will fight,' Hassan said. Rostov said, 'So much the better, with your ship there to see them. attackus and help us beat them off.' 'It's a good plan,' said Vorontsov. 'It's simple. All they have to do is crash-the rest follows automatically.'
'Theirs a good plan,' Hassan said. It fitted in perfectly with the Fedayeen plan. Unlike Dickstein, Hassan knew that Tyrin was aboard the Coparelli. After the Fedayeen had hijacked the Coparelli and ambushed the Israelis, they could throw Tyrin and his radio into the sea, then Rostov would have no way of locating them. But Hassan needed to know when and where Dickstein intended to carry out his hijack so that the Fedayeen could be sure of getting there first. Vorontsov's office was hot. Hassan went to the window and looked down at the traffic on the Moscow ring road. 'We need to know exactly when and where Dickstein will hijack the Coparelli,' he said. 'Vhy?' Rostov asked, making a gesture with both arms spread, Palms upward. 'We have Tyrin aboard the Coparelli and a beacon on the Stromberg. We know where both of them are at all times. We need only to stay close and move in when the time comes.' 'My ship has to be in the right area at the crucial time~' 'Men follow the Stromberg, staying just over the horiZon-You can pick up her radio signal. Or keep in touch with me on the KaAm Or both.' 'Suppose the beacon fails, or Tyrin is discoveredr, Rostov said, 'Me risk of that must be weighed against the danger Of tipping our hand if we start following Dickstein around apin-&ssuming we could find him.' 'He b~fts a Point, though,' Vorontsov said. It was Rostovs turn to glare. Hassan unbuttoned his collar. 'May I open a windowr 'They don't open,' said Vorontsov. 'Haven't you people heard of air-conditioningr, 'InMoscow?' Hassan United and spoke to Rostov. 'Think about it. I want to be Perfectly sure we nail these people.' 'I've thought about it,' Rostov said. 'Vere as sure as we can be. Go back to Cairo, organize that ship and stay in touch with me.' You patronizing bastard, Hassan thought. He turned to Vorontsov. 'I cannot, in all honesty, tell my people I'm happy with the plan unless we can eliminate that remaining uncertainty.' Vorontsov. said, 'I agree with Hassan.'
'Well, I don't,' said Rostov. 'And the plan as it stands has already been approved by Andropov.' Until now Hassan had thought he was going to have his way, since Vorontsov was on his side and Vorontsov was Rostov's boss. But the mention of the Chairman of the KGB seemed to constitute a winning move in this game: Vorontsov was almost cowed by it, and once again Hassan had to conceal his desperation. Vorontsov said, 'The plan can be changed.' ''Only with Andropov's approval,' Rostov said. 'And you won't get my support for the change.' Vorontsov's lips were compressed into a thin line. He hates Rostov, thought Hassan; and so do I. Vorontsov said, 'Very well, then.' In all his time in the intelligence business Hassan bad been part of a professional team-Egyptian Intelligence, the KGB, even the Fedayeen. Ilere had been other people, experienced and decisive people, to give him orders and guidance and to take ultimate responsibility. Now, as he left the KGB building to return to his hotel, he realized he was on his own. Alone, he had to find a remarkably elusive and clever man and discover his most closely guarded secret. For several days he was in a panic. He returned to Cairo, told them Rostov's cover story, and organized the Egyptian ship Rostov had requested. The problem stayed in the front of his mind like a sheer cliff he could not begin to climb until he saw at least part of the mute to the top. Unconsciously he searched back in his personal history for attitudes and approaches which would enable him to tackle such a task, to act independently. He had to go a long way back. Once upon a time Yasif Hassan had been a different kind of man. He had been a wealthy, almost aristocratic young Arab with the world at his feet. He had gone about with the attitude that he could do more or less anything-and thinking had made it so. He bad gone to study in England, an alien country, without a qualm; and he had entered its society without caring or even wondering what people thought of him. There had been times, even then, when he had to learn; but he did that easily too. Once a fellow undergraduate, a Viscount something-or-other, had invited him down to the country to play polo. Hassan had never played polo. He had asked the rules and watched the others play for a while, noticing how they held the mallets, how they hit the ball, how they passed it and why; then he had joined in. He was clumsy with the mallet but he could ride like the wind: he played passably well, he thoroughly enjoyed the game, and his team won. Now, in 1968, he said to himself: I can do anything, but whom shall I emulate? The answer, of course was David Rostov. Rostov was independent, confident, capable, brilliant. He could find Dickstein, even when it seemed he was stumped, clueless, up a blind alley. He had done it twice. Hassan recalled: Question.- What is Dickstein in Luxembourg? Well, what do we know about Luxembourg? What is there here? There is the stock exchange, the banks, the Council of Europe, Euratorn- Euratoml Question: Dickstein has disappeared-where might he have gone? Don't know. But who do we know that he knows? Only Professor Ashford in Oxford- Oxfordl Rostov's approach was to search out bits of informationany information, no matter bow trivial-in order to get on the target. 'Me trouble was, they seemed to have used all the bits of information they had. So IT get some more, Hassan thought; I can do anything. He racked his brains for all that he could remember frordi the time they had been at Oxford together. Dickstein had been in the war, he played chess, his clothes were shabby- He had a mother. But she had died. Hassan had never met any brothers or sisters, no relatives of any sort. It was all such a long time ago, and they had not been very close even then. There was, however, someone else who might know a little more about Dickstein: Professor Ashford.
So, in desperation, Yasif Hassan went back to Oxford. All the way-in the plane from Cairo, the taxi from, London airport to Paddington station, the train to Oxford and the taxi to the little green-and-white house by the river-he wondered about Ashford. The truth was, he despised the professor. In his youth perhaps he had been an adventurer, but ,he had become a weak old man, a political dilettante, an academic who could not even hold his wife. One could not respect an old cuckold-and the fact that the English did not think like that only increased Hassan's contempt. He worried that Ashford's weakness, together with some kind of loyalty to Dickstein as one who had been a friend and a student, might make him balk at getting involved. He wondered whether to play up to the fact that Dickstein was Jewish. He knew from his time at Oxford that the most enduring antiSemitism in England was that of the upper classes: the London clubs that still blackballed Jews were in the West End, not the East End. But Ashford was an exception there. He loved the Middle East, and his pro-Arab stance was ethical, not racial, in motivation. No: that approach would be a mistake. In the end he decided to play it straight; to tell Ashford why he wanted to find Dickstein, and hope that Ashford would agree to help for the same reasons.
When they had shaken hands and poured sherry, they sat down in the garden and Ashford said, 'What brings you back to England so soon?' Hassan told the truth. -rm chasing Nat Dickstein.' They were sitting by the river in the little comer of the garden that was cut off by the hedge, where Hassan had kissed the beautiful Eila so many years ago. Ile comer was sheltered from the October wind, and there was a little autumn sunshine to warm them. Ashford was guarded, wary, his face expressionless. 'I think you'd better tell me what's going on.' Hassan observed that during the summer' the professor had actually yielded a little to fashion. He had cultivated sidewhiskers and allowed his monkish fringe of hair to grow long, and was wearing denim jeans with a wide leather belt beneath his old tweed jacket. -ru tell you,' Hassan said, with an awful feeling that Rostov would have been more subtle than this, 'but I must have your word that it will go no farther.' 6 .'Agreed. 'Dickstein is an Israeli spy.9' Ashford's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Hassan plunged on. 'The Zionists are planning to make nuclear bombs but they have no plutonium. They need a secret supply of uranium to feed to their reactor to make plutonium. Dickstein's job is to steal that uranium---and my job is to find him and stop him. I want you to help me.' Ashford stared into his sherry, then drained the glass at a gulp. 'There are two questions at issue here,' he said, and Hassan realized that Ashford was going to treat this as an intellectual problem, the characteristic defense of the frightened academic. 'One is
