Ken Follett: Triple (1991)

"Fine," she said. "Mr. Cortone, this is my husband, Professor Ashford." Cortone said, "How are you." Ashford was a balding man in ill-fitting clothes. Cortone had been expecting Lawrence of Arabia. He thought: Maybe Nat has a chance after all. Eila said, "Mr. Cortone was telling me how Nat Dickstein saved his life." "Reallyl" Ashford said. "It's not a long story," Cortone said. He glanced over at Dickstein, now deep in conversation with Hassan and Rostov; and noted how the three men displayed their attitudes by the way they stood: Rostov with his feet apart, wagging a finger like a teacher, sure in his dogma; Hassan leaning against a bookcase, one hand in his pocket, smoking, pretending that the international debate about the future of his country was of merely academic interest; Dickstein with arms folded tightly, shoulders hunched, head bowed in concentration, his stance giving the lie to the dispassionate character of his remarks. Cortone heard The British promised Palestine to the Yews, and the reply, Beware the gifts of a thief. He turned back to the Asbfords and began to tell them the story. "It was in Sicily, near a place called Ragusa, a hill town," he said. "I'd taken a T-force around the outskirts. To the north of the town we came on a German tank in a little hollow, on the edge of a clump of trees. The tank looked abandoned but I put a grenade into it to make sure. As we drove past there was a shot---only one-and a German with a machine gun fell out of a tree. He'd been hiding up there, ready to pick us off as we passed. It was Nat Dickstein who shot him." Eila!s eyes sparkled with something like excitement, but her husband had gone white. Obviously the professor had no stomach for tales of life and death. Cortone thought: If that upsets you, pop, I hope Dickstein never tells you any of his stories. "The British had come around the town from the other side," Cortone went on. "Nat had seen the tank, like I did, !nd smelled a trap. He had spotted the sniper and was waiting to see if there were any more when we turned up. If he hadn't been so damn smart I'd be dead." The other two were silent for a moment. Ashford said, "It's not long ago, but we forget so fast."

Eila remembered her other guests. "I want to talk to you some more before you go," she said to Cortone. She went across the room to where Hassan was tying to open a pair of doors that gave on to the garden. Ashford brushed nervously at the wispy hair behind his ears. "The public hears about the big battles, but I suppose the soldier remembers those little personal incidents." Cortone nodded, thinking that Ashford clearly had no conception of whar war was like, and wondering if the professor's youth had really been as adventurous as Dickstein claimed. "Uter, I took him to meet my cousins-the family comes from Sicily. We had pasta and wine, and they made a hero of Nat. We were together only for a few days, but we were like brothers, you know?" "Indeed." "When I beard he was taken prisoner, I figured I'd never see him again." "Do you know what happened to him?" Ashford said. "He doesn't say much . . ." Cortone shrugged. "He survived the camps." "He was fortunate." "Was he?" Ashford looked at Cortone for a moment, confused, then turned away and looked around the room. After a moment he said, 'This is not a very typical Oxford gathering, you know. Dickstein, Rostov and Hassan are somewhat unusual students. You should meet Toby-he's the archetypal undergraduate." He caught the eye of a red-faced youth, in a tweed suit and a very wide paisley tie. "Toby, come and meet Dickstein's comrade-in-arms-Mr. Cortone." Toby shook hands and said abruptly, "Any chance of a tip from the stable? Will Dickstein win?" 'Tvrin whatr'Cortone said. Ashford explained, "Dickstein and Rostov are to play a chess match-they're both supposed to be terribly good. Toby think you might have inside information-he probably wants to bet on the outcome." Cortone said, "I thought chess was an old man's game." Toby said, "Ahl" rather loudly, and emptied his glass. He and Ashford seemed nonplussed by Cortone's remark. A little girl, four or five years old, came in from the garden carrying an elderly gray cat Ashford introduced her with the coy pride of a man who has become a father in middle age. 'This is Suza," he said. The girl said, "And this is Hezekiah." She had her mother's skin and hair; she too would be beautiful. Cortone wondered whether she was really Ashford's daughter. There was nothing of him in her looks. She held out the cats paw, and Cortone obligingly shook it and said,"How are you, Hezeldah?" Suza went over to Dickstein. "Good morning, Nat. Would you like to stroke Hezeklah?" "She's very cute," Cortone said to Ashford. "I have to talk to Nat. Would you excuse me?" He went over to Dickstein, who was kneeling down and stroking the cat. Nat and Suza seemed to be pals. He told her, "This is my friend Alan." "We've met," she said, and fluttered her eyelashes. Cortone thought: She learned that from her mother. "We were in the war together," Dickstein continued. Suza looked directly at Cortone. "Did you kill people?" He hesitated. "Sure." "Do you feel bad about it?" "Not too bad. They were wicked people." "Nat feels bad about it. Thairs why he doesn't like to talk about it too much." The kid had got more out of Dickstein than all the grown ups put together. I The cat jumped out of Suza's arms with surprising agility. She chased after it. Dickstein stood up. "I wouldn't say Mrs. Ashford is out of reach," Cortone said quietly. "Wouldn't you?" Dickstein said. "She can't be more than twenty-five. He's at least twenty years older, and I'll bet he's no pistol. If they got married before the war, she must have been around seventeen at the time. And they don't seem affectionate." "I wish I could believe you," Dickstein said. He was not as interested as he should have been. "Come and see the garden." They went through the French doors. The sun was stronger, and the bitter cold had gone from the air. The garden stretched in a green-and-brown wilderness down to the edge of the river. They walked away from the house. Dickstein said, "You don't much like this crowd." "The war's over," Cortone said. "You and me, we live, in different worlds now. All this-professors, chess matches, sherry parties ... I might as well be on Mars. My life is doing deals, fighting off the competition, making a few bucks. I was fixing to offer you a job in my business, but I guess I'd be wasting my time." "Alan. . ." Listen, what the hell. Well probably lose touch now-rm not much of a letter writer. But I wont forget that I owe you my life. One of these days you might want to call in the debt. You know where to find me." Dickstein opened his mouth to speak, then they heard the voices. I,Oh . . . no, not here, not now . . ." It was a woman. "Yesl" A man. Dickstein and Cortone were standing beside a thick box hedge which cut off a comer of the garden: someone had begun to plant a rnst e and never finished the job. A few steps from where they were a gap opened, then the hedge turned a right angle and ran along the river bank. The voices came clearly from the other side of the foliage. The woman spoke again, low and throaty. "Don't damn you, or I'll scream." Dickstein and Cortone stepped through the gap. Cortone would never forget what he saw there. He stared at the two people and then, appalled, he glanced at Dickstein. Dickstein's face was gray with shock, and he looked ill; his mouth dropped open as he gazed in horror and despair. Cortone looked back at the couple. The woman was Eila Ashford. The skirt of her dress VMS around her waist, her face was flushed with pleasure and she was kissing Yasif Hassan.

Chapter One

The public-address system at Cairo airport made a noise like a doorbell, and then the arrival of the Alitalia flight from Milan was announced in Arabic, Italian, French and English. Towflk el-Masiri left his table in the buffet and made his way out to the observation deck. He put on his sunglasses to look over the shimmering concrete apron. The Caravelle was already down and taxiing. Towfik was there because of a cable. It had come that morning from his "uncle" in Rome, and it had been in code. Any business could use a code for international telegrams, provided it first lodged the key to the code with the post office. Such codes were used more and more to save moneyby reducing common phrases to single words-than to keep secrets. Towfiks uncWs cable, transcribed according to the registered code book, gave details of his late aunt's will. However, Towflk. had another key, and the message he read was: