Ken Follett - Triple (1991)

It had been a year for seeing old friends and observing how they had changed; but Al Cortones 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 bad been only hinted at in 1947 and totally absent during the war. And he was completely balcL 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 ISO TrUPLE

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. Thev 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 Cortones 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. Conw quently he had to go to Al and call in the twenty-four-yearold 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 RTavel 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 very 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 samel 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. rm. 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 Welldressed, 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 ston 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. ne 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 CDrtone 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 professoes wife, the Ay-rab?" "No." Dickstein barely smiled. "She's dead, now." "I'M sorry. to "A strange thing happened. I went back there, to that house by the river, and met her daughter ... She looks just like Efla used to.,, "No kidding. And . . ." Cortone leered. "And you made ft with the daughter-I don't believe itl" 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 re. alized 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 migbt have been some. thing 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 oxfordr, "Sure. I told you I owe you a debt, you saved my life." Cortone inhaled on his cigar. At least that had not changed. "Im here to ask for your to help. "Go ahead and ask." "Mind if I put the radio on?" Cortone smiled. "Mis 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. Cortones 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. "Ifs something that could mean the end of the wars in the Middle East." He paused, remembering a phrase Cortone had used habitually. "And I aWt to 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 Im there-a couple of weeks, maybe mom-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. Ifs not exactly plush, kid ... no heat, no phone-but it could fill the bill." Dickstein smiled broadly. nlat!s terrific," he said. "Thats 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.