Major-Pyotr Alekseivitch Tyrin did not actually like Rostov. He did not like any of his superiors: in his view, you had to be a rat to get promoted above the rank of major in the KGB. SO, he had a sort of awestruck affection for his clever, helpful boss. Tyrin had considerable skills, particularly with electronics, but he could not manipulate people. He was a major only because he was on Rostov's incredibly successful team. Abba Allon. High Street exit. Fifty-two, or nine? Where are you, fifty-two? Fifty-two. We're close. Well take him. What does he look like? Plastic raincoat, green hat, mustache. As a friend Rostov was not much; but he was a lot worse as an enemy. This Colonel Petrov in London had discovered that. He had tried to mess around with Rostov and had been surprised by a middle-of-the-night phone call from the head of the KGB, Yuri Andropov himself. The people in the Lon. don Embassy said Petrov,had looked like a ghost when he hung up. Since then Rostov could have anything he wanted: if he sneezed five agents rushed out to buy handkerchiefs.
Okay, this Is Ruth Davisson, and she's going north ... Nineteen, we can take her- Relax, nineteen. False alarm. les a secretary who looks like her. Rostov had commandeered all Petrov's best pavement artists and most of his cars. -The area around the Israeli Embassy in London was crawling with agent&--someone had said, "There are more Reds here than in the Kremlin Clinid'!--but it was hard to spot them. They were in cars, vans, minicabs, trucks and one vehicle that looked remarkably like an unmarked Metropolitan Police bus. There were more on foot, some in public buildings and others walking the streets and the footpaths of the park. There was even one inside the Embassy, asking in dreadfully broken English what he had to do to emigrate to Israel. The Embassy was ideally suited for this kind of exercise. It was in a little diplomatic ghetto on the edge, of Kensington Gardens. So many of the lovely old houses -belonged to foreign legations that it was known as Embassy Row. Indeed, the Soviet Embassy was close by in Kensington Palace Gardens. The little group of streets formed a private estate, and you, had to tell a policeman your business before you could get in. Nineteen, this time It is Ruth Davisson . . . nineteen, do you hear me? Nineteen here, yes. Are you still on the north side? Yes. And we know what she looks like. None of the agents was actually in sight of the Israeli Embassy. Only one member of the team could see the doorRostov, who was a half mile away, on the twentieth floor of a hotel, watching thr-ough a powerful Zeiss telescope mounted on a tripod. Several high buildings in the West End of London had clear views across the park of Embassy Row. Indeed, certain suites in certain hotels fetched inordinately high prices because of rumors that from them you could see into Princess Margaret's backyard at the neighboring palace, which gave its name to Palace Green and Kensington Palace Gardens. Rostov was in one of those suites, and he had a radio transmitter as well as the telescope. Each of his sidewalk squads had a walkie-talkie. Petrov spoke to his men in fast Russian, using confusing codewords, and the wavelength on which he transmitted and on which the men replied was changed every five minutes according to a computer program built into all the sets. The system was working very well, Tyrin thought-he had invented it-except that somewhere in the cycle everyone was subjected to five minutes of BBC Radio One. Eight, move up to the north side. Understood. If the Israelis had been in Belgravia, the home of the more senior embassies, Rostov's job would have been more difficult. There were almost no shops, cafes or public offices in Belgravia-nowhere for agents to make themselves unobtrusive; and because the whole district was quiet, wealthy and stuffed with ambassadors it was easy for the police to keep an eye open for suspicious activities. Any of the standard surveillance ploys-telephone repair van, road crew with striped tentwould have drawn a crowd of bobbies in minutes. BY contrad the am around the little oasis of Embassy Row was Kensington, a major shopping area with several colleges and four museums. Tyrin himself was in a pub in Kensington Church Street. The resident KGB men had told him that the pub was frequented by detectives from "Special Branch!-the rather coy name for Scotland Yard's political police. The four youngish men in rather sharp suits drinking whiskey at the bar were probably detectives. They did not know Tyrin, and would not have been much interested in him if they had. Indeed, if Tyrin were to approach them and say, "By the way, the KGB is tailing every Israeli legal in London at the moment," they would probably say "What, again?" and order another round of drinks. in any event Tyrin knew he was not a man to attract second glances. He was small and rather rotund, with a big nose and a drinkees veined face. He wore a gray raincoat over a green sweater. The rain had removed the last memory of a crease from his charcoal flannel trousers. He sat in a comer with a glass of English beer and a small bag of potato chips. no radio in his shirt pocket was connected by a fine, fleshcolored wire to the plug-it looked like a hearing aid-in his left car. His left side was to the wall. He could talk to Rostov by pretending to fumble in the inside pocket of his raincoat turning his face away from the room and muttering into the perforated metal disc on the top edge of the radio. He was watching the detectives drink whiskey and thinking that the Special Branch must have better expense accounts than its Russian equivalent: he was allowed one pint of beer per hour, the potato crisps he had to buy himself. At- one time agents in England had even been obliged to buy beer in half pints, until the accounts department had been told that in many pubs a man who drank halves was as peculiar as a Russian who took his vodka in sips instead of gulps. Thirteen, pick up a green Volvo, two men, High Street. Understood, And one on foot . . . I think that's Yigael Meier Twenty? Tyrin was "Twenty." He turned his face into his shoulder and said, "Yes. Describe him." Tall, gray hair, umbrella, belted coat. High Street gate. Tyrin said, "rm on my way." He drained his glass and left the pub. It was raining. Tyrin took a collapsible umbrella from his raincoat pocket and opened it. The wet sidewalks were crowded with shoppers. At the traffic lights he spotted the green Volvo and, three cars behind it, 'Mirteen!l in an Austin. Another car. Five, this one's yours. Blue Volkswagen beetle. Understood. Tyrin reached Palace Gate, looked up Palace Avenue, saw a man fitting the description heading toward him, and walked on without pausing. When he had calculated that the an had had time to reach the street he stood at the curb, as if about to cross, and looked up and down. The mark emerged from Palace Avenue and turned west, away from Tyrin. Tyrin followed. Along High Street tailing was made easier by the crowds. Then they turned south into a maze of side streets, and Tyrin became a bit nervous; but the Israeli did not seem to be watching for a shadow. He simply butted ahead through the rain, a tall, bent-figure under an umbrella, walking fast, intent on his destination. He did not go far. He turned into a small modern hotel just off the Cromwell Road. Tyrin walked past the entrance and, glancing through the glass door, saw the mark step Into a phone booth In the lobby. A little farther along the road Tyrin passed the green Volvo, and concluded that the Israeli and his colleagues in the green Volvo were staking out the hotel. He crossed the road and came back on the opposite side, just In case the mark were to come out again immediately. He looked for the blue Volkswagen beetle and did not see it, but he was quite sure it would be close by. He spoke into his shirt pockeL "M is Twenty Meier and the green Volvo have staked out the Jacobean HoteL" Confirwd, Twenty. Five and Thirteen ham the Israeli cars covered. Where is Meier? ,in the lobby." Tyrin looked up and down and saw the Austin which was following the green Volvo. Stay with him. "Understood." Tyrin now had a difficult decision to make. If he went straight into the hotel Meier might spot lum, but if he took the time to find the back entrance Meier might go away in the meanwhile. He decided tD chance the back entrance, on the grounds that he was supported by two cars which could cover for a few minutes if the worst happened. Beside the hotel there was a narrow alley for delivery vans. Tyrin walked along it and came to an unlocked fire exit In the blank side wall of the building. He went in and found himself in a concrete stair- well, obviously built to be used only as a fire escape. As he climbed the stairs he collapsed his umbrella, put it in his raincoat pocket and took off the raincoat He folded it and left it In a little bundle on the first half landing, w1we he could quickly pick it up N he needed to make a fast exlL He went to the second floor and took the elevator down to the lobby. When he emerged in his sweater and trousers he looked like a guest at the hotel. The Israeli was still in the phone bootlL Tyrin went up to the glass door at the front of the lobby, looked out, chocked his w&hratch and returned to the waiting area to sit down as if he were ineeting someone. It did not seem to be his lucky day. The object: of the whole exercise was to find Nat Dickstein. He was known to be in England and it was hoped that he would have a meeting with one of the legals. The Russians were following the legals in order to witness that meeting and pick up Dickstein's trail. The Israeli team at this hotel was clearly not involved in a meeting. They were staking out someone, presumably with a view to tailing him as soon as he showed, and that someone was not likely to be one of their own agents. Tyrin could only hope that what they were doing would at least turn out to be of some interesL He watched the mark come out of the phone booth and walk off in the direction of the ' bar. He wondered if the lobby could be observed from the bar. Apparently not, because the mark came back a few minutes later with a drink in his hand, then sat down across from Tyrin and picked up a newspaper. The mark did not have time to drink his beer. The elevator doors hissed open, and out walked Nat Dickstein. Tyrin was so surprised that he made the mistake of staring straight at Dickstein for several seconds. Dickstein caught his eye, and nodded politely. Tyrin smiled weakly and looked at his watch. It occurred to him-more in hope than conviction-that staring was such a bad mistake that Dickstein might take it as proof that Tyrin was not an agent. There was no time for reflection. Moving quickly withTyrin thought-something of a spring in his step, Dickstein crossed to the counter and dropped a room key, then proceeded quickly out Into the street. The Israeli tail, Meier, put his newspaper on the table and followed. When the plate-glass door closed behind Meier, Tyrin got up, thinkingrm an agent following an agent following an agent. Wen, at least we keep each other in employment. He went Into the elevator and pressed the button for the first floor. He spoke into his radio. "This is Twenty. I have Pirate." There was no reply-the walls of the building were blocking his transmission. He got out of the elevator at the first floor and ran down the fire stairs, picking up his raincoat at the half landing. As soon as he was outside he tried the radio again. "This, is Twenty, I have the Pirate.,' All right, Twenty. Thirteen has him too. Tyrin saw the mark crossing Cromwell Road. "I'm follow. ing Meier," he said into his radio.