My darling Sum I have never written a love letter before. I don't think I ever called anyone darling until now. I must tell you, it feels very good. I am alone in a strange town on a cold Sunday afternoon. The town is quite pretty, with lots of parks, in. fact I'm sitting in one of them now, writing to you with a leaky ballpoint pen and some vile green stationery, the only kind I could got My bench is beneath a curious kind of pagoda with a circular dome and Greek columns all around in a circle-like a folly, or the kind of summer house you might find In an English country, garden designed by'a Victorian eccentric. In front of,me is a fiat lawn dotted with poplar trees, and in the distance I can hear a brass band playing something by Edward Elgar. The park is fall of people with children and footballs and dogs. I dotft know why I'm telling you all this. What I really want to say is I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I knew that a couple of days after we met I hesitated to tell you, not because I wasn!t sure, but Well, if you want to know the truth, I thought it might ware you off. I know you love me, but I also know that you are twenty-five, that loves comes easily to you (I'm the opposite way), and that love which comes easily may go easily. So I thought: Softly, Softly, give her a chance to get to like you before you ask her to say "Forever." Now that weve been apart for so many weeks I'm no longer capable of such deviousness. I just have to tell you how it is with me. Forever is what I want, and you might as well know it now. I'm a changed man. I know that sounds trite, but when it happens to you it isn't trite at all, it's just the opposite. Life looks different to me now, in several ways-some of which you know about, others IT tell you one day. Even this is different, this being alone In a strange place with nothing to do until Monday. Not that I mind it, particularly. But before, I wouldn't even have thought of it as something I might like or dislike. Before, there was nothing I'd prefer to do. Now there is always something Id rather do, and you're the person I'd rather do it to. I mean with, not to. Well, either, or both. I'm going to have to get off that subject, it's making me fidget. I'll be gone from here in a couple of days, don't know where I'm going next, don't know-and this is the worst part-don't even know when I'll see You again. But when I do, believe me, Im not going to let you out of my sight for ten or fifteen years. None of this sounds how it's supposed to sound. I want to tell you how I feel, and I can't put it into words. I want you to know what ies like for me to picture your face many times every day, to see a slender girl with black hair and hope, against all reason, that somehow she might be you, to imagine all the time what You n-dght say about a view, a newspaper article, a small man with a large dog, a pretty dress; I want you to know how, when I get into bed alone, I just ache with the need to touch you. I love you so much. N.
Franz Pedler's secretary phoned Nat Dickstein at his hotel on Tuesday morning and made a date for lunch. They went to a modest restaurant in the Wilhelmstrasse and ordered beer instead of wine: this was to be a working session. Dickstein controlled his impat ience-Pedler, not he, was supposed to do the wooing. Pedler said, "Well, I Chink we can accommodate you." Dickstein wanted to shout "Hoorayl" but he kept his face impassive. Pedier continued: "The, prices, which IM give you in a moment are conditional. We need a five-year contz-act. We will guarantee prices for the first twelve months; after that they may be varied in accordance with an index of world Prim of certain mw matenals. And there!s a cancellaton Penalty amounting to ten percent of the value of one Yeaes Supply." Dickstein wanted to say, "Donel" and shake hands on the deal, but he reminded himself to continue to play his part. $wren per-cent is stiff.99 "It's not,excessive," Pedler argued. "It certainly would not recompense us for our losses if you did cancel. But it must be large enough to deter you fmm canceling except under very compelling circumstances." "I see that. But we may suggest a smaller percentage." Pedler shrugged. "Everything is negotiable. Here are the prices." Dickstein studied the list then said, 'This is close to what we're looking for." "Does that mean we have a deal?" Dickstein thought: Yes, yes! But. he said, "No, it means that I think we can do business." Pedler beamed. "In that case," he said, "let's have a real drink. Waiterl" When the drinks came Pedler raised his glass in a toast. "'To many years of business together." "1711 drink to that," Dickstein said. As he raised his glass he was thinking: How about that-I did it againI
Life at sea was uncomfortable, but it was not as bad as Pyotr Tyrin had expected. In the Soviet Navy, ships had been run on the principles of unremitting hard work, harsh discipline and bad food. The Coparelli was very different. Tte captain, Eriksen, asked only for safety and good seamanship, and even there his standards were not remarkably high. The deck was swabbed occasionally, but nothing was ever polished or painted. The food was quite good, and Tyrin had the advantage of sharing a cabin with the cook. In theory Tyrin could be called upon at any hour of the day or night to send radio signals, but in practice all the traffic occurred during the normal working day so he even got his eight hours sleep every night. It was a comfortable regimen, and Pyotr Tyrin was concerned about comfort. Sadly, the ship was the opposite of comfortable. She was a bitch. As soon as they rounded Cape Wrath and left The Minch and the North Sea she began to pitch and roll like a toy yacht in a gale. Tyrin felt terribly seasick, and had to conceal it, since he was supposed to be a sailor. Fortunately this occurred while the cook was busy in the galley and Tyrin was not needed in the radio room, so be was able to lie flat on his back in his bunk until the worst was over. The quarters were poorly ventilated and inadequately heated, so immediately it got a little damp above, the mess decks were full of wet clothing hanging up to dry and making the atmosphere worse. Tyrin's radio gear was in his sea-bag, well protected by polythene and canvas and some sweaters. However, he could not set it up and operate it in his cabin, where the cook or anyone else might walk in. He had already made routine radio contact with Moscow on the ship~s radio, during a quiet-but nonetheless tense--mornent when nobody was listening; but he needed something safer and more reliable. -Tyrin was a nest-building man. Whereas Rostov would move from embassy to hotel room to safe house without noticing his environment, Tyrin liked to have a base, a place where he could feel comfortable and familiar and secure. On static surveillance, the kind of assignment he preferred, he would always find a large easy chair to place in front of the window, and would sit at the telescope for hours, perfectly content with his bag of sandwiches, his bottle of soda and his thoughts. Here on the Copareffl, he had found a place to nest. Exploring the ship in daylight, he had discovered a little labyrinth of stores up in the bow beyond the for'ard hatch. The naval architect had put them there merely to fill a space between the hold and the prow. The main store was entered by a semiconcealed door down a flight of steps. It contained some tools, several drums of grease for the cranes and-inexplicably-a rusty old lawn mower. Several smaller rooms opened off the main one: some containing ropes, bits of machinery and decaying cardboard boxes of nuts and bolts; others empty but for msects. Tynn had never seen anyone enter the area-stuff that was used was stored aft, where it was needed. He chose a moment when darkness was failing and most of the crew and officers were at supper. He went to his cabin, picked up his sea-bag and climbed the companionway to the deck. He took a flashlight from a locker below the bridge but did not yet switch it on. The almanac said there was a moon, but it did not show through the thick clouds. Tyrin made his way stealthily foeard holding on to the gunwale, where his silhouette would be less likely to show against the off-white deek. There was some light from the bridge and the wheelhouse, but the duty officers would be watching the surrounding sea, not the deck. Cold $Pray fell on him, and as the Copareni executed her notorious roll he had to grab the rail with both hands to avoid being swept overboard. At tunes she shipped waternot much, but enough to soak into Tyrin's sea boots and frem his feet. He hoped fervently that he would never find out what she was like in a real gale. He was miserably wet and shivering when he reached the bow and entered the litdc disused store. He closed the door behind him, switched on his flashlight and made his way through the assorted junk to one of the small rooms off the main store. He closed that door behind him too. He took off his oilskin, rubbed his hand on his sweater to dry and warm them some, then opened his bag. He put the transmitter in a corner, lashed it to the bulkhead with a wire tied through rings in the deck, and wedged it with a cardboard box. He was Wearing rubber soles, but he put on rubber gloves as an additional precaution for the next task. The cables to the ship's radio mast ran through a pipe along the deckhead above him. With a small hacksaw pilfered from the engine room TYrin cut away a six-inch section of the pipe, exposing tht cables. He took a tap from the power cable to the power input of the transmitter, then connected the aerial socket of Ins radio with the signal wire from the mast He switched on the radio and called Moscow. His Outgoing sigrials would not interfere with the shies radio because he was the radio operator and it was unlikely that an)rone else would attempt to send on the ship!s equipment. However, while he was using his own radio, incon-dng signals would not reach the ship's radio room; and he would not hear them either since his set would be tuned to another frequency. He could have wired everything so that both radios would receive at the same time, but then Moscows replies to him would be received by the ship's radio, and somebody might notice ... Well, there was nothing very suspicious about a small ship taking a few minutes to pick up signals. Tyrin would take care to use his radio only at times when no traffic was expected for the ship. When he reached Moscow he made: Checking secondary transmitter. They acknowledged, then made: Stand by for signal from Rostov. All this was in a standard KGB code. Tyrin made: Standing by, but hurry. The message came: Keep your head down until something happens. Rostov. Tyrin made: Understood. Over and out. Without waiting for their sign-off he disconnected his wires and restored the ship's cables to normal. The business of twisting and untwisting bare wires, even with insulated pliers, was time-consuming and not very safe. He had some quick-release connectors among his equipment in the ship's radio room: he would pocket a few and bring them. here next time to speed up the process. He was well satisfied with his evening's work. He had made his nest, he had opened his lines of communication, and he had remained undiscovered. All he had to do now was sit tight; and sitting tight was what he liked to do. He decided to drag in another cardboard box to put in front of the radio and conceal it from a casual glance. He opened the door and shined his flashlight into the main store--and got a shock. He had company. The overhead light was on, casting restless shadows with its yellow glow. In the center of the storeroom, sitting against a grease drum with his legs stretched out before him, was a young sailor. He looked up, just as startled as Tyrin andTyrin realized from his face-just as guilty. Tyrin recognized him. His name was Ravlo. He was about nineteen years old, with pale blond hair and a thin white face. He had not joined in the pub-crawls in Cardiff, yet he often looked bung over, with dark discs under his eyes and a distracted air. Tyrin said, 'Vbat are you doing hereT' And then be saw. Ravlo had rolled up his left sleeve past the elbow. On the deck between his legs was a phial, a watch-glass and a small waterproof bag. In his right hand was a hypodermic syringe,' with which he was about to inject himself. Tyrin frowned. "Are you diabetic?" Ravlo's face twisted andhe gave a dry, humorless laugh. "An addict," Tyrin said, understanding. He did not know much about drugs, but he knew that what Ravlo was doing could get him discharged at the next port of call. He began to relax a little. This could be handled. Ravlo was looking past him, into the smaller store. Tyrin looked back and saw that the radio was clearly visible. The two men stared at one another, each understanding that the other was doing something he needed to hide. Tyrin said, "I will keep your secret, and you will keep Inine. Ravlo gave the twisted smile and the dry, humorless laugh again; then he looked away from