patience. After lunch Dickstein
talked to an administrator from Dimona about uranium mines, enrichment
plants, fuel fabrication works, storage and transport; about safety rules
and international regulations; and about the International Atomic Energy
Agency, the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission, the United Kingdom Atomic Energy
Authority and Euratom.
In the evening Borg and Dickstein had dinner together. Borg was on a
halfhearted diet, as usual: he ate no bread with his skewered lamb and
salad, but he drank most of the bottle of red Israeli wine. His excuse was
that he was calming his nerves so that he would not reveal his anxiety to
Dickstein.
After dinner he gave Dickstein three keys. "There are spare identities for
you in safety-deposit boxes in London, Brussels and Zurich," he said.
"Passports, driving licenses, cash and a weapon in each. If you have to
switch, leave the old documents in the box."
Dickstein nodded. "Do I report to you or Mike?"
Borg thought: You never report anyway, you bastard. He said, 'To me,
please, Whenever possible, call me direct and use the jargon. If you can't
reach me, contact any embassy and use the code for a meeting-III try to get
to you, wherever you are. As a last resort, send coded letters via the dip-
lomatic bags."
Dickstein nodded expressionlessly: all this was routine. Borg stared at
him, trying to read his mind. How did he feel? Did he think he could do it?
Did he have any ideas? Did he plan to go through the motions of trying it
and then report that it was impossible? Was he really convinced the bomb
was the right thing for Israel?
Borg could have asked, but he would have got no answers.
Dickstein said, "Presumably there's a deadline."
"Yes, but we don't know what it is." Borg began to pick onions out of the
remains of the salad. "We must have our bomb before the Egyptians get
theirs. That means your uranium has to go on stream in the reactor before
the Egyptian reactor goes operational. After that point, everything is
so
TPJPLE
chemistry-theres nothing either side can do to hurry subatomic
particles. The first to start win be the first to finish."
'Ve need an agent in Qattara," Dickstein said.
"I'm working on it."
Dickstein nodded. "We must have a very good man in Cairo."
This was not what Borg wanted to talk about. "What are you trying to
do, pump me for information?" he said crossly.
"Thinking aloud."
There was silence for a few moments. Borg crunched some more onions.
At last he said, "I've told you what I want, but I've left to you all
the decisions about how to get it."
"Yes, you have, haven't you." Dickstein stood up. "I think IT go to
bed."
"Have you got any idea where you're going to start?"
Dickstein said, "Yes, I have. Goodnight."
51
Three
Nat Dickstein never got used to being a secret agent It was the continual
deceit that bothered him. He was always lying to people, biding,
pretending to be someone he was not, surreptitiously following people and
showing false documents to officials at airports. He never ceased to worry
about being found out He had a daytime nightmare in which he was sur-
rounded suddenly by policemen who shouted, "You're a spyl You're a spyl"
and took him off to prison where they broke his leg.
He was uneasy now. He was at the Jean-Monnet building in Luxembourg, on
the Kirchberg Plateau across a narrow river valley from the hilltop city.
He sat in the entrance to the offices of the Euratom Safeguards
Directorate, memorizing the faces of the employees as they arrived at
work. He was waiting to see a press officer called Pfaffer but he had in-
tentionally come much too early. He was looking for weakness. The
disadvantage of this ploy was that all the staff got to see his face,
too; but he had no time for subtle precautions.
Pfaffer turned out to be an untidy young man with an expression of
disapproval and a battered brown briefcase. Dickstein followed him into
an equally untidy office and
talked to an administrator from Dimona about uranium mines, enrichment
plants, fuel fabrication works, storage and transport; about safety rules
and international regulations; and about the International Atomic Energy
Agency, the U.S. Atomic Energy Commission, the United Kingdom Atomic Energy
Authority and Euratom.
In the evening Borg and Dickstein had dinner together. Borg was on a
halfhearted diet, as usual: he ate no bread with his skewered lamb and
salad, but he drank most of the bottle of red Israeli wine. His excuse was
that he was calming his nerves so that he would not reveal his anxiety to
Dickstein.
After dinner he gave Dickstein three keys. "There are spare identities for
you in safety-deposit boxes in London, Brussels and Zurich," he said.
"Passports, driving licenses, cash and a weapon in each. If you have to
switch, leave the old documents in the box."
Dickstein nodded. "Do I report to you or Mike?"
Borg thought: You never report anyway, you bastard. He said, 'To me,
please, Whenever possible, call me direct and use the jargon. If you can't
reach me, contact any embassy and use the code for a meeting-III try to get
to you, wherever you are. As a last resort, send coded letters via the dip-
lomatic bags."
Dickstein nodded expressionlessly: all this was routine. Borg stared at
him, trying to read his mind. How did he feel? Did he think he could do it?
Did he have any ideas? Did he plan to go through the motions of trying it
and then report that it was impossible? Was he really convinced the bomb
was the right thing for Israel?
Borg could have asked, but he would have got no answers.
Dickstein said, "Presumably there's a deadline."
"Yes, but we don't know what it is." Borg began to pick onions out of the
remains of the salad. "We must have our bomb before the Egyptians get
theirs. That means your uranium has to go on stream in the reactor before
the Egyptian reactor goes operational. After that point, everything is
so
TPJPLE
chemistry-theres nothing either side can do to hurry subatomic
particles. The first to start win be the first to finish."
'Ve need an agent in Qattara," Dickstein said.
"I'm working on it."
Dickstein nodded. "We must have a very good man in Cairo."
This was not what Borg wanted to talk about. "What are you trying to
do, pump me for information?" he said crossly.
"Thinking aloud."
There was silence for a few moments. Borg crunched some more onions.
At last he said, "I've told you what I want, but I've left to you all
the decisions about how to get it."
"Yes, you have, haven't you." Dickstein stood up. "I think IT go to
bed."
"Have you got any idea where you're going to start?"
Dickstein said, "Yes, I have. Goodnight."
51
Three
Nat Dickstein never got used to being a secret agent It was the continual
deceit that bothered him. He was always lying to people, biding,
pretending to be someone he was not, surreptitiously following people and
showing false documents to officials at airports. He never ceased to worry
about being found out He had a daytime nightmare in which he was sur-
rounded suddenly by policemen who shouted, "You're a spyl You're a spyl"
and took him off to prison where they broke his leg.
He was uneasy now. He was at the Jean-Monnet building in Luxembourg, on
the Kirchberg Plateau across a narrow river valley from the hilltop city.
He sat in the entrance to the offices of the Euratom Safeguards
Directorate, memorizing the faces of the employees as they arrived at
work. He was waiting to see a press officer called Pfaffer but he had in-
tentionally come much too early. He was looking for weakness. The
disadvantage of this ploy was that all the staff got to see his face,
too; but he had no time for subtle precautions.
Pfaffer turned out to be an untidy young man with an expression of
disapproval and a battered brown briefcase. Dickstein followed him into
an equally untidy office and
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