by Bill Granger
It was the end of a conversation that had been unfinished for too long.
35
RAMBLER
There was a tail car and a police car and then this thing. A 1973 Rambler.
Dave stared out the window of the rooming house and then rushed to the door and down the stairs. He paused on the first landing. What the hell was this about? If it came down to it, he could deny he owned the thing. But they had his name on the registration and the plates and—
He opened the door and crossed the sidewalk. It was a warm day in May.
The man in the tail car got out while the driver got out of the Rambler. The driver didn’t seem too happy.
“David Mason?”
“What’s this about?”
“Are you David Mason?”
“Yeah.”
“This is your car.”
“Maybe.”
“It is your car.”
“All right, it’s my car.”
“We found it.”
“So, you found it.”
“We’re bringing it back to you.”
“What are you, the tooth fairy?”
“Yeah, I’m the tooth fairy.” He seemed bored. “Look, this is your car and here it is. Also, here’s the bonus.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The bonus for use of the car. Twenty-two cents a mile and forty-two dollars per diem. It comes to four hundred twelve dollars thirty-one cents.” He produced a pen. “Just sign.”
“Sign what?”
“Expense account form.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Government. Got any objections to four hundred twelve dollars thirty-one cents?”
“Not one.”
“Man who rented the car from you.”
Dave caught on. “Yeah. What about him?”
“He works with us. Our… section.”
“Yeah. What do you do?”
“We’re spies,” the man said.
“Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, you’re spies.”
The man held the paper while he signed. He took back his pen and popped it into his shirt pocket. He looked at Dave as though he didn’t like what he saw.
“Boss says I got to ask you.”
“Ask me what?”
“You want a job with us?”
“You’re spies, right?”
“That’s right.”
“James Bond? Cloak and dagger?”
“Yeah. And we all wear trenchcoats.” In fact, he was wearing a trenchcoat, even though it must have been 85 degrees.
“Sure,” Dave said.
“Sure what?”
“Sure, I’ll take a job.”
“Come on, then,” the man said.
And that was that.
36
MRS. NEUMANN
By June, Hanley was back, a little thinner but still back. He was examined by three psychologists who said his mind was perfectly sound. Of course, if the Section had wanted to prove the other argument, it had three psychologists ready to testify that Hanley was deranged.
St. Catherine’s federal subsidy was withdrawn because of certain abuses noted in a report filed with the budget office and the General Accounting Office.
Not noted in the report was the fate of Dr. Goddard. Hanley knew the signature. Dr. Goddard had been found with his throat slit. Hanley thought about it—and then put it from his mind. There was work to do. Operations was still… well, operational. Nothing had changed. Yackley was out of course, but quietly. Same with Richfield and the other division directors. The new boss of R Section was quite ruthless in the matter of personnel. Hanley understood that and appreciated it. Who could have appreciated Mrs. Neumann better than Hanley?
Even Quentin Reed, who had escaped any blame in the Weinstein affair, thought it was terrific. As he told the National Security Adviser, “What could be better? A computer whiz to put software on the right track and at the same time score points in the FBM derby?” It meant: Female, black, minority.
The National Security Adviser had trouble with that—with all of Quentin’s jargon—but he understood the gist of it. Mrs. Neumann was the right sex for a change. And she’d ride herd on Operations, too.
37
SLEEPER
The tourists were in Copenhagen. It was summer and the air was filled with their English chatter. They all seemed to speak English.
They came by the trainloads into the quaint dark station in the center of Copenhagen, across from the Tivoli Gardens. They filled the streets and shops. They came in surging gaggles, they filled the sidewalks, they bought everything, and the Danes smiled with good humor at them.
The English language sounded good to the man at the table in the café on Vesterbrogade, west of the train station. The café was not a usual tourist place, but now and then a couple wandered in and spoke loud English and it felt good to hear it. The Carlsberg was very cold and he drank quite a bit of it every afternoon, reading the papers in the way of an exile with a lot of time on his hands. He had been waiting all winter and spring for the time to be spent, to watch the trail, to see who might still be on it.
He spoke Danish fairly well. They knew he was a foreigner of course but they appreciated him all the more for taking the trouble to learn that difficult language.
He read the Herald-Tribune and the Wall Street Journal’s European edition. He read the Journal de Genève, the French-language paper from Switzerland.
He was interested in Switzerland very much.
He was not an unattractive man. He had the scar, of course, across his cheek, from ear to the edge of his mouth. And he had the limp, inflicted on him one night by a gray-haired man whose name was Devereaux. He had taken a long time to overcome the perpetual pain in his ankle. Devereaux had cut his Achilles tendon. At least the pain reminded the red-haired man every day of whom he hated more than his own life.
He thought about Alexa sometimes. She had killed poor Nils on the Finlandia. Poor Nils.
Nils was a find. Nils had been attracted to him in one of those cellar clubs in Copenhagen where the smoke is very thick and the beer is cold and everyone talks too loud. They had sat at a booth together and shared secrets. Or Nils had shared secrets.
They were so much alike. They had reddish hair, both of them. Nils wore a beard and Ready was clean-shaven. He could not have grown a beard because of the scar.
They had shared their bodies with each other. Nils was fascinated by Ready. Ready always had that power—over men and women. He used Nils and Nils understood he was being used and accepted the position. It was a position of deference and some might have thought it was degrading. Nils attended to Ready’s words and whims.
And then, as Ready listened at the trail for the sounds of those who followed him, he thought of the idea. Of using Nils to end the trail for once and all. To involve Nils in the job of being a spy. Ready’s spy. Ready’s goat. It would work because everyone would believe in it so thoroughly. It was too absurd not to work. Nils became Ready because he would do the things Ready wanted him to do; he would meet the agent on the Finlandia; he would seduce the agent and tell Ready about the seduction.
Except, of course, he would never live to tell a soul. The Soviets must have thought Ready very stupid to believe they would give him a second chance.
The trail was cold now. Ready slept and no one knew he was alive at all.
So, mostly, in the long lingering summer afternoons of Copenhagen where there is a smell of fish on the sea breezes and the chatter of tourists in the narrow streets and wide plazas, Ready thought about new things. About Devereaux and his girl. About the time to come when Ready would be awake again. And what he would have to do to Devereaux and to his woman to make up for all he had suffered.
38
NOVEMBER
Is this what being a spy is about? It’s not so bad.”
“There are no spies,” Devereaux said.
Rita wa
s bare-breasted because this was a very upper-class French resort called the Baie des Anges—the Bay of Angels—down the Riviera from Nice. The resort was formed by a series of enormous buildings curved around a very small harbor full of very large boats. The buildings resembled ocean liners with stepped decks. It was all very exclusive and monstrously expensive and he had taken her hand one afternoon, led her to a plane, led her here. She looked around her, to make certain all the other women had not suddenly slipped on their halter tops. All was well; breasts were naked. She wore a small red bikini bottom. Devereaux stretched on the chaise next to her; he had his eyes closed.
“I said this is a pretty good life.”
“It’s all right,” he said. The sun was very warm and they were both dark now.
“I feel odd. Not wearing a top.”
“You’d feel odder if you did.”
“You like to look at naked women, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he said.
She closed her eyes for a long time and felt the sun on her breasts. With her eyes closed, she said, “Do you think it will be like this for a while? I mean, don’t we get a breather?”
“Sure,” he said. “This is the breather.”
“But things always turn out bad in the end.”
“There are no happy endings. I knew someone in New York once who wanted to believe in happy endings. It was the saddest thing you ever saw.” And he smiled at her.
Rita waited for a while, feeling the sun on her body.
“This is the way it had to be.” She frowned when she said it. She wasn’t talking about this. She was talking about the matter they didn’t really talk about anymore.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Everything you told me. Everything you didn’t tell me. It was supposed to save R Section. And nothing happened at all.”
“Nothing.” His voice was lazy in the sun. The babble around them was full of French voices and the occasional German grunt. The Mediterranean Sea beyond the pool was blue, deeper blue than it had ever been before.
“It turned out to be meaningless.”
“If Perry Weinstein had remained, it wouldn’t have been. Perry was moving up the ladder. He was that close to real power. This was a skirmish in the war. It could have been more than that. If Weinstein had won it.”
“De Big Cold War. What is it, exactly, De Big Cold War?” She used an Amos ’n’ Andy accent.
“Skirmishes. Little battles. It doesn’t mean very much.”
“People died.”
“Yes.”
“People always die.” She was smiling at him because she was mocking him. It was what he might have said. His eyes were closed but he returned her smile. The smile came in her voice.
“It’s a condition of life,” he said.
“You’re a philosopher.”
“I wish I could promise you happy endings.”
She said, “Would you like to go up to our rooms and make love?”
“You mean in the middle of the day?”
“Yes,” she said.
He stood up and waited for her. She put on her top to walk back to the buildings. It was all so beautiful.
“You never want it to end,” she said.
He said nothing.
They held hands as they walked back, among the half-naked bodies all around the pool. They looked exactly like what they were. Friends and lovers.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
An award-winning novelist and reporter, Bill Granger was raised in a working-class neighborhood on the South Side of Chicago. He began his extraordinary career in 1963 when, while still in college, he joined the staff of United Press International. He later worked for the Chicago Tribune, writing about crime, cops, and politics, and covering such events as the race riots of the late 1960s and the 1968 Democratic Convention. In 1969, he joined the staff of the Chicago Sun-Times, where he won an Associated Press award for his story of a participant in the My Lai Massacre. He also wrote a series of stories on Northern Ireland for Newsday—and unwittingly added to a wealth of information and experiences that would form the foundations of future spy thrillers and mystery novels. By 1978, Bill Granger had contributed articles to Time, the New Republic, and other magazines; and become a daily columnist, television critic, and teacher of journalism at Columbia College in Chicago.
He began his literary career in 1979 with Code Name November (originally published as The November Man), the book that became an international sensation and introduced the cool American spy who later gave rise to a whole series. His second novel, Public Murders, a Chicago police procedural, won the Edgar® Award from the Mystery Writers of America in 1981.
In all, Bill Granger published thirteen November Man novels, three nonfiction books, and nine novels. In 1980, he began weekly columns in the Chicago Tribune on everyday life (he was voted best Illinois columnist by UPI), which were collected in the book Chicago Pieces. His books have been translated into ten languages.
Bill Granger passed away in 2012.
ALSO BY BILL GRANGER
The November Man series
Code Name November
(previously published as The November Man)
Schism
The Shattered Eye
The British Cross
The Zurich Numbers
Hemingway’s Notebook
The November Man
(previously published as There Are No Spies)
The Infant of Prague
Henry McGee Is Not Dead
The Man Who Heard Too Much
League of Terror
The Last Good German
Burning the Apostle
Other Novels
Drover
Drover and the Zebras
Public Murders
Newspaper Murders
Priestly Murders
The El Murders
Time for Frankie Coolin
Sweeps
Queen’s Crossing
Nonfiction
Chicago Pieces
The Magic Feather
Fighting Jane
Lords of the Last Machine (with Lori Granger)
Praise for Bill Granger and the November Man Series
THE NOVEMBER MAN
“Chilling… seems to move with the speed of light.”
—Pittsburgh Press
“Should keep you reading to the end… an engrossing book about the world of computers, treachery, slow or sudden death, and ‘doing things wrong for all the right reasons.’ ”
—Chicago Tribune
“Crisp style, well-mannered prose, and inexorable tension characterize this worthy addition to the successful November Man series. Granger once again displays his winning talent for manipulating traditional elements of intrigue… highly recommended.”
—Library Journal
“Granger’s November Man series has been consistently entertaining and interesting, far surpassing much of the work done in the espionage genre. This addition to the list maintains that consistency… builds almost perfectly to an exciting finish… on the mark.”
—Publishers Weekly
“First-rate… This gripping novel provides further proof that November Man has grown into one of the most complex fictional spies on the current scene.”
—Booklist
CODE NAME NOVEMBER
“Mr. Granger has combined Ian Fleming, John le Carré, and Trevanian in a heady mix… He handles all the elements with real virtuosity.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Granger is one of our premier spy novelists. His Devereaux is the perfect spy for these less than perfect times.”
—People
“A novelist of superb talent who has mastered the genre and brought to it a distinctly American viewpoint.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“A serious American writer of the first rank… Like Hemingway, Granger learned the technical aspects of his craft through newspaper work. The result is lean and uniquely American.”
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—National Review
SCHISM
“An intelligently crafted thriller… lean prose and intricate plotting.”
—Los Angeles Times
“The mysteries and motives here turn out to be suitably momentous… all of the characters are vulnerably likeable… solid entertainment.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“True and dramatic and entertaining… Schism stands on its own.”
—Chicago Tribune
THE SHATTERED EYE
“The Shattered Eye is a page-turner of the first order.”
—Denver Post
“It catches you on the first page and propels you through to the end at an accelerating speed.”
—Chicago Tribune Book World
THE BRITISH CROSS
“Sharp and suspenseful… A fine piece of work.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Never lets readers relax. This one belongs on the top shelf.”
—New York Daily News
“Granger handles all the elements of real virtuosity.”
—New York Times
THE ZURICH NUMBERS
“An invigorating thriller. Granger is a fine, serious storyteller… His simple, meaty prose is a perfect complement to the intricacies of the plot.”
—Publishers Weekly
“An ingenious, imaginative plot… The November Man has a steely, indomitable quality that raises him to Bond’s superstar status.”
—Kansas City Star
HEMINGWAY’S NOTEBOOK
“Granger writes like a shooting star. His plots and characters and dialogue are so good… It’s chilling stuff… a single page will grip the reader with an impact that other writers would use a chapter to pull off.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Fast-moving, action-packed, violent, and ultimately very satisfying.”