The Devereaux File

by Ross H. Spencer

  Lockington said, “Obviously.” He looked around the room. “Where’s Vladimir?”

  Natasha squinted, “Vladimir?”

  “Vladimir Lenin. Shouldn’t you have a picture of Vladimir Lenin?”

  “Do you have a picture of George Washington?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I don’t have a picture of Vladimir Lenin.” She offered him a cigarette. He didn’t like filters but he took it. She said, “Vladimir had wonderful ideas—the problem is they haven’t worked worth a damn.”

  Lockington said, “Have you noticed that wonderful ideas never work worth a dam?”

  She sat at the other end of the sofa, pouring vodka, raising her glass to him. She said, “To the memory of your good friend Rufus Devereaux.”

  Lockington nodded approval of the toast and they drank. He said, “All right, Ms. Gorky, let’s have it.”

  She leaned back on the sofa, blowing a smoke ring to the ceiling, watching it disintegrate like a wonderful idea. She said, “Devereaux—how well did you know him?”

  “Not too well—we were baseball fans. That can do a lot for an association.”

  She smiled, tongue in cheek. “You’d do nicely in Dzerzhinsky Square.”

  “Is that where the nightingale sang?”

  “No, the nightingale sang in Berkeley Square—KGB headquarters is in Dzerzhinsky Square. You know nothing of Rufus Devereaux’s mission, or his obsession, or whatever it may have been?”

  “Yes, he wanted to lay every woman in America.” Lockington shrugged. “That didn’t make him a bad guy.”

  She bowed her head into the palm of her left hand, laughing softly. It was a musical laugh, Lockington thought—like distant chimes. She said, “Oh, but aren’t we evasive? Mr. Lockington, your friend is dead, we can’t hurt him. He never spoke of the Copperhead?”

  “The Copperhead—yes, on one occasion.”

  “No more than that?”

  “It was a casual reference—he gave no indication of involvement. The Copperhead’s a paid killer, they tell me.”

  “The best—in your country, that is. In certain circles it’s believed that Devereaux was stalking the Copperhead. Beyond that, the Copperhead may have been stalking Devereaux. You knew Devereaux—was he good enough to mix in that sort of company?”

  “I’d say yes.”

  “Based on what?”

  “On a gut feeling, on impressions I received—he’d have been a bad man to go up against.”

  Natasha shrugged. “There’s no iron-clad guarantee that he was killed by the Copperhead, but it was a chess match that’d been going on for nearly four years.”

  “Tell me about the Copperhead. Who is he—who does he work for?”

  “His identity’s unknown, he’s used several names. He’s killed in Miami—a two-hundred-yard rifle shot from an apartment rented by a Samuel Sheckard. He’s killed in San Antonio—a point-blank pistol shot from an automobile rented by an Orval Overall. In Birmingham a man was knifed to death in a restaurant booth reserved by a Carl Lundgren—the Copperhead has no established pattern and he doesn’t use the same alias twice.”

  “All right, if there’s no clear-cut M.O., why does it have to be the Copperhead?”

  “In Miami the victim was Wallace Vernon, an ultraliberal publisher. In San Antonio it was Grady James, a leftist columnist. In Birmingham it was Gordon Sheetz, a union organizer with known Communist ties, a radical by American standards. All had been threatened by LAON and each killing carried the Copperhead’s trademark.”

  “What’s his trademark?”

  “Perfection—no loose ends. He leaves a trail of thin air. Our assumption is that he kills liberals for LAON and that he’s eliminated at least one Mafia man.”

  “Our assumption?”

  “The KGB’s.”

  “How do you link him to the Mafia murder?”

  “Wallace Vernon was killed in Miami on the night of June ninth, ’eighty-seven. A major cocaine transporter died there two hours later—a man by the name of Juarez. Juarez was Mafioso, a link between Colombia, Panama, and the United States. Wallace Vernon and Juarez were killed by the same weapon—Miami law enforcement recovered both slugs—the riflings were identical.”

  Lockington whistled. “You’re well informed.”

  Natasha Gorky’s smile was of the type usually reserved for the very young. “Mr. Lockington, the Komitet Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti employs some five hundred thousand people. More than half of these are in the United States. I should be well informed.”

  Lockington said, “I see.” He really didn’t. The implied logistics were mind-boggling. He said, “And the Copperhead learned that Rufe was on his trail, so he doubled back on him?”

  “A plausible theory.” She was refilling their glasses. “On the other hand, Rufus Devereaux knew too much—much too much.”

  “About whom—what?”

  “About the CIA, about the Mafia, about LAON.”

  “And about the KGB?”

  There was that pale-blue unflinching stare. “Yes, and about the KGB.”

  “Which explains your interest.”

  “Indeed it does. You see, Rufus Devereaux had considerable knowledge of collusion between opposing ideologies, about bargains made and better left unmentioned.”

  “You’ve lost me—I fell off on the first turn.”

  “Well, by way of example—you remember the so-called Cuban missile crisis of nineteen sixty-two, I’m sure.”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Vaguely? You were twenty-two years of age in 1962!”

  “Yes, but I was in the Marines—those were foggy years.”

  “Why foggy?”

  “Because I was drunk.”

  “Was that all the Marines did—drink?”

  “No, there were whorehouses. Back to the Cuban missile crisis, if you will.”

  “All right, what do you know of it?”

  “Khrushchev installed nuclear missiles in Cuba. Kennedy made him take ’em out.”

  Natasha was shaking her head. “A half-truth at best. There were United States missiles in Turkey—they’d been there for years. Khrushchev countered by placing Soviet missiles in Cuba, agreeing to remove them if Kennedy would pull U.S. missiles out of Turkey. Kennedy jumped at it, using the alibi that the missiles in Turkey were obsolete. If I’m not mistaken, an obsolete nuclear missile will kill as many people as a state-of-the-art nuclear missile.”

  Lockington said, “Hell, I didn’t know that we had missiles in Turkey.”

  “At that time, how many Americans did? Rufus Devereaux was privy to such information. For instance, he knew that the United States Government had sponsored a half-dozen attempts on the life of Fidel Castro, and that every one of them was made by the Mafia at the request of the CIA.”

  “That’s substantiated?”

  “No, but Devereaux could have substantiated it. He’d occupied any number of key CIA posts—he could have supplied dates, times, places, names.”

  “So could a lot of other people, undoubtedly.”

  “Undoubtedly, but a lot of other people haven’t been willing to bring the facts to light.”

  “And Rufe was willing?”

  Natasha frowned. Lockington liked her frown, realizing that when a man likes a woman’s frown he may be getting into deep water. She was saying, “It’s possible—he may have become embittered.”

  Lockington was studying her—studying Natasha Gorky was a pleasure. He said, “He was in the same game as you. Have you become embittered?”

  After what seemed a very long time she put a hand to her throat. “Yes, Mr. Lockington, and I’m choking on it.”

  Lockington joined in a silence that could have been chopped with an axe. In a while he said, “There are other cases too sensitive for public scrutiny?”

  Her smile was frigidly tight. “Too numerous to mention. There’ve been no big winners, but all participants stand an excellent chance of losing.”

  “Losing what?”<
br />
  “Leadership, backing, prestige, secrecy, the ability to function effectively. I refer to the KGB, the CIA, the Mafia, LAON—we’re all in the same leaky canoe.”

  “All deal in assassination?”

  “All, but of the four, LAON is on the thinnest ice—by comparison it’s a fledgling organization.”

  “But gaining strength?”

  “Oh, yes—it’s established beachheads in government, it has highly influential supporters. At this stage in the game full exposure would prove catastrophic.”

  “The KGB believes that LAON hired the Copperhead to kill Devereaux?”

  “It sees that as a definite possibility.”

  “Then who hired Devereaux to kill the Copperhead?”

  “Perhaps no one—it could have been an ego trip for Devereaux. Had he spoken of retirement?”

  “Several times.”

  Natasha’s slow nod was a thoughtful thing. She said, “An excellent way to close an illustrious career, wouldn’t you think—the frosting on the cake?”

  Lockington downed his Martell’s, grinding the stub of his cigarette into the ashtray on the coffee table. He gritted, “I’m out of my element—I don’t think I should know about such things.”

  She’d gotten to her feet, stretching like a cat. She said, “Perhaps not, but if you stay on the Devereaux trail, you’ll learn.”

  Lockington’s discouraged sigh was audible. He said, “Would you believe that I was making an honest effort to stay out of this mess?”

  “I believe that you think you were.”

  “But not that I—” He was staring in dismay. Natasha Gorky’s short dark-brown dress had been pulled up over her pixie hairdo, her beige half-slip had slithered to the floor. She stepped clear of it, walking toward him, turning her back to him, peering at him over a tawny shoulder. She said, “My brassiere clasp, if you will, please.”

  Lockington unhooked the clasp, feeling her breasts spill out, watching her shrug free of the brassiere to catch it and toss it onto her overstuffed chair. She pivoted to face him, smiling her off-center smile, her paleblue eyes sparkling with challenge, her nipples jutting like pink flint. She said, “You’ll excuse my lack of panties?”

  Lockington nodded, saying nothing.

  She took his hand, tugging him from the sofa. “I’m from Odessa, Mr. Lockington. In Odessa the girls never bother.”

  She was unbuttoning his shirt when he said, “I hardly ever get to Odessa.”

  39

  Granted the identical opportunity with the identical lady, deducting the shock of her direct approach and adding a few hours of continence, Lockington might have performed considerably better, or a great deal less poorly, depending on how Natasha Gorky saw it. A recuperation period of less than half a day had been inadequate for a man of Lockington’s years. Still, he’d managed to get it done, the spirit willing, the flesh faltering, and she’d appeared to enjoy their hour. Appearances meant nothing, of course—Lockington knew that a clever woman will convince a man that he’s done very well when he hasn’t done very well at all. He figured that she’d registered him between a zero and a five, which was fair because he’d never been a ten, and eight was beyond him now—thirty years beyond him.

  Her auburn pixie-cut was snuggled into his shoulder and she was murmuring, “Thank you—I was in need.”

  Lockington said, “So was I.” It was a lie, but a noble lie.

  She said, “May I call you Lacey?”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  “After—well, after this, Lacey would seem in order, don’t you agree?”

  Lockington agreed and he said so.

  “I felt so foolish saying, ‘Oh, my God, Mr. Lockington, I’m coming!’ when ‘Oh, my God, Lacey, I’m coming!’ would have been more apropos. Did I sound foolish?”

  “Not at all, but Communists shouldn’t say, ‘Oh, my God,’ should they?”

  “That would depend on the Communist, I suppose.” She wiggled closer to him.“Uhh-h-h, Lacey, not to be talking shop after so pleasant a dalliance, but—well, about Devereaux—just what are you looking for?”

  “I didn’t know that I was looking for anything, I’d tried to throw it out of my mind, but the why of it seems most important. Whys usually lead to whos.”

  “The why appears obvious.”

  “To shut him up?”

  “Can you think of a better reason?”

  Lockington pushed it around in his mind, trying to sight it from another angle. He said, “Rufe was with a woman when he got into Chicago—he’d had a relationship with another. One has disappeared, the other is dead.”

  “I know. What do you see in that?”

  “Not a great deal. I suppose that one of them could have shot him.”

  “Farfetched. We’ve heard that he was killed with a heavy-caliber, high-velocity weapon—possibly a Magnum three fifty-seven with a silencer. How many women carry three fifty-seven Magnums with silencers?”

  “Probably less than fifty percent. Could Devereaux have been killed with his own gun?”

  “Definitely not. Devereaux carried a bone-handled Smith & Wesson thirty-eight.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “Firearms identification is a KGB requisite.”

  “Who identified Rufe’s gun as a Smith & Wesson thirty-eight?”

  “A KGB woman—one of our best.”

  “When and where?”

  “June third of last year—here in Chicago.”

  “Rufe wasn’t in Chicago in June of last year—if he’d been here I’d have heard from him.”

  “He was here briefly, staying at the home of an out-of-town friend in the unincorporated area of Leyden Township.”

  “The address?”

  “Three thousand North Onines Avenue.”

  “Why was he here?”

  “She doesn’t know. He was leaving for Miami the next day. Now it would appear that he was attempting to catch up with the Copperhead and head off the assassination of Wallace Vernon.”

  “How would Rufe have known that Vernon was to be assassinated?”

  “It was CIA information, apparently.”

  “How did your operative wangle a contact with Devereaux?”

  “Easily—she let him pick her up at a country music honky-tonk. The KGB maintains dossiers on known CIA people—Devereaux’s dossier was being updated.”

  “She took him to bed, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Who was your operative?”

  “Natasha Gorky, if you must know.”

  “Doggone, woman, you do get around!”

  “Lacey, that’s my job.”

  “Your job—like taking me to bed?”

  Natasha lifted her head from Lockington’s shoulder, turning to peer at him. “All right, let’s call a spade a spade—the KGB can use you in this matter, that’s the way this started and I have no idea how it’ll end, but in the last couple of hours I—you—let it pass, please. Where were we?”

  “I was right here—you were in bed with Rufe Devereaux.”

  “And that disturbs you?”

  “You’re goddamned right that disturbs me!”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but it does.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, but I am.”

  Lockington sat up in bed, groping for his cigarettes on the nightstand, lighting two, passing one to her. She accepted it, thanking him, her smile contented, the smile of the cat that’s just polished off the canary. He said, “Let’s swap corners. What does the KGB want from this?”

  “The same thing the others want—silence and lots of it. At one time or another we’ve all gotten egg on our faces, we’ve all stepped in manure, we’ve been compromised, bought, sold, and bartered. Even God can’t change the past, but silence can preserve the future.”

  “Silence won’t flush LAON and the Copperhead into the open.”

  “LAON and the Cop
perhead are America’s problem—so is the Mafia, so is the CIA. But Rufus Devereaux has become a problem for the Soviet Union.”

  “Rufe’s gone—dead men tell no tales.”

  “What if he’d told tales prior to his death? What was in his missing attaché case—where is it?”

  “Are you acquainted with the theory that he delivered its contents to me?”

  “I’ve heard it, considered it, and dismissed it. If you knew the answers why would you be asking questions?” Natasha rose to a cross-legged sitting position, a sight to behold, her breasts full, firm, her belly flat and tight, her pixie hairdo tousled, her face lovely despite its perplexed expression. “Look, Lacey—why can’t we work together on this? You know Devereaux personally, you know things that you don’t know you know, and I have virtually immediate access to a wealth of information. We could get to the bottom of this, you and I!”

  Lockington shrugged. He’d have joined this one in a wild turkey chase. She was straightforward, there was a blunt trustworthiness about her, he liked her—it was a chemical thing, a matter of instinct. She was as beautiful, as keen-witted, as glib-tongued, as poised and polished as they came, but he sensed a vulnerability. She had a faint aura of insecurity—she could have been the girl next door instead of a highly trained KGB agent. He said, “I call the shots?”

  “You call the shots.”

  Lockington said, “All right.”

  She kissed him. He’d expected that, but it wasn’t a brusque, businesslike kiss—it was soft, clinging, and it spun his senses. They looked at each other in the ensuing silence, probing with their eyes, a Martian and a Venusian stranded on Jupiter. After a while she said, “What—what if Rufe Devereaux wrote a book?”

  Lockington said, “There’d be blood on the moon.”

  The silence returned.