Code Name November

by Bill Granger

“An American, then? I thought he was English and keepin’ his gob shut because I’ve naught t’say t’the English.”

  Cashel turned to Devereaux. He smiled. “Say hello to him then, Mr. Devereaux? T’show you’re not English.”

  Devereaux managed a few words. Lynch brightened: “Ah, yer no Sassenach. I can tell right off. Yer might be Swedish, of course. They speak the language well too but they all sound like Americans. Not like the bloody Germans, who all sound like Englishmen.”

  Cashel extended his hands and shrugged. “Indeed. I’m sure we’re happy to be havin’ this lesson in the ways of the world’s speech, but I wonder now if you’d mind tellin’ me the name of the rental company?”

  And, after more business and detours in the conversation, Lynch produced a dirty slip of paper on which he had written down the name of the agency and the license number—he had done so in the event he had a change of heart concerning the scratch on the car. Or in case the agency brought up false accusations.

  Outside again in the road, Cashel and Devereaux stood together, gulping in the cold, still air, as though both of them had somehow been through a great physical ordeal and surmounted it. They felt elated and tired and even full, like a gourmet after a great meal.

  “We have a name now, Mr. Devereaux. And a place. D’you think it will meet with the names you have?”

  “I’d count on it,” said Devereaux. “But when will they move?”

  “We have enough now to warn Lord Slough,” said Cashel.

  That was not the mission. The mission was to warn British Intelligence. Devereaux glanced at Cashel. “Perhaps.”

  “There’s no ‘perhaps’ to it. We’ll go to Clare House now, after I check with the rental firm. We must warn the man.”

  Devereaux nodded. There was no logical way to argue against this common-sense approach. He had known the risk of working with Cashel but he needed Cashel. They went to the car.

  Faolin, of course, had rented the car; they learned that much from the rental agency in Belfast through the firm’s branch in Dublin. For the moment, Cashel had seen no need to work through the liaison man with the Belfast police.

  They arrived at Clare House in the hills in early afternoon. Devereaux drove up slowly to the circular turnaround in front of the imposing brick house and both men got out slowly.

  A young, coltish girl in gray twill slacks and dark blouse was in the hall when the two men were admitted. Brianna looked curiously for a moment at the American and then nodded to both of them in a formal way that seemed a little too grown-up for her.

  “I’m Brianna Devon,” she said and extended her hand in a straightforward, English-schoolgirl way. “My father is engaged at the moment, I’m afraid.”

  Cashel nodded and smiled uncertainly. He was never sure of his manners in dealing with people like Brianna. The rich were so casual in clothes and gestures and conversations and yet, beneath the ease of manner, Cashel always sensed something rigid and unyielding in their attitudes towards people like him.

  He noticed Devereaux did not share his discomfort as they stood in the hall awkwardly.

  In fact, Devereaux seemed to be appraising the girl, as if she were just another object to be studied, remembered, and filed away. Cashel looked at Brianna Devon again and was surprised to see her blush faintly beneath Devereaux’s gaze.

  “I’m sorry,” said Cashel at last. “This is Mr. Devereaux. From the Canadian police.”

  “Canada?” repeated Brianna Devon.

  “Yes,” said Devereaux. He was surprised by Cashel’s introduction because they had not discussed it on the trip to Clare House. But the surprise was momentary; Devereaux was accustomed to invention. “Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Miss Devon. We are cooperating with the Irish authorities on the investigation. Of the attempt on your father’s life.”

  Brianna seemed a little overwhelmed and determined to be in control. Cashel thought again how delicate—how like a child and a woman—she was. She reminded him of a porcelain piece of sculpture he had once seen; it was so delicate that he could not bear to stare at it for fear his clumsy soul would somehow break it.

  Brianna finally led them into the sitting room at the end of the hall. “You’ve got the man, though,” she said as they entered. “The man who murdered Deirdre?”

  Devereaux found a chair and sat down. “Yes,” he said.

  Brianna stood and waited, obviously hoping for more information. Annoyance clouded the fair, frail line of her features. She realized they must think she was a child. She wondered what to do with her hands.

  “I’m afraid my father will be a while,” she said at last and then realized she had already explained that. It flustered her. “Would you care for anything, Mr. Cashel? Claret?”

  “No, I’m afraid—”

  “Vodka,” said Devereaux.

  “I beg your pardon—”

  “Vodka with ice,” he said.

  She seemed taken aback. In her limited experience, men drank whisky only after sundown. Or so it had seemed.

  “No mix?” she tried. “Rather like drinking straight alcohol.”

  “Exactly,” he said.

  She went to the hall and spoke to a servant. In a moment, a glass was served on a little tray.

  Devereaux drank.

  “You’re from Ottawa,” she began.

  Devereaux grunted; Cashel paced by the large windows which revealed the broad lawn beyond. A clock in the house ticked steadily on into the yawning silence of afternoon.

  “That’s Russian vodka, I believe. The taste, they say, is quite distinctive.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said softly. “I’m not a connoisseur.”

  She realized that she felt as though her heart would break in the silence of the room, of the house; in the overwhelming silence of the place that had been a place of Deirdre’s laughter. It was like losing two mothers now. And she was not a woman: A woman, she said to herself, would feel differently. She had small breasts and she wore her silky clothes to advantage and she had a knowledge that men looked at her. But she only wanted to cry now and be comforted.

  “Who was Mr. Toolin then?” she asked in the quiet of the room. Cashel looked at her from the window but Devereaux spoke.

  “A terrorist and a killer.”

  “There’s no reason to it,” she said. What was happening to her voice? She was afraid of herself; her body—still awkward, still coltish, but already a woman’s slim body—was betraying her. She brushed her hands at her sides and then folded her arms.

  Devereaux put down the glass and got up. He crossed the room to her. He touched her arm.

  She had been staring at the floor. Now she looked at him.

  There were tears in her eyes.

  “It is without any sense,” he said. Not even comforting—as though you told a child that, yes, you must be afraid of the dark because there are things in the darkness which can harm you.

  “Mr. Devereaux,” she began.

  But he held her arm and looked at her. She had to return his gaze. Her eyes were wet and his were clear and cold and sad.

  “Deirdre Monahan was an accident,” he said.

  Cashel made a noise as though to protest—don’t tell her such hard things.

  “You know that,” Devereaux continued. “I’m sorry.” He held her arm. His hand, she realized, was very large. It encircled her arm. She stood with her arms folded across her breasts and she gazed steadily at him.

  “It’s not over. That’s why we have to talk to your father.”

  “Oh my God,” she began.

  “Devereaux,” said Cashel warningly.

  “Miss Devon,” Devereaux said. “I won’t fool you or tell you a lie.”

  “No,” she repeated.

  “Don’t be afraid yet, though,” he said. “Trust that, too.”

  Lord Slough appeared at the door in that moment and glanced curiously at the man who held his daughter’s arm.

  “Good afternoon,” he said quietly. He looked
at both men and stood in the middle of the floor.

  “I trust,” said Brianna Devon. And Devereaux let go of her arm and turned to the English peer. Cashel announced, “This is Mr. Devereaux from the Canadian security branch.”

  “I see,” said the lord. He looked curiously at his daughter for a moment and then at Devereaux and then he nodded slightly. “Have you found the plot behind Toolin’s attempt on my life?”

  “No,” said Devereaux.

  “We’ve come to talk to you,” said Cashel. “About—”

  “Lord Slough,” Devereaux interrupted. His voice was low and cold and without comfort.

  The English peer stood still and waited. Brianna suddenly clasped her hands around her body, as though she were chilled.

  “I am with Canadian Intelligence,” Devereaux said. “Two days before the attempt on your life, we were warned by an agent in Ulster that there was a plot on your life—”

  Cashel stared. Devereaux had said none of these things to him. He detected glimmers of truth in the fabric of the lies about Canadian Intelligence and agents in Ulster. Two days.

  “Our man in Ulster was murdered. Later, there was the attempt to kill you. At first it seemed that was the plot uncovered by our agent—”

  Lord Slough tried to smile. “But you didn’t warn me.”

  “No,” Devereaux said. He paused. All lies were plausible; only the truth could be fantastic. “You were in Canada. We put men to watch you but we did not think the plot against your life was to be carried out in Quebec City.”

  “But you were wrong, Mr. Devereaux,” Lord Slough said mildly.

  “No,” said Devereaux at last. He watched the thin, pale English face but it did not reveal anything. “We were not wrong. We have certain evidence now of a plot. In progress. To kill you.”

  Brianna made a little cry.

  “By whom, Mr. Devereaux?”

  “The IRA. We have certain names but we still don’t know where or when or how they will try to kill you. But from this moment, you are forewarned.”

  Lord Slough glanced at Brianna, who appeared to be in danger of saying something. The look silenced her.

  “Brianna. Perhaps it would be better if you left the room.”

  “Father.” She rose reluctantly; it was no good to say that she shared this horror with him, had shared it from the moment she had been visited by the headmistress in her room, from the moment she had been told there had been an “accident” in Canada and that her father had been slightly hurt and that her father’s companion had been killed. He thought she was a child and did not share his nightmares.

  She left the room but not before glancing again at Devereaux who still stood by the chair.

  “Mr. Devereaux,” Lord Slough continued. “Is there any reason not to believe that Mr. Toolin was a member of the IRA as well?”

  Devereaux considered it; he had thought about that before. He knew that the IRA, far from being a strongly disciplined centrist terror group, was in fact an umbrella covering several terrorist cells.

  “No. It is possible that Toolin was part of the IRA. It is possible that he was the first part of the plot on your life. That’s logical. If he failed to kill you in Canada, then the second part of the plan against you would be set in motion. It is also possible that Toolin was with another faction of the IRA, unrelated to the present plan against your life.”

  Cashel grunted. He believed that Toolin had had contacts with the IRA men in Dublin.

  “Do any of these… well… logical possibilities bear any resemblance to actuality?” Lord Slough asked dryly.

  “We don’t know,” said Devereaux.

  “I see.”

  “But it’s certain, sir,” began Cashel. “That they haven’t given up on their plan.”

  “How certain, Mr. Cashel?”

  “We spotted one of them at the church yesterday,” Cashel said. “When your… your daughter’s tutor was buried.”

  “Yes,” said Lord Slough. “And you seized him?”

  “Not exactly, sir.”

  “Really?” said Lord Slough.

  “We didn’t know it was him until… until later.”

  “And who is he?”

  “We’re not exactly sure,” said Cashel. He realized he was sounding foolish. He looked at Devereaux for help but there was none. “I mean, sir, we have discovered certain things about the fella which makes him a suspicious character—”

  “Ah,” said Lord Slough.

  “He’s from Belfast. He lied t’the villagers about that,” blustered Cashel.

  “Ah. From Belfast,” said Lord Slough.

  Devereaux interrupted in the same flat voice he had used before. “An agent is dead. He had information about a plot.”

  “About the first plot or this second plot you seem to believe in?”

  Devereaux shrugged. “None of this is a matter of mere speculation. There are too many indications not to believe the plot on your life is still continuing. I’m not going to argue with you about it. It’s not a game.”

  He thought, how odd for me to say that. But it was a game, wasn’t it?

  “Assume for the moment that I am in danger. What do you propose I do about it?”

  Cashel said, “They may try to get you anywhere. I suggest a guard on you—from Dublin—and contact with British Intelligence when you go to London tomorrow.”

  No, thought Devereaux. No contact.

  “I see,” said Lord Slough in the same mild tone. “I am forewarned but I am not forearmed. What can I do with your information? Can I make any more use of it than if someone tells me that someday I, too, like all men, shall die?”

  Cashel said, “The information is more specific than that.”

  Lord Slough went to the window and looked out at the vast lawn. “It is. But I cannot take your suggestion of Irish bodyguards seriously. I’ll not travel in a cocoon like an American president, treated as a portable shrine. I would rather die than have that. Jeffries is sufficient—my secretary knows both shorthand and the use of a .45 automatic, if I may indulge in melodramatic monologue.” He turned from the window. “Why is the IRA so adamant about murdering me?”

  Cashel shook his head. “Why did they kill Ross McWhirter? You’re an Englishman, sir. Of the royal English family. And you’re a friend of the Republic at the same time. Almost reason enough in that—they cannot stand peace or a mutual friend.”

  Lord Slough made a vague gesture of dismissal with one hand. “It is ironic to be the target of assassins once and then be told one is again the same target. There is almost a sense of unreality about it. I can see the gunman again, coming to kill me in that room. I’m afraid one cannot believe in violence if one is exposed to it too often. It loses its power to shock further; I am afraid I am not afraid.” He smiled.

  They were silent for a moment.

  Lord Slough said, “I own newspapers, but now I realize what it is to be the object of public scrutiny and pity. The attempt upon my life has made me a public man in a way I do not choose to live. This attempt upon my life might come next week, next month, next year… or never. I will not live in a fishbowl. No, Mr. Devereaux and Mr. Cashel. I will not have an Irish guard assigned to me, though I shall welcome security here at Clare House for the sake of my daughter. But I will not be held hostage to terror and I will not value my life so greatly that in order not to lose it, I should be afraid to live it.”

  He shook his head for emphasis. “Nor will I stay here. I may die and I may not die and the IRA may have the say of that; but the IRA will not say how I shall live.”

  Devereaux did not move. It was what he wanted; there would be no change and there was still a chance to deal information to British Intelligence. Though Lord Slough spoke eloquently, he was a fool. Life was not posturing and brave speeches; life was mean; it was lived on one’s knees. It was full of betrayals and stolen moments of warmth and love, always clouded by the gray coldness of ordinary human dealings.

  “Do you understand, Mr
. Devereaux?” Lord Slough said, turning to the frowning man. “Life held too tightly, too dearly, is crushed as certainly as a sparrow held in a foolish child’s hands.”

  Devereaux’s mind—his whole being—rebelled against such sentiments. They were only words, the stuff for platforms and politicians.

  Lord Slough glanced at him.

  Devereaux’s right hand went to his own neck for a moment; his fingers felt the ridge of flesh cut by the wire; he felt the terror again of that moment of darkness on a Belfast street when he was certain he would die.

  “Do you understand, Mr. Devereaux?”

  But Devereaux did not speak and Lord Slough finally turned away. The interview was over and both Cashel and Devereaux understood that at once; they filed silently out of the room.

  Brianna Devon was waiting in the hall. She held the policeman’s bowler hat in her pale, long-fingered hands. “Your hat, Mr. Cashel,” she said and absently handed it to him. Her lovely face was frightened and she looked first at the Irish policeman and then at Devereaux. “What will happen?”

  “He’ll be safe,” said Devereaux. He said it so that she would know it was not true.

  “What can be done?”

  Devereaux looked at her. “I don’t know.”

  A butler appeared and opened the front door; beyond, the car waited on the gravel turnaround. Suddenly, the sky had changed and the afternoon seemed without color, bleached like bones left in the dust. Impulsively and without a word, Brianna led them through the front door. The cold plucked at her pale skin and she shivered.

  Devereaux made a gesture and then thought better of it. “It’s too cold,” he said.

  Was it kindness intended for her? Brianna looked at him, started to speak, and then thought of nothing to say.

  Cashel said, “It’ll be all right.” His voice was gruff, unused to comforting.

  “Can’t you stop them?” she asked, finally. “Whoever wants to kill my father?”

  But Devereaux wouldn’t lie. He opened the car door. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Yes, Miss Devon, of course we will,” said Cashel. “We’ll do everything. We’re puttin’ a guard now on yer house.”

  But Brianna was not listening; she stared at the American as he turned the key in the ignition.