by Bill Granger
“I was supposed to tell you the truth as though I were Tomas Crohan. Those were my instructions. The truth in any case, except I am not Tomas Crohan.”
“And what will you do now?”
“Do you think I should eat another egg?”
Devereaux stared at him and did not speak.
“Cheese,” the old man said. “I could have cheese and fruit. Even in winter, look at this fruit.”
The old man snatched an apple and bit into it. He reached for a plate of cheese on the table and shoved a piece in his mouth even as he slowly ingested the apple. His eyes were sad suddenly, misted as the windows misted.
“A man could kill for a meal such as this in the camps. In Siberia. Do you know that?”
“Is it the truth?”
“Yes. We are all beasts if survival demands it.”
Devereaux stared at the plate of food and tried to comprehend the idea of starving men fighting each other to death for these scraps.
“When I was a young man, Citizen Comrade, I thought the world contained at least a few absolutes. There was good somewhere and evil, certainly. And there was freedom. But now I am old and very wise.” The old man smiled.
“You are free now,” Devereaux said.
“No. You do not mind if I contradict you.” The old man tore a piece of black bread with his yellow teeth. “I am not free and you know it. The prison has just gotten larger. You want to take me to Dublin, where I will be put in another jail because I am Michael Brent who killed their Tomas Crohan in 1944. Why did I kill him? Because I was so certain of good and evil. I was an agent and I would kill for King and Country and Crohan must be killed for the safety of the nation. Hah.” He dropped the bread and reached for a second apple.
His eyes glistened. “I would kill a man for a piece of bread in Siberia and that was more important than killing a man to save my native land. Do you see what a fraud everything is?”
Devereaux waited without prodding. His hands rested on the table in front of him. The coffee was not touched.
“Such a waste of life. Look at my life, sir. My whole life is gone. You see, there are tears in my eyes. I can still cry for myself because who else will cry for me? My whole life is nearly ended and I was a prisoner for so long; and now there is still no freedom for me or peace.”
“Who are you?” Devereaux said at last. The old man seemed surprised.
“I told you, sir. I am Michael Brent.”
“No,” Devereaux said.
The old man stared at him.
“You are Tomas Crohan.”
“I killed him.”
“No. For thirty-eight years, you have been Tomas Crohan. You have lived the life you took.”
“But who will believe that?”
“I do. Who won’t believe it? It is mostly the truth except for the first fact; it is probably more of the truth than most stories have. The English will believe it because they cannot contradict it. The Russians will believe it. Anyone who could contradict it is dead, even the old woman in America who is so sure you are alive will believe you are alive if you tell her it’s true. There was no British double cross; you were Tomas Crohan who went on a mission of mercy for the Americans in the war. You went into Vienna to save Jews and when you found they were dead, you were trapped in Vienna and eventually imprisoned by the Russians.”
“Why did they release me?”
Devereaux smiled. The old man was smart enough to want to grasp the lie Devereaux told him. It would work out.
“I don’t know,” Devereaux said. “Perhaps you escaped.”
“I could not escape.”
“We can suggest that Tartakoff took you out when he defected. Maybe that would be the best way.”
“Where is he?”
“In Washington now, getting the first debriefing from the Section. He will agree with anything you tell the reporter, believe me.”
“But you know the truth. And Miss Macklin, she knows the truth.”
“Yes. Some secrets can’t be helped.”
The old man tore another piece of bread. “It is a secret then?”
“Yes.”
“And the woman agrees with you?”
Devereaux did not hesitate: “Yes.”
“Why?”
“That is my secret.”
“What did my country do to me? Should I not take revenge on them if this is so important?”
“Do you feel the need for revenge?”
“For a long time I did.” He paused. “It kept me alive. They abandoned me.”
“No. They betrayed you.”
“Yes. There is a difference, I suppose. It took me a long time to understand what they did to me. Why shouldn’t I take revenge now on them and tell the truth about what they did to me?”
“Who cares?”
The old man looked up sharply at the man with the wintery face across the table from him.
“I care. I bled. I suffered.”
“And now you will die if you want to take revenge. Your ‘truth’ leads to death or more prison for you; my ‘truth’ will set you free.”
“But I feel it, sir. I am a man. I am a man.”
“All right.” Devereaux finally tasted the coffee and made a face. He put the cup down. “I’ll take care of your revenge. You take care of your survival.”
“I do not understand all of this,” the old man said. “Should I choose to trust you, sir?”
The old man looked up slyly; it was the sidelong look of the eternal prisoner, always under scrutiny and yet surviving because he kept his strength hidden from those would make him weak.
“Yes, Tomas. This matter was not of my making or yours, and now we are both in the middle of it. And Rita Macklin as well. I don’t have any choice and neither do you.”
“Then we are both prisoners, sir,” the old man said.
Devereaux did not speak.
“But it is a larger prison than the one I came from,” the old man said. “Yes. I will do as you say.”
32
MOSCOW
Stolinaya was not accustomed to being summoned by the man who was Gogol, the operations officer in charge of that section of the KGB called the Committee for External Observation and Resolution. It had never happened before in these circumstances.
Gogol was a small man with Asian features and he sat behind an immense desk in a windowless room framed with immense General Electric air conditioners. They were operating at the moment though the temperature outside the building was twenty-two degrees; the heating system was so erratic that the air conditioners were needed to offset the steady rush of heat that permeated the building.
Gogol had been given Stolinaya’s reports on the Helsinki incident and on the classification of a new spy in the logs of the KGB central computer.
Stolinaya was very nervous. Gogol was the highest-ranking member of the bureaucracy that Stolinaya had ever dealt with. All the time he awaited the hour of the summons he had fretted about the report and evaluation he had turned in on Rita Macklin and the spy whose name was November. Perhaps he had overstated the case; worse, perhaps he had understated it. He sweated now as he waited on Gogol, who was rereading the reports arrayed on his massive desk.
“Why is the woman important?”
“I beg your pardon, Comrade Director?”
“Why is the woman important?”
“Sir, because she is a spy. She must be reevaluated in the light of her work with the R Section in the United States three years ago and her work as the agent of this November in Helsinki. In both cases, sir”—and here he paused to cough—“in both cases, it resulted in the defection of one of our agents. This is not the work of a journalist; it is the work of an agent.”
Gogol smiled thinly, his brown lips pulling back to reveal yellowed teeth, like a serpent smiling the moment before striking.
“I do not think so.”
“Comrade,” said Stolinaya stoically and automatically.
“But you make a clear cas
e for November. His name is Devereaux.”
“Yes.”
“He has annoyed me on occasion before. The woman is used by him, certainly, but he is the agent provocateur. He is not a spy but a counterinsurgent to our operations. And now he is to leave the Section.”
Stolinaya only stared.
“We have that information, I can assure you. He will leave the Section at the conclusion of this matter. I think it would be worthwhile then to consider a change in his position. Yes, a considerable change.” And Gogol smiled because he had spoken English at the end to enjoy the English pun and the man across the desk from him was puzzled.
“Sir?”
“The woman, Macklin, is not important to us. We have no evidence against her. But the man. He is going to be our target.”
“Will you upgrade the agent Macklin?”
“Yes, of course. Your work is essential to us, Stolinaya. But Macklin is not important to us. Unless she is in the way. We have to deal with November not only because of his success against us but because of his insolence. Twice he has kidnapped our agents, once in the United States, now in Finland. He is a bad example. He operates outside the orders of his own section. I do not feel there will be reprisals against us when he is finished with.”
“Why, Comrade Director?”
“We operate in constraints, their side and ours. He is beyond our control and their control. He does not follow their orders but he has been lucky in defying them. No, the time of November is over now, I think.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Recall these files on November and on the Macklin woman. They will need adjustment, I think, in the light of what is going to happen.”
“What adjustment, sir?”
Gogol stared hard at Stolinaya. “We need some pretext and I am certain you will find it. When November was in Ireland five years ago on that matter with the IRA, do you suppose he stole money and guns while working for his government? He was in France two years ago; I believe he was dealing cocaine on the black market.”
Stolinaya stared at the printout in front of him. He shook his head. “I do not see this in his files.”
“Yes, because it is not in his files yet. It will be. So that when November is taken care of and there is a mild inquiry from the Opposition, we will just as mildly return the files to them that you have prepared. On November and, in the event it is necessary, on the journalist. Do you understand now?”
And Stolinaya, who arranged files and was proud of his scrupulous work, realized he was to use the computer to justify a killing. He nodded at the small, yellow man in front of him. Yes, he understood and he felt sick at the understanding.
33
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Hanley picked up the black phone connected to the double-scrambler box and held it to his ear without speaking.
“What happened?” came the voice from the other end of the line. Because of the antitapping precautions built into the phone system, the voices were not true, especially over long distances; but even without resonance, Hanley recognized Devereaux’s flat, even speech.
“Where are you?” Hanley leaned back in his chair. Washington was in the drab throes of an early spring; the sky was sullen and streaked with vertical dark clouds; the wind was warm; the grounds of the Mall around the Reflecting Pool were wet and spongelike. Hanley reflected the sullen mood of the city.
“It doesn’t matter where I am at the moment. Did you take care of those matters?”
“This is a damnable gift you’ve sent us. A British agent on the run and a reluctant Russian defector. How did you get them out of Finland?”
“I helped a Helsinki policeman and he helped me. We’re supposed to cooperate with the local authorities in these matters,” Devereaux said, mocking Hanley and the primary manual for intelligence officers distributed to new recruits in the Section.
“Damn you, November. You’ve put me in the middle.”
“It’s a rare experience for you,” Devereaux admitted. “Welcome to the club.”
“Tartakoff puts us in some difficulty.”
“I supposed he would.”
“The problem is George.”
“So Tartakoff says.”
“Damn you, this is not a time for levity.”
“What does the New Man say?”
“Yackley is hopping mad and he’s taking it out on me. He’s angry with you.”
“Fuck him.”
“Yes that’s very well for you, you’re getting out—”
“Have you arranged those retirement matters?”
“They’re proceeding, if you’re serious.”
“Did you think I would change my mind?”
Yes, Hanley thought. It was the thing he had counted on. Despite the dangerous nature of the man, Hanley had hoped for two years he might slip Devereaux back into some frontline operation, but Yackley’s dislike for November had never abated. Yackley did not see what Hanley saw too clearly: The Section had grown flabby; it needed some life, some thought, some bold stroke to renew itself. If he had to admit it to anyone, Hanley would have said the Section could not afford to let Devereaux go.
“What about this Crohan?”
“He’s safe.”
“But where is he?”
“I suppose he must be arriving in Dublin at the moment,” Devereaux said. “With Rita Macklin.”
“My God, you’ve lost your senses.”
“He’s safe.”
“Safe? You keep saying that, but safe from what?”
“From you, for one thing. Or the people at Langley. Or the Russians. I suppose by now that Tartakoff has told you that Crohan is really Michael Brent—well, don’t worry about that. We are in the process of revising history again. It’ll work out, Hanley; I don’t know why you’re upset or the New Man—you’ve got a nice little defector in your hands.”
“And a nice little British agent who can’t go home again.”
Devereaux’s voice carried the trace of a smile behind it: “We have a large country, Hanley. Be a generous man. One more spy in California retirement won’t break the bank for us.”
Hanley’s voice was full of controlled fury, as though the outlet of mere words was not enough to convey his feeling: “You have blackmailed me with this matter, November; you have blackmailed the Section with the presence of this Macklin woman. The Section is not going to be held hostage to you. You are a goddamn agent in the field and we are the government of the United States—”
“Fuck you, Hanley, and listen to me: You called all this on yourself and the Section. If you wanted me out of Helsinki, I was willing to go weeks ago but you were playing a fishing game and I was bait; you wanted to see what the Russians were up to. Well, when the trap was sprung, I wasn’t in it, and now we’ve turned it on the Russians and you can’t stand success.”
“But we have the problem of George,” Hanley insisted.
“Is he our problem? Or a problem for the British?”
“Both. What can we tell the Brits? We need Cheltenham, believe me, and the only way to have that listening post is with British cooperation. If we have another spy scandal now, it will kill us. Especially when the scandal breaks from our side of the water; it’s bad enough when the Brits find their traitors by themselves. Besides, we only have the word of a defector to go on. Trapping George will take time—months, years. And what if George chooses not to fall into the traps? This is a delicate matter.”
“Is it? I don’t understand politics,” Devereaux said. “You’re going to do what you have to do—”
“No, not this time. This time you’re going to have to help us out, I’m afraid—”
“Doing what?”
There was a pause. Hanley began chewing the nail of his left thumb. He would have to make the pitch effectively; thank God he wasn’t facing November in person.
“I can clear everything for you… even for the woman… make certain that neither of you are chased by our people after your early reti
rement from the Section.…” Hanley paused.
Devereaux did not speak and for a moment, the line was silent. Then Hanley resumed: “We need to take care of George in some way.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Not me, November; it will be up to you.”
“I’m not a hitter. You have hitters in the Section.”
“No, you’re not a hitter but you’re about to become one.”
“I won’t kill someone for you, Hanley.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to. You want out of the Section, you want protection for you girlfriend, I’m afraid you’ll have to see this matter my way.”
“Why can’t you use a hitter?”
“November, this is not a usual target, is it?” Hanley’s voice was cold now, as cold as Devereaux’s, two ice storms meeting on a dull, starless night in a frozen land far from any comfort or warmth. Hanley closed his eyes and Washington was gone from sight and he might be existing on a dead planet now, talking across the darkness to the only other survivor of the end of the world.
“We don’t have any proofs on George but we are suspicious enough to want him out of the way. I talked to the New Man last night; this is the only way out of it. We can’t go to the National Security Adviser to get positive approval and initials for action; nobody would agree to it. But we can’t have George doing his dirty work—”
“If George is a mole,” Devereaux said.
“There is every probability that he is,” Hanley said. “We have questioned the Russian as well as Ely; this Macklin woman walked into a nasty nest of spies, didn’t she? No wonder you’re concerned for her safety. I would think her life might be in great danger.”
Devereaux accepted the threat in Hanley’s cold terms; there was nothing to say to him. He waited.
“November, you are the man for the job quite simply because you are involved in the matter up to your ears. We don’t need to pull in a hitter and explain to him why he has to kill a high-ranking member of British Intelligence; you know the reason already. You have foxed us on the old man but you are now in a box of your own making. You want to come home again to Uncle with your girlfriend and you want Uncle not to take unkindly anything that you have done; well, Uncle is quite willing to forgive and forget, but you are going to have to do Uncle a favor.”