by Bill Granger
“Hey,” said one of them. “You don’t have to go already, do you?”
Rita walked into the wind tunnel again and out the entrance of the lot. It was just after nine. She crossed the alley behind the carwash, walked to the next street, turned and found herself in a cul-de-sac of shops. She entered the first one on the left.
A thin blond man wearing gold chains looked up from a woman with wet hair bent over a sink.
“Something?”
“I’d like to get my hair done,” Rita Macklin said.
Blondie sniffed at that. Well, her hair did look a mess.
“I just went through a carwash,” she said, smiling.
He wasn’t buying light stuff today; maybe not any day. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“I don’t have anything open until ten-thirty,” he said.
Rita sat down in a leather chair and picked up a copy of House Beautiful.
“I’ll wait.” She grinned.
15
CHICAGO
Malenkov lit a cigarette, puffed, threw it away, lit a second one, all in less than two minutes. He wasn’t aware of it.
They hadn’t told him enough. It was their fault and that asshole Major’s, not his.
He was looking for November; it had nothing to do with some kind of goddam operation with Poles in Chicago. Now they told him. Why didn’t they tell him in the first place? Bureaucrats.
It was snowing hard. Just after dark. A single light was on in the house on Ellis Avenue.
Was the Pole there? Teresa Kolaki? Missing a day. Every code red in the embassy was working overtime. The operation in Chicago—whatever in the hell it was—was penetrated, at risk. And it turned out that it was all November again, all over again, messing up their arrangements.
“I thought I was supposed to confine myself—”
“Orders are changed,” the Major said on the phone. “Besides, you missed him.”
“I’m one man, Mikhail Korsoff, and I can scarcely—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. Why did you think it was going to be so easy to find him? Did we have a finger on this?”
The Major said nothing to that. It must have been the truth. Whatever was supposed to have happened, didn’t. It was a real mess all right. “At least see if you can get a line on him. See if Teresa is there in that house.”
“And do what?” asked Malenkov.
Kill them. Both of them. No exception. No one would be in the house but them. It was assured.
So he had waited a few hours for night. Night would be better. He couldn’t put it off any longer, though. He flicked his second cigarette into the snow. He pulled up his collar around his neck and ears. Snow flecked his brown hair. His eyes were wide, his face carved from granite.
He took the Uzi out of his pocket. He screwed a silencer into the barrel. He unsnapped the safety, removed the clip of ten cartridges, reinserted it with a snap.
He pushed open the gate past a snowy broken sculpture—what had it been before it was broken?—and climbed five steps. Direct, without subtlety. Always the best way. He felt the pistol in his coat, his hands around the wire stock.
He knocked. He waited. He knocked again.
The door opened on a chain.
A woman. An old woman. The one he would have to talk to. To find out what she knew about November. He considered the chain: thin, probably more for assurance than security. That was his experience with these chains. They made people behind the door feel better about opening it.
He hit the door hard and broke the chain, sending the old woman spinning back against the balustrade to a staircase leading upward.
She cried out. He turned, slammed the door, removed the weapon, snapped the safety, pointed it at her face.
“Where is Devereaux?”
She would have three seconds. He didn’t want to prolong this. Kill her and then upstairs to search the house for Teresa. If he found her, he killed her. Back in the car in two minutes.
Two. Three.
The blast shattered his eardrum. For a moment, he stared at his silencer. What was wrong?
Then he turned and saw the dark man in the corner of the room. With a gun. Without a silencer. Blood tasted salty on his lips. He was conscious, he knew he was awake, but he had the strange feeling his face was gone. The second shot caught him in the ribs, exploded his heart. The third was unnecessary.
The man in the corner still had a half-eaten apple in his left hand. Melvina held the balustrade and stared at the blood-stained body crumpled at her feet. She looked at the swarthy Italian emerging into the light of the hall. He looked down at the dead man. “I figure Dev knows what he’s saying.” The voice was a half-whisper, very hoarse. “He wants me, he got me. See? You didn’t think it was necessary I was here. Ain’t you glad now I came here like he wanted?”
But Melvina, though she did not cry, could not speak.
16
FORT MEADE, MARYLAND
O’Brien stared at Morgan. “You’re pathetic.”
Morgan said nothing.
“She was a fucking Girl Scout.”
“Not the one driving.”
“Elizabeth Campbell. Another amateur nighter. Where do we have her now?”
“We don’t have her. What are we going to charge her with? Her old man has a pile.”
“I’ll shove his pile up his piles,” O’Brien said. “Devereaux slipped, now this Macklin broad. You told me you made an impression on her.”
“George hit her.”
“ ‘George hit her,’ ” O’Brien mimicked. “Great. He really got her attention.”
“We’ll find her.”
“You couldn’t find your ass with a flashlight and a map. And those two mental giants in Chicago. We just got them out of the fucking can. We had to make contact with the police superintendent, for Christ’s sake. A couple of cowboys, shooting up the ghetto. The next thing you know, we’ll start race riots in Detroit. Just to keep it interesting.”
Morgan waited, his neck prickly with anger. At O’Brien, at himself.
“Go on. Go on to Zurich and see Fatso and put it on him and try to find out what the fuck is going on.”
“Is this all related now?”
“Now it is. One goddam kid gets killed and now we got runaway spooks and the network is starting to break up. I don’t believe it, I really don’t. You know, before I didn’t care much one way or the other if the Opposition wasted November or not. Easy come, easy go. We do our little disappearing act on him and it works or it doesn’t. But in the last couple of weeks, I have developed a real antipathy toward that motherfucker, you know what I mean? I mean, this is more than putting a crimp in the line for R Section and those Mickey the Mopes over there. This is getting personal with me. You understand?”
Morgan thought: It’s so fucking personal, why don’t you take a piece and go after him, you asshole? He said nothing.
“The broad? I could care less. But I want you to lean on this Campbell broad. Do a midnight visit.”
“I told you, her old man is a stockbroker—”
“Fine. Put the SEC on his case. Leak to the IRS. Put him through the hoops. I want you to lean on this Campbell broad, I want you to tell me how many pimples she’s got on her ass before you’re through with her—”
“And what about our friend in Switzerland?”
O’Brien flushed dangerously. “All right. This will hold. Devereaux’s not going anywhere, wherever the fuck he is. Damage-control drill. Get our fat friend interested in the matter. From our perspective for a change.”
17
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Devereaux said, “Hello.”
Rita Macklin turned, startled, saw him in the shadow of the back of a bakery, next to the bar and grill. It was just before noon. He stepped out of the shadow. He was eating a bagel. “Want a bite?”
“I’m starving.”
He gave her half.
The
y ate the bagel quietly, a little apart, staring at each other in the bright morning light. Their breath puffed on the cold breeze.
“You been here long?”
“Half an hour or so. Securing the alley.”
“Is it secure?”
“I suppose so.”
“I got my hair done.”
“Everything worked all right.”
“How did they find you?”
“Melvina sent me a letter. They were at her house. I told you about her.”
Rita nodded.
“I went there. Got involved in something. One of their operations.” He smiled, almost gently, a smile for the season, warmth edged with cold. “I’m afraid I screwed them up.”
Rita grinned suddenly. She dropped the remains of the bagel on the bricks of the alley. She grabbed him hard, and kissed him hard. For a long time. He held her just as hard. They didn’t speak. They smelled each other, they felt their bodies beneath too many layers of clothing press at each other.
“God, I miss you.”
“I love you, Rita.”
Okay. They broke. Touched hands. Stood apart. Stared at each other.
“Want a story?”
“I’m on vacation.”
“Okay. Get a freebie to California.”
“Are you coming?”
“For a while,” he said, still smiling at her. “I love you, babe.”
“You have a funny way of showing it.”
“I thought they’d let it go. The other side. I thought I could keep you out of it.”
“Two goons from our side came last night and worked me over.”
“I saw them go in.”
“Why didn’t you do something?”
“Save you, you mean? That wouldn’t have worked. They weren’t going to hurt you.”
“The guy slapped me around.”
“I’ll challenge him to a duel,” Devereaux said.
“Bastard.”
“There’s a woman. With a kid in Poland. She’s safe now, a little while. I’m working on Hanley, trying to tie the loose pieces down. Before.”
“Before what?”
“What have I been telling you?” He frowned. “Game’s over, Rita. They won.”
“Don’t say that.”
“All right. I won’t say it.”
“Dev. Hold me.” Little girl. He wrapped his arms around her. She pressed her face against his chest. She felt so frightened.
“A Polish woman. She worked here for KGB. She was forced. It’s complicated, big, sort of crude, a typical Russian operation. They have the sophistication of farts in a crowded theater.”
Tears in her eyes but she smiled.
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you on the way to California. Right now, we see the man.”
“What man?”
“Shh. You’ll see in a little bit,” Devereaux said. Gently again. As gently as he had ever spoken to her, with an edge of sadness to his words, as though they were all precious, said for the last time.
Hanley and Mrs. Neumann left separately but met a block away from the Department of Agriculture building on Pennsylvania Avenue and continued along Fourteenth Street to the little bar and grill.
Hanley wore his brown fedora and brown overcoat. Mrs. Neumann said he looked like Fozzie Bear in the Muppets in that overcoat. He was vaguely aware of the Muppets but had never seen their program.
He carried a briefcase. Carefully assembled contents.
“I think this is exciting, much more exciting than computer searches,” Mrs. Neumann said as she took his arm. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had taken his arm. It felt strange.
“I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like anything.”
“Every name flagged in the NSA computer. Mrs. Krakowski, Teresa Kolaki. And Felix Krueger.”
“And Melvina. Don’t forget Melvina Devereaux.”
After a moment, Mrs. Neumann said, “What do you suppose our part is in this?”
“You mean the Section?”
Mrs. Neumann frowned and gave Hanley’s arm a squeeze. “Don’t be parochial. I mean us, the big US.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know that we have a part. I don’t even know why I’m involved in this, why the Section is involved.”
“Go on. You do, too. Devereaux.”
“Why didn’t he stay in New York where he belonged?”
“Would that have made it better?”
“I don’t know. I just know it couldn’t be worse than it is.”
It had been bad. Yackley, the New Man (to distinguish him from the Old Man, Admiral P. G. Galloway), had called Hanley in at ten. He had a probe from the National Security Adviser. Was R Section poaching on NSA turf? And what about this agent, November? Had he slipped the traces? Yackley gave it to Hanley and Hanley, with no alternative, lied. The lies satisfied Yackley for the moment; they would satisfy the Adviser temporarily.
But the Adviser had only asked his questions at the urging of NSA. The Puzzle Factory was doing a move on R Section, covering up for screwing up the Devereaux reprocessing. So Hanley believed. And he would be caught in the middle again.
“After you,” Hanley said.
They pushed into the bar. It was dark and dirty as always. They edged behind the people who sat on the barstools, hunched over their luncheon drinks. Strangers, Hanley thought. And what am I? I’ve come here for thirty years and I don’t know anyone in the place.
Mrs. Neumann was ahead of him. They pushed through the bar to the back room where Hanley always ate. The Greek owner, in white shirt, black tie, and perpetual smile, looked up at him. “Good to see you, sir.”
“Yes, uh, hello.” He always felt embarrassed. Not that Sianis greeted him every day. Just some days when he least expected human contact.
Devereaux and Rita Macklin were at the table he usually occupied. He sat down and Mrs. Neumann, a bit startled, sat opposite. She stared at Devereaux and then smiled. “Nice to see you,” she said in her raspy half-whisper. Then to Rita, “We’ve never met, but I know you.”
Rita nodded, grinned, looked at Hanley. She had spoken to him once, on a phone line from Paris, where Devereaux had sent her during the Helsinki business. Devereaux’s control, his master’s voice. She watched him with naked curiosity while he removed his hat and coat. His face was pinched, pale, his nose waxen, his blue eyes watery from the cold. His hair was almost gone. She had met bureaucrats like him all her life.
“I didn’t… expect Miss Macklin to be here,” Hanley said.
“Life is full of surprises. Did you bring everything?”
“I’m not in the habit of taking a briefcase to my lunch on normal occasions.”
“Rita?”
She handed him a check. She had withdrawn $2,000 from a savings account and $643 from her checking account.
“Get her money, send it to the drop,” Devereaux said.
“I didn’t know she was going. With you.”
“It’s always best not to give too much away,” Devereaux said. “Melvina had a visitor last night. A Russian.”
Damn, Hanley thought.
“You want menus?” The waitress smiled at them. Nice little office group, divide the check, did you have the spinach salad, who had the second soup?
“Martini, perfect, straight—” Hanley began.
“Oh, we know, Mr. H. After all this time. One check or—”
“One check,” Devereaux said and smiled. “Mr. H. is paying.”
The waitress smiled wider. “What d’you want, hon?”
“Draft beer,” he said. As did Rita. Mrs. Neumann ordered a Coke.
“The Russian,” Hanley said.
“Identification with the embassy. My… friend removed him.”
“We could have provided—”
“No. You couldn’t have. Not without making this more complicated for the Section.”
“Your concern for the Section seems late,” Hanley said.
“I don’t give a g
oddam about the Section. Just about you, right now, Hanley. Just about keeping you from getting too rattled.”
Mrs. Neumann looked from one man to the other. “You know everything, every name you gave us, is flagged in the NSA computer? I can’t get it out without revealing myself. I may have given myself away just by probing.” She smiled. “I said I was with State Department special intelligence. That’ll give those Harvard boys fits.”
Devereaux returned the smile. “Only for a little while. Until they figure out we’re the only other game in town.”
“Tell me something.” It was Hanley, staring hard, his face fixed in a frown. “Why am I doing this for you?”
“You aren’t. I wouldn’t have put it on that thin a line. I tumbled to this Opposition network. And it turns out that NSA knows all about it. And wants to mess you around for even knowing that they know. And me. And Rita. And it makes you a little mad, a little defensive. All the true instincts of the bureaucratic infighter.”
“Why?”
“You told me once you’re all pigs eating out of the same trough. The Puzzle Factory wants a bigger portion of slops. Maybe that, maybe something else. This is a domestic operation, it ought to be under the G-men, right?”
“Right.”
“Is it?” Devereaux turned to Mrs. Neumann.
“No,” she said. “I went to the cupboard and it was bare. They don’t have a clue in Hooverville.”
“This is empire building in its primal stages,” Devereaux said. “NSA is stretching its legs.”
“That’s crazy.”
“The FBI is still shaky from the seventies. You know it and so do I. A nice domestic operation and why is the Puzzle Factory not doing a cooperative act with the G-men?”
“You never used slang—”
It was true. Devereaux said, “I’ve slipped into bad habits. I’m trying to communicate with you. You’re a bureaucrat. I’m selling you a product. A new weapons system, direct dial, a new way to scramble eggs in your microwave. I find I need you right now, Hanley.”
The martini arrived. Hanley drank half of it and it didn’t taste good to him.
“Lunch?” said the waitress.
“Cheeseburger,” Hanley said.
