The Man Who Heard Too Much

by Bill Granger

  “The truth of things.”

  “I tell you the truth. What do you want? I’m exhausted, I need to sleep, I’m going to bed. I’m not even afraid of you now, not the way I would be afraid if I were awake. You can do anything you like. I have to sleep.”

  And he had left her at the moment before dawn. She collapsed on the couch, and he had covered her with a blanket from the bedroom. He had stared down at her beautiful face. Her lips were wide and open, and her teeth were bright in the moonlight. Her black hair lay in tresses about her on the pillow. She began to haunt him in that moment, and the obsession had continued along with his insomnia.

  He would see Rena in unlikely places—on the flight from Brussels to London, sitting in Heathrow, on the underground to Victoria Station—but she did not haunt him like the illusions of Rita Macklin he saw in the streets of New York. Rita Macklin had been part of him. He understood that psychic urge to fill in the empty space. But these hallucinations of Rena Taurus were symptoms of mere exhaustion. He had been awake, day and night, Friday and then again Saturday, and now it was Sunday morning and he was taking pills to prop himself up. But the message which ordered him to London did not permit explanation that Devereaux’s body was failing the mission.

  The elderly black Austin cab chugged up the empty Sunday-morning length of Victoria Street. At Trafalgar Square, the cab made the wide circle left and then picked its way through the pigeons into the Strand. Ben Jonson and Lyndon Johnson and Dr. Johnson… tired of life, tired of London, tired beyond belief or ability to sustain life.… He closed his eyes a moment and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  He realized he was permitting the confusion to overcome him. The pills could not stave it off. He had to collapse, to sleep, to fall through a nightmare and emerge back into consciousness with a sense of being whole.

  Rena. She had reached for her case in the overhead compartment, and her breasts strained a moment against the sheen of her white blouse. Well, what was she supposed to do? Devereaux stared at her, and she was beautiful in all her parts so that the whole of her was hard to consider. What color were her blue eyes? Blue, of course, but something like the color of the sea on a bright day beyond the beach at Nice.

  Christ, he thought. He rubbed his eyes, and when he removed his hand, there was a reddish glow about the world, which previously had been gray.

  The Strand led into Fleet Street, and Devereaux reached into his pocket for the fare. Below Fleet Street, at the viaduct that runs down to Blackfriars Bridge on the Thames, he could see the dome of St. Paul’s. Shabby old Fleet Street was no longer the same; perhaps his memory of it had been an illusion as well. Fleet Street’s press had fled to break the union grip on printing papers. The life had gone out of the street, and Sunday morning seemed like a wake.

  “Here y’are, surr,” said the cabbie.

  He leaned forward, saw the meter, looked dumbly at the notes in hand. He had lost the ability to count. Five-pound notes, this must be Britain. There were Belgian francs as well in his hand and Swedish kronor. What could he make of it? One plus one is…

  He handed over two ten-pound notes.

  “I don’t have change—”

  But Devereaux lurched out of the cab like a drunk. He carried the single overnight bag to satisfy customs. If he had arrived without a bag, they would have detained him. The bag contained nothing of value, certainly not the pills he left behind in Brussels. Nor the 9-millimeter Beretta automatic. The English were peculiar. They required a six-month quarantine of animals in case the dog or cat was rabid.…

  They should have quarantined me, Devereaux said. He thought he said it aloud.

  The safe house was not a house at all but rooms let on the third level of the grimy black building a hundred yards west of the old Daily Telegraph Building. Sunday morning dozed in London, dozed in England; it was church bells and nothing on the telly and a thirst building up to pub opening time and sleep across the land. The sky moved clouds to sea slowly, like a church procession.

  Devereaux climbed the stairs because the lift was locked. The stairs were marble, the banister black wrought iron. A single fifteen-watt bulb lit the entry of each floor. His feet were stone and the stones clanked on the stairs.

  At the end of the hall, he saw the light under the closed door. He knocked and waited for the inevitable television camera inspection. He saw the camera stare at his haggard face, and he suppressed an urge to smash it. Just to smash something, to see it crack.…

  The buzzer clicked.

  He turned the brass knob and opened the door. It was the last person he expected to see.

  Hanley sat behind the desk. Director of Operations for Section come all the way from Washington to the edge of field operations. What the hell was going on?

  Devereaux stared at the pale-eyed rabbit for a moment and then sat down heavily on a straight chair. He dropped the bag of props on the floor beside him.

  “You look awful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You took pills—”

  “They run out on you, Hanley. You reach a point of hallucination.”

  “There’s a cot in the other room. How much do you need?”

  “A week at least,” Devereaux said. He lurched again, sitting in the chair. Damn. He felt almost drunk. He looked out the window and saw Rena Taurus in the doorway across the street, stretching to reach her bag in the overhead compartment.

  “We had a tap on her phone. We made this four hours ago—”

  “I talked to her all night. She wasn’t clever and things didn’t fit right. I believe she’s become convinced something bad is going to happen to Michael Hampton. I’m convinced she knows he has the tape. But she’s stubborn.”

  “We don’t have time for stubborn girls,” Hanley said.

  “She was too pretty to break.”

  Hanley pursed his lips. “That’s crude.”

  “What you suggest is crude.”

  “I suggested nothing.”

  “No. You never do.”

  Silence. Wind. Panes rattled. Silence and silence. Devereaux yawned.

  “She had a telephone call four hours ago. We recorded it,” Hanley began again.

  “Why did I have to come back here? To hear a tape? Why are you here?”

  “I flew in twelve hours ago. I haven’t slept much myself.” Hanley looked for sympathy and found none. Their faces were both composed of gray ash. “There were developments. On this matter and on the other matter as well.”

  “Henry McGee.”

  Hanley nodded. “All the points began to converge.”

  “Lines converge, not points.”

  Hanley did not bother to frown. He put the cassette in the small Sony tape recorder and pressed the play button.

  Devereaux stared out the window. Suddenly, at the sound of her voice, he was alert. All the tiredness seeped out of him. Rena’s voice cut through him, and he could see her, standing at the phone on the counter in the small kitchen in that Brussels apartment, talking in her clear, assured way. He saw her lips, saw the curl of her tongue, saw the teeth flash as she spoke into the mouthpiece, saw every part of her. She touched him and he felt desire like a spark alive in the black hollowness.

  RENA: Who is it?

  MICHAEL: Rena.

  RENA: Oh, Michael. I called and called, and there was no answer.

  MICHAEL: I couldn’t go home. I was followed at the train station. [Muffled.] I knew I was followed. Oh, Rena. This is the most terrible thing in the world.

  RENA: A man came here when I got home. He pushed his way in. He had been on the airplane, he stared at me. It was a terrible flight. Late. We had storms. I took the hovercraft to Copenhagen.… Raining.… He followed me—he might have been on the hovercraft. He went through my bags, and he said he was from security, and they—he meant the security people—were missing something. He opened the armoire, all my drawers, and then he questioned me. Over and over. All night he questioned me, he wanted to know about you and me, about th
e tape.

  MICHAEL: Christ. They know it already, they know I have it. This is the worst thing. It’s what I was afraid of in Stockholm, and later I thought I was paranoid, but it was real, wasn’t it?

  RENA: What is it? What is the tape?

  MICHAEL: I can’t tell you. I hoped you weren’t in it. They went after you, too. [Mumbled; unclear.]

  RENA: I thought about that cassette. In the room at the Savoy. You said it didn’t belong to you.

  Devereaux hit the stop button. He looked at Hanley. “He has it. I was sure Rena knew.”

  “It seems so.”

  “Where is he?”

  “We don’t know. A Soviet—we presume a Soviet—team trailed him to Stockholm. He gave them the slip. He could be anywhere in the world.”

  “He listened to the tape.”

  Hanley spread his hands to show his sincerity. “It seems the only thing to believe.”

  Devereaux shook his head. “Then Rena is in the clear?” He would not go back; he would not see her again.

  “No,” Hanley said in a very quiet voice. “That’s why you have to hear the whole tape. Why we have to devise a strategy.” He backed up the tape and then pushed Play again.

  RENA: I thought about that cassette. In the room at the Savoy. You said it didn’t belong to you.

  MICHAEL: I was going to return it—

  RENA: Why can’t you?

  MICHAEL: I can’t.

  RENA: He asked me, the man, he asked me if you had a tape that didn’t belong to you—

  MICHAEL: Christ, what did you tell him, Rena?

  RENA: I didn’t tell him. I didn’t, Michael, believe me. I was going to tell him, but I didn’t for some reason.… Michael, what’s so terrible? What could have happened? I saw you less than twenty-four hours ago.… [Pause of five seconds.] Michael?

  MICHAEL: I have to get out of here, out of Stockholm, I don’t know where. This is a terrible thing, I see it now, I listened to the tape. What can they do? Their hands are tied. If I hadn’t listened to the tape… Sometimes you’re better off not knowing. I was sitting on the train, I was bored, I thought I’d listen to it. My God, I could never convince them, could I? Do you think I could? What am I talking about? They’re professionals, and I don’t mean a damned thing to them.

  RENA: Michael! Michael, get hold of yourself.

  MICHAEL: I’m terribly scared, Rena.

  RENA: What can it be that’s so terrible? You’re just upset.

  MICHAEL: This isn’t going to be all right tomorrow or the next day. The clouds don’t have silver linings, Rena—listen to me, for God’s sake. I’ve got to get leverage. There has to be a way to deal with them so they’ll have to back off. Who can I get leverage with? I’m crazy with being scared, Rena. I can’t think—

  RENA: It was an American. He showed me some sort of identification. I remember the eagle, the American symbol—I’m sure of that. He pushed me into the room first, but he didn’t touch me after that. You know what I thought. I knew he was the man on the plane. I thought he was going to do something… sexual. He went through all my bags—it was humiliating.

  MICHAEL: I know what was on the tape.

  RENA: Give it back to them.

  MICHAEL: It’s not a question of that. My client… that old man suspected all along something was going to happen.… It’s not just on the tape, Rena, it’s not a matter of giving it back. They could have it today, this minute. It’s in my head. I know what was on the tape, Rena. I can’t give them my memory.

  RENA: What could be so important? It was a conference about naval security, about freedom of the seas in the Baltic, what could be so important? I don’t like to hear you talk like this, Michael. You’re making yourself sick.

  MICHAEL: It makes me sick to my stomach. I want to give it back, I don’t want to know their dirty secrets. Why’d that fool Gustafson pack the tape in my bag? It’s terrible, Rena, a terrible and cynical thing. It has nothing to do with what we reported, nothing about the Baltic or freedom of the seas.… Those were just lies. I thought they were frauds, I’ve always thought that, all the goddamn politicians. Everything you told me about Lithuania—Goddamn the bastards, the lying political bastards.

  RENA: What was on the tape? About Lithuania? Start with that. You must tell me, let me help you.

  MICHAEL: I can’t tell you, or then you’ll be in trouble, too.

  RENA: Michael, what are you going to do?

  MICHAEL: I don’t know. I have to get out of Stockholm first. I’m still in Stockholm. I have some money, traveler’s checks, my American Express card. Rena?

  RENA: I’m here, Michael.

  MICHAEL: Do you remember the weekend on the canal?

  RENA: Of course I do.

  MICHAEL: I need money, Rena. I need some time to think about what to do. Could you meet me there on Monday? At the old hotel? It’ll take me that long to get out of here. Could you bring me some money?

  RENA: I love you, Michael. The man gave me a telephone number to call if I needed help. Should I call it? You can’t be alone in this—

  MICHAEL: Rena! This isn’t a game, and they’re not the good guys, even the ones with American accents and white hats. They’ve made a devil’s deal, and they had it on the tapes so that neither side could ever back out of it. That’s the point of the tapes. Except… except I have one. I didn’t want to know this, I really didn’t want to know this.

  RENA: Tell me, Michael.

  MICHAEL: Then you’ll know. Then they’ll have to come after you. Don’t you see that?

  RENA: I’m not a child.

  MICHAEL: Monday. In the afternoon, it’ll take me that long. If I can come straight to Brussels—well, there’s no point in figuring it out ahead of time. Be careful no one follows you.

  RENA: Michael?

  MICHAEL: I have to go. I love you, honey, I love you more than myself.

  RENA: love you.

  Hanley turned off the machine.

  The office was consumed with the sudden silence. The place was shabby, temporary looking, as though someone were running a mail-order boiler room out of the place for a few months and expected to move on.

  Hanley let the tips of his fingers form a tent.

  He studied the tent by turning his little gray head to the side. His eyes were so intent on the fingers that he might have been dreaming of something else. He let the silence go on until the bells of Westminster began their song.

  “Rena Taurus. Is she likely to help Mr. Hampton?”

  Devereaux said, “I don’t know.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “A woman. Intelligent.” He thought of her lips, the innocent look in her eyes and the blue blackness of her hair, white marble skin, perfect in every part.… He was this close to her, smelled her tiredness and fear and, yes, the odor of sexuality. “I can’t say.”

  Devereaux stared at Hanley, not the triangle of fingers. His own hands rested flat on the arms of the wooden chair. There was no tension in his body, no sense of incipient movement to upset the shabby balance of the rooms.

  “Michael is in grave difficulty,” Hanley said.

  “So you know what was on the tape?”

  “No. I don’t know.”

  “Then why is he in trouble?”

  “Because the tape is missing. Because all hell is loose in Washington. Because the secretary of state is furious with the lack of security at the conference, security performed by R Section agents.”

  “I was not involved.”

  “That’s true,” Hanley said. He was talking like a lawyer now. “You were an observer in black, a secret watcher. But the security was provided out of Eurodesk by R Section. Section is to blame for this breach. In the eyes of the secretary of state, who is beyond being furious. I thought he would physically attack Mrs. Neumann.” He referred to R Section’s chief.

  “A gentleman does not strike a lady,” Devereaux said.

  “As you demonstrated in your frustrating interrogation of Rena Taurus.
Did you suspect she would not respond to pain?”

  Devereaux knew he could not speak for a moment. When he found his voice again, he said: “What’s the agreement on the tape? Hampton said they made a ‘devil’s agreement.’ ”

  “I don’t know,” Hanley said again.

  “But you came all the way to London just to ride the ponies.”

  “I was instructed.”

  “By Mrs. Neumann.”

  “Yes.”

  “And does she know?”

  Hanley spread his hands again.

  Devereaux said, “This is crazy. There are nine tapes instead of ten. We have five, they have four. It’s their responsibility to get the last tape back.”

  “No. It’s a mutual responsibility,” Hanley said.

  “Why?”

  “To show our good faith.”

  “Fuck good faith,” Devereaux said.

  “Yes. You put it so well. But in this case, we cannot.”

  “Who is Michael Hampton?”

  Hanley smiled. It was as thin as the sunlight breaking through the pearl clouds.

  “That is the rub, Devereaux. You hit upon it. If it had been Rena Taurus, it would not have mattered. She is a technocrat, an EC bureaucrat, and nothing on earth is as controllable and predictable as the destiny of a technocrat. But Michael Hampton is a wild card. Or a loose cannon.”

  “In what way?”

  “He has no clearance, none at all, except to represent the press at such conferences. I know for a fact that he could not have any higher clearance. Couldn’t get clearance. He is accredited with three small, obscure agencies, news organs of the Third World, two of them in the Middle East.”

  “Not in Israel.”

  “Decidedly not in Israel. Doubtless the Third World has every right to access to news—”

  “Come on.”

  Hanley frowned. “You’re right. There is no urgency to a conference in faraway Sweden held on Baltic security and ‘freedom of the seas.’ Unless something else was under discussion at the Malmö conference. Alas.”

  Devereaux said nothing. Tiredness was in his bones, but in the past ten minutes, something was struggling to replace it below the patient, sealike exterior. Perhaps it was the sound of Rena’s voice. Just her voice and not the frightened drama of the words caught on the wiretap tape.