by Bill Granger
“Fuck my bills,” said Devereaux, just as quietly. “You think those cowboys in the CIA worry about their credit cards getting canceled?”
“The error is probably on the part of American Express—”
“I don’t care who’s part it’s on. Just fix it.” Devereaux was actually enjoying himself, because Hanley prided himself on the efficiency of the Section, particularly the intricate paymaster system which he had created. Comparisons with the CIA’s lavish budget bothered Hanley as well. All of which put Devereaux in a better mood.
“The Langley people have their problems, too,” said Hanley. Then he saw Devereaux’s smile and refused to play anymore.
They finished their drinks, staring along with the bartender at the silent television screen.
“Oh, yes,” said Hanley at last. “If it’s one or two. Well. Let us know right away.”
“One or two?”
Hanley nodded. “Scenarios. That he’s stringing us or becoming an independent contractor.”
Devereaux was suddenly very tired and drained. He did not want to talk with this vile little man anymore. If it were possibilities one or two, in Devereaux’s judgment, it meant the end of Hastings.
“You pay,” Devereaux said. He got up then and went out the door without another word.
2
EDINBURGH
November rain, full of ice and bleakness, dashed against the black and gray stones of the old city. Scottish noon: no one had seen the sun for days. Ugly clouds convened above the spires, permitting only varying shades of dull, gray light. Outside, the rain stung faces red and soaked into heavy tweeds and numbed the bones of shoppers bent against the wind whistling down Princes Street.
“Terrible, terrible.”
Hastings muttered like a priest’s housekeeper as he bustled around the room, picking up pieces of clothing and straightening the cover on the creaky couch. The air in the room was close with leftover odors of gin, Scotch, and cigarettes. A sudden puff of wind flung a hail of raindrops against the window.
“Damn it all.” Hastings felt suddenly depressed by his morning-after activity and sat down fatly on the couch. He fumbled as he lit a Player’s.
The smoke did not satisfy him.
He sighed and ran his hand through his thinning brown-tinted hair. Then he expelled a big puff of smoke and sighed again. The chill in the room crept up on him. The place was always damp and musty and always cold.
Not like the islands. Something softened his eyes at that moment, as though he saw the past clearly in the pattern of brown smoke. He had grown accustomed to the heat then. Too much so.
He dashed out the cigarette, ending the mood. After all, the cable had arrived that morning and it was no dream. Money due today.
Money due today. The money. The exit money.
The excesses of his life were obvious in lines on his too-red face and the swell of his paunch. But what excesses, really, dearie? Drank too much? Who wouldn’t with the loneliness of it all. And now this climate—why, duck, half the city is drunk from morning till night in winter. One always needed a little money, just to mitigate the pain. Hanley had once wired from R Section: How do you manage to spend so much money in such a miserable poor country? Hanley’s idea of repartee.
The wind knocked at the window again like an insistent visitor.
Well, there wasn’t anything funny about it, my darlings. It was a miserable and poor country and one needed money just to retain one’s sanity. Just to stay drunk when the night comes at three in the afternoon. The men were stuffy, righteous, close, even pompous in their smug tams and tweeds; the places of pleasure were opened only grudgingly; one felt as though one were a child again living here—only the childhood consisted of a single, eternal Sunday afternoon.
For a moment, a tear appeared in the corner of Hastings’ eye as he thought of that poor child of himself, trapped in tweeds and knickers, staring out the window at the rain on the immense lawn, tiptoeing through the adult house of shadows and too many rooms. Poor darling boy.
He shivered. He rose and went to the gas ring and turned it on. The blue flames hissed evenly and he held his hands over them.
Well, ducks, weep not for Hastings but for yourselves. The money was coming today and Hastings must be up and about his father’s business. His uncle’s business, in any event.
He giggled.
God bless America and all its money and endless need for intrigue and a chance to meddle in others’ business. Yes, bless them all.
He began to hum the old war song as he went to the grim, oak wardrobe by the door. He selected a shabby green Harris tweed jacket and shrugged it over his round, sad little fat-man shoulders. Then the mackintosh. No wonder all this heavy, foul-weather stuff bore Scottish names.
He closed the door carefully, inserting the bit of match just so between the jamb and door. Then he turned and hurried down the musty hall, down the worn stairs to the street. As he opened the outer door, the wind slapped his face in greeting; he joined the other pedestrians in homage to the force of it and bent his uncovered head as he hurried along the narrow mews. Nearly one P.M.
Hastings had the gift to see himself clearly, even when he presented a ludicrous sight. Now he thought of the white rabbit in Alice and managed an odd, twisted smile. Hurry, hurry, old darling. No time to waste.…
He finally emerged onto the broad, windy expanse of Princes Street. On the other side, away from the row of fashionable stores, lay the long gully that carried railway lines out of Edinburgh Station. Above the lines loomed the rocky menace of Edinburgh Castle, carved into the lip of the hill. The rain turned to hail.
“Oh, Christ,” Hastings prayed loudly as the hail began to pelt him. “Give us a rest.”
For a moment, it was too much for him. He took refuge in the doorway of a tailor shop. Not a cab or omnibus in sight, only the thin miserable line of private cars sloshing through the eternal downpour. Clouds boiled up from the west like new stock. What a miserable country.
He waited in the entranceway for the sudden, furious onslaught to ease. He felt damp already, and cold.
The meet had been decided weeks before. When he had talked with that boy they sent—a Third Man. Not his type at all, ducks—a little too macho, with a ferret face.
He recalled with satisfaction that warmed him how he punctured Ferretface’s tough-guy act. It had been quite easy. And then Ferretface had listened to Hastings’ instructions.
Your humble servant, Hastings, had selected the buffet in Edinburgh Central Station. Miserable little buffet not a hundred feet from the gate to the afternoon express to Glasgow. Just in case.
Hastings was aware they might not trust him anymore.
He plunged into the street again and half ran down the sidewalk, staying close to the shop buildings. Across the magnificent and gloomy expanse of the famous thoroughfare, the wind built volume that whirled capriciously behind him and prodded Hastings along like a crusher with his nightstick. Move along there, yer bloody queen.…
The brooding gothic columns of the Walter Scott memorial loomed up and then away and Hastings hurried on until he was down at the entrance of the station, breathing hard, his face flushed, his mackintosh soaked. His breath came in foggy jerks.
He wanted to rush into the cover of the station.
Caution, old luv, he told himself. He stood in the entry and waited for his shivering to cease. One o’clock and all’s well. The train for Glasgow sits steaming at the far gate. Ticket. There it is. Leaves in ten minutes. Just enough time to judge the situation and make a run for it if he had to.
He strolled to the window of the buffet in the main concourse of the station and peered inside.
Typical British Rail. All bright plasticky colors already fading. Stacks of stale sandwich rounds. A fat woman in a heavy coat with two small, red-cheeked children sat slopping their tea at one table. An old man with a copy of The Scotsman sat near the window, judiciously muttering over the headlines. Two British Rail conduct
ors sat at a third table, leaning over the tits-and-bums page of The Sun.
And Devereaux.
Hastings caught his breath, felt heavy in his arms.
Rather too much, luv, isn’t it? I mean, sending a Ninth Man from Section? Don’t they trust dear, dear Hastings? The thought overwhelmed him. He slowly continued his inventory of the buffet and then let his eyes rest again on Devereaux, who sat in a smoking wet raincoat, cupping a mug of milky tea in his broad, flat-fingered hands.
Still the same. Same gray-and-black hair. Same crosshatched face that was neither handsome nor ugly. Devereaux’s features all showed age in an oddly appealing way; probably he had not been as attractive as a young man, but, with age, had accumulated character. Same marble-gray eyes and wintry face. Even when they were in Athens a long time ago. Aren’t you cold, luv, with a face like that? Then he would smile—Devereaux had liked Hastings—and Hastings had begun to feel comfortable with him. Strictly platonic, old darling, not my type at all.
Six minutes to the Glasgow train.
Hastings fingered the little cardboard ticket in his pocket. The Section would never kill him in a British Rail buffet. No, no. Wouldn’t do at all. Indeed, they would prefer not to kill him in these blessed isles at all, since R Section did not exist.
Five minutes.
Lost your nerve, old darling?
Hastings made his decision then.
He pushed open the door of the buffet and strode in with what he fancied a hearty manner. He shambled to the food counter and ordered a cup of white and carried the plastic mug to the plastic table where Devereaux sat.
The previous occupants of the table had left a half-eaten ham sandwich. Hastings sat down and covered it with a paper napkin. “Requiescat in pace.”
Devereaux did not speak. The trip had been a brutal one. The plane had landed late at Heathrow just after dawn and the northern airports were all socked in. He had driven five hours north to make the meeting.
“You look older,” said Hastings at last. “But well.”
“I am.”
“Well, jolly to see you and all that. Been years.” Hastings affected a bishop’s manner. “How long?”
They both knew how long.
“Ten years.”
“My, ten years in service to my American cousins,” Hastings said. The milk-and-tea was warm and a little bitter. “Time flies so when one is so thoroughly enjoying oneself—”
Two minutes to the Glasgow train. Dash. Upset the table, throw the tea in his face, through the door, the gates, the train just pulling out.
Steady now, old luv.
“You’re quite important now, I should say,” Hastings said. “I really didn’t expect you at all. I mean, from the ridiculous to the sublime—first that little ferret and now you. Nothing in moderation?”
Devereaux watched him.
“Wretched stuff,” Hastings complained suddenly. He flung down the cup. “Disgrace when the bloody British can’t make a decent cuppa.” He glanced up. Devereaux had not moved. “Of course,” he continued. “One can’t expect civilization from the Scots.”
All was still. The woman with the apple-cheeked children had left.
Hastings dispensed with the bishop. “You’ve got the money?”
“What have you got?”
“Ah,” said Hastings. “Ah.” He decided. He eased back on the plastic chair and, releasing the Glasgow ticket, pulled his hand from his coat.
“Ah, what I have,” he said.
“I am prepared to evaluate it,” said Devereaux quietly.
“To give it value.” Hastings “ahed” once more. “So that’s why they sent you along. Of course. Certainly. Makes a good deal of sense. Field evaluation.” It was all going to work out satisfactorily.
“They are puzzled by your silence,” Devereaux said carefully. “They want to be filled in.”
“And filled in they shall be, luv,” said Hastings heartily. “Filled and refilled and filled again until they have had their fill.”
“Do you have both… both parts?”
“Do you have all the money, luv? That’s more to the point, ain’t it?”
Devereaux said, “We’re prepared.”
Hastings winked. “You wouldn’t fool an old man, would you?”
Devereaux looked at him closely, at the mottled face, and felt something like pity. “You wouldn’t fool us now, would you?”
Said mildly, without hint of malice. Which made it frightening.
“No, no, never dream of it,” the older man cried. “Not at all. This is the goods, my dear, as you might say. This is the McCoy, the Derby Day.”
Devereaux tried a cautious smile. Merely as an exploration. “The last one, eh, Hastings?”
Hastings glanced up.
Devereaux tuned the smile two degrees upward. “We’re prepared for that. Don’t worry. Even agents have to retire.”
“Ah, well, then.” Something like relief. Forgetting his previous comment, the Englishman slurped down the remains of the milky tea. “I’m free then. A free man.”
“Soon,” said Devereaux.
“As you say, Dev. Well, to business then, me darlin’. You must get a room and get out of those clothes. Bloody climate here. Not like the islands, eh, Dev?”
Devereaux did not respond.
“I’d let you stay in my digs but you wouldn’t care for it, luv. It’s not you.” He laughed. “All me.” Patted his belly. “And then some. Simply no room at the inn, old duck.” Becoming the avuncular country cleric. “Station hotel upstairs is as good as any and better than most. Very convenient. Been in this filthy city before?”
“I suppose.” Devereaux knew airports, not cities.
“Well, you clean up and soak in a hot bath and I’ll meet you at six o’clock sharp right across the way at the Crescent and Lion. Splendid pub. One of the few decent pleasures left in this Calvinistic, moralistic, tight-fisted hole—where was I? Six P.M. I’ll lay it out for you and then we can arrange to talk with a couple of my… my colleagues.” He was lapsing into a stage-Irish dialect. “Me boyos.”
“A total fill-in.”
“Well, let me put it this way,” said Hastings. Improbably, he winked again. “It will be worth it all to both of us.”
“We expect that.”
“Or what?” asked Hastings playfully.
Now Devereaux smiled. Not by degrees. “Did you think I came here to kill you?”
He coughed. “Thought crossed my mind at one point, luv.”
“No.” Devereaux rose. “It’s not that simple, Hastings. You should know that.”
The gaiety forced up by fear and the restless weeks of waiting was suddenly drained out of the Englishman’s face. He felt tired. Felt like an old man.
“I know that,” he said.
There was only time for two double whiskies before the midafternoon pub closings. Hastings had reluctantly drained the last of his warm Johnnie Walker and then hurried outside into the bitter chill again, up the Royal Mile to Edinburgh Castle. Hastings’ walk resembled nothing so much as a baby’s first tentative steps on uneven ground.
He was meeting Sheffield at three.
They had been schoolboys and then friends and now they were business agents, dealing in information. As far as Hastings knew, Sheffield was the only man in British Intelligence who knew Hastings’ real masters.
The wild morning storm from the Atlantic had blown away across the Firth of Forth outside Edinburgh, dancing on into the icy, roiling mass of the North Sea. A gentle rain, as welcome as sunshine, fell on the city.
Hastings huffed up the hilly street. He was cold again, the whisky in him perfidiously chilling. Without looking, he passed warm shops of tailors and curio sellers and tobacconists; shops decorated with tartans and shops that promised to trace your clan lines for two quid.
Sheffield was supposed to wait for him at the edge of the broad square that fronted the grim, gray stone gates of the castle. Below the square was the expanse of the New
City, stretching to the Firth.
The square was empty. Fog rolled in the light wind crawling across the bricks.
Sheffield appeared quite suddenly from the doorway of an office building. Hastings was startled; he felt a pain in his chest.
“You startled me,” he complained. His voice carried annoyance; sweat formed at his thin hairline. Sheffield was the younger man and Hastings held a sort of dominance over him in their friendship. They had been at Cambridge together; Hastings had been quite brilliant and there had developed a trace of deference in the younger man’s manner which had never left him. It was as though Hastings might, reasonably, insist Sheffield fetch his boots from the cobbler or go on an errand to the Rose pub in Rose Crescent.
Sheffield was a thin man, shy and pinched in face and manner. But at the moment there was something like amusement in the simple brown eyes as he regarded Hastings.
“Sorry, Hastings,” Sheffield said. His eyes carefully swept the empty square as they talked.
“I should say,” huffed the older man, who was feeling very foolish indeed today. First Devereaux and now Sheffield. Hang on, old luv.
“We have the documents,” Sheffield said in the manner of royalty.
“And I have our American friend.”
“And the money?”
“As good as gotten,” the older man replied. “Let’s have them then, Sheff.”
“My dear fellow,” Sheffield began. “I rather think it might be protocol if you handed over the agreed sum first—”
“I ain’t got the bloody swag yet,” Hastings cried, changing the accent to Australian. There were so damned many obstacles and now this bleeding pouf bastard—
“Dear me,” said Sheffield. He glanced down the Royal Mile to the center of the Old City.
“Don’t be a bloody fool, Sheff,” he said. “He has the money but he’s not going to turn over a bloody farthing unless he’s convinced, and I need those papers to convince him.”
“Well, let’s both go to meet him, then, darling,” said Sheffield.
“No, we’re not both bloody meeting him, darling,” Hastings snapped. He made an effort to choke off his anger. “Ye don’t start changin’ yer bleedin’ rules midway in the match—” Unaccountably, the rougher Australian accent had settled in. “Everything is as we agreed, me bucko, and as we agreed it’ll stay.”
