by Bill Granger
Sheffield altered his tone as well: “ ‘Me bucko’ me all you want, old darling, but I have rather a stake in all this. It’s my neck on Her Majesty’s block. I’m the one who took the risks—”
“And I’m the one what showed you what the risks were worth, you bleedin’ poufter!”
Hastings suddenly pressed his fat body against the younger man and both disappeared into the shadows of the doorway. Sheffield found his arms pinned by the door and wall and his life’s breath being choked out of him by Hastings’ big hands. Amazing, he thought dreamily as he began to die. Really quite extraordinary that old Hastings could move so quickly.… Never would believe—
Sheffield would have died, if Hastings had not ceased. The breath came back in burning jerks into his lungs and he could not speak. He coughed and gobbled more of the cold, damp air into his mouth.
“Now, my luv,” said Hastings softly.
“I had only meant—” Sheffield tried to begin.
“I know, I know,” Hastings said in a soothing, motherly voice. “Don’t blame you, Sheff. But I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep. You understand.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” said Sheffield, joyous that his life was returned and the other had forgiven him. He almost felt like crying.
“Now the papers, dear Sheff,” said Hastings in the same croon.
“Of course,” said Sheffield. He almost gurgled as he removed the photostats from inside his shirt. They had been taped to his chest.
Hastings did not glance at them but stuffed them quickly into his mackintosh.
“I know you’ll do right by me,” Sheffield said.
“Ain’t I always, Sheff? Of course I will. Trust your old pal, luv. There’s no need to worry. It’s all complete now, all the parts—”
Sheffield nearly missed the slip.
“What other parts?”
“Never mind.”
Sheffield was silent.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Hastings said gravely.
Sheffield touched his neck. He knew there would be bruises. Without another word, the fat man turned away and began to toddle down the Royal Mile, back to the center of the old part of the city. Sheffield stood in the shadow of the office block for a few more moments until Hastings was lost in the fog beneath the hill.
Sheffield promised to kill him.
The tiredness had felled him. First a shower, and the hot, slashing water soothed the ache out of his arms and back; then a giddy wave of nausea was replaced by this utter sense of exhaustion. Devereaux did not even pull back the covers but fell asleep, naked, across the bed.
It seemed only a moment later when the telephone rang.
The ring repeated several times before Devereaux could even comprehend the sound. He did not know where he was. The room was black but a silver of light came from the bath. Hotel room. He always awoke the same, never sure of himself or of where he was. He picked up the receiver and a heavily burred voice said, “Five o’clock, surr.”
It did not mean anything.
He fell back on the bed, only wanting sleep; but the voice had started his thoughts up again and he would not sleep. Suddenly, he pushed his forty-three-year-old body upwards and staggered again into the ornate, old-fashioned bathroom where the tub had clawed legs. He splashed icy water on his face and shivered. Then he looked at the gray, drawn face in the mirror.
On the basin was a small packet marked aspirins. Except they were not aspirins and Devereaux never had a headache. Swallowing two of the white pills, he went back into his room and began to pull fresh clothes from the leather two-suiter on the bed.
By 5:55 P.M., he was marching across the road from the station hotel into the dark streets to the Crescent and Lion pub. Night had brought an end to the rain. There was only a sweeping sense of cold blowing down the old streets. Devereaux’s face had lost its pallor; his eyes glittered almost unnaturally.
He had a rhythm to walking on a job. He moved methodically, his eyes sweeping the street in front of him: Doorway, post, street, car, bus, doorway, window—
He stalked into the pub.
After work. A gentle murmur and hard drinking. Brownish whisky in plain glasses and large British pints of Tartan Ale and Guinness and Bass Ale. Glasses sparkled in the subdued light as they sat on the shelves above the bar top. The pub was not a fancy pub; there was no saloon side in the English style. Devereaux ordered a double Johnnie Walker and took the drink to a table that hugged a wall next to the front window.
Scotch in Scotland, he thought and smiled to himself. He sipped the brown, liquid warmth. Better. Much better. He looked out the window at the cold as though it was a stranger. The pleasant, burred voices around him soothed him.
By seven o’clock it was clear that Hastings was not coming.
The warmth had left Devereaux. He sat contemplating his third double whisky and reviewed the options.
One, Hastings had nothing and it had all been a bluff as Hanley suspected.
Swirling the whisky in its stemmed glass, he watched as it rose and fell against the bubbled sides like waves.
Nonsense. Out of the question. Hastings was not mad enough to believe the Section would pay him those extraordinary sums without seeing his information. A bad scenario.
Around him, the hard-drinking crowd had settled in at the bar, pushing against the ten o’clock closing time in Presbyterian Scotland. Those with homes or supper waiting had already left.
Two. Hastings had been delayed by the sort of freak accident that even spy flesh is heir to. He’d fallen down, had a heart attack, was struck by a bus. In that case, it was merely a matter of waiting to be recontacted.
He sipped at the whisky.
Three. Hastings had been killed.
Who would kill Hastings?
A lover. An enemy. A friend. Someone who knew what he had. And who knew it was worth a life. At least a life.
Devereaux drained the whisky and set the glass back down on the scarred black oak table. The pills and whiskies were producing an odd effect: Devereaux’s body was slowly falling asleep though his mind was awake and outside the body—watching it and commenting on it.
What did Hastings have that he was sure was worth exit money? And which he knew we wanted?
And why deal with R Section?
That had puzzled Devereaux most from the moment Hanley had given him the assignment. After all, Hastings had been recruited by the Section and he was the Section’s man—but if it was a matter of getting exit money and retiring, he could have dealt with the company as well. The CIA was more generous than R, and the CIA could have guaranteed his safety. Even from us.
Go back to the beginning of option three.
Hastings is dead. Someone killed him.
The killer eliminated him for one of two reasons: To get his information or to stop him from giving it to us.
Devereaux tried to remember Hastings as he had seen him six hours before.
He felt sure Hastings was dead.
“Ah, y’ll be havin’ to get it yourself, you know.”
Devereaux looked up.
The man wore an ordinary rumpled business suit of heavy wool that looked as though it was usually damp. His white shirt-collar was a trifle dirty and the shocking red tie was knotted so fiercely at the thick throat that it resembled a noose.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Whisky, lad. Yer be havin’ to get it yourself. At the bar.” The face was middle-aged Irish and so was the accent. The man smiled.
Devereaux did not. “I know,” he said and turned back to his thoughts. He was not finished with Hastings.
“Now, I intended no offense—”
Devereaux nodded slightly, politely. But the Irish businessman seemed not to care.
He leaned over confidentially from his table—all connected by the same bench that ran along the wall—and said, “Yer an American.”
Devereaux looked at him.
“I’m Irish,” he said unnecessaril
y. “From Belfast.” As though the name of the city would invoke a reaction. “Poor old bleedin’ Belfast.” He saluted the city with his own whisky glass. “On business here. Edinburgh is a lovely city, don’t you think?”
He was irresistible.
“Lovely,” said Devereaux. He got up and went to the bar to order another. He intended not to return to the table. He would wait for Hastings a while longer.
But the Irish businessman pursued him to the bar as well.
“Me,” he began as though there had been no interruption. “I like the Scots, you know. Not like some. We’re all Celtic people. I’m Catholic, though, you see.” Saying it, he lowered his voice as though it were still against the law to be a Catholic in lowland Scotland.
“But they’re an honest enough people and who can we blame for our troubles now, I want to ask you,” he went on. The whisky came and the Irishman placed a five-pound Irish banknote on the bar.
“I canna take yer Republic note,” the bartender said gently. He was a red-bearded giant with a flat, pleasant face.
For a moment, the blue-eyed Irishman bristled. Then he let it go. “Ah, well, it’s all the same, isn’t it now? The Sassenach won’t take yer Scottish money down there but they expect us to all take theirs at their bloody convenience.” He tried out a smile of Celtic comradeship but the barkeep was having none of it. When the businessman finally produced an English fiver, the barkeep snatched it away with a grumble and made change.
With a stage wink, the Irishman turned to Devereaux and nodded at the bartender’s back. “And den some of them are like that stiff-backed Prod with no sense of humor atall and you wanta join the IRA yerself.”
Devereaux allowed a smile. Thought was impossible before the onslaught of Irish charm. He surrendered with a shrug and the Irishman looked as though he had won a battle.
“Yer health, sur,” he said and drained half the whisky at a swallow. After the Irish habit, he had mixed tepid water with the alcohol.
“What about the money?”
The Irishman looked startled.
“What money?”
“The Scottish and Irish money. I don’t understand—”
“Oh.” The Irishman looked relieved. Devereaux picked up on it. Something out of place. “Oh, that. Well, y’see, the Republic prints its money and the Bank of Scotland prints its money and the Bank of England prints its money. Y’follow, now? This is a Scottish note here. But it’s all the same bloody money because the Republic is tied to the English pound and the Scottish pound the same. If the English pound is worth so much, then the Irish pound is worth the same. Y’follow now? Same money. If yer go into dear Dublin and yer an Englishman, ya hand over an English pound and they give you change nice as can be. Anywhere there. Me mother’s people ran a pub there, always takin’ English notes. They treat it the same as if it was Irish pounds. But if yer take yer Irish money into London and yer in a pub somewhere and you put down the note on the bar, well, they’d as soon spit at you, the Sassenach bloody bastards. That’s the English for yer. A bloody rude people.”
He swallowed more whisky and it liberated his speech.
“Same with the Scottish pounds. Take them south of the river Tweed and yer English look at ye like yer trying to pass a bloody yen or somethin’. But English pounds is all welcome in Scotland. Yer see what I’m sayin,’ sir? Here the English treat us both like we have the bloody pox but then how do we treat each other? Like brothers, sir? None of it. Look at that ginger-bearded fella behind the bar!”
He slammed down his glass for emphasis and waved to the red-haired man for another round.
“And I tell ya, it’s the same with we Irish. We treat each other like enemies. Poor bleedin’ Ireland.” He paused. “And look at this poor country as well. They’ll get their North Sea oil in a few years and they’ll ship it all down south to London and be lucky to see a bob on every pound of profit. Mark me. No one ever bested the English in a deal or a war.”
“Save us,” said Devereaux.
“Ah? Oh, aye. Save the United States of America. God bless ’er.”
Devereaux listened on while his mind tracked Hastings. His body tried to nudge him toward sleep but his mind pursued the fat Englishman. He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see the black Omega dial blur momentarily. No more whisky. He got up to disentangle himself from the Irishman’s one-sided conversation. It was not easy. Devereaux was forced to nod and smile and poke the Irishman’s conversation with a question, hoping it would permit him the chance to depart; but O’Neill held on like a wrestler, his monologue pinning Devereaux down. The Irishman had offered his name at one point but Devereaux did not introduce himself.
Finally, Devereaux bought his round and begged farewell and broke the web of words. At last, he managed to plunge again into the icy darkness of the Scottish capital.
The streets were nearly empty already.
He tried to play his game again: Doorway, post, street, passing cars. But the drinks and tiredness seemed to overwhelm his concentration. He hurried across the wet street to the station entrance and down to the cab line. He felt careless, but unable to do anything about it, for he had to know about Hastings.
He ducked into the tall black car and gave an address to the driver. The stately Austin pulled quickly away from the curb and plunged into the traffic on Princes Street. In the darkness, the battlements of Edinburgh Castle were lit with eerie light; fog began sifting in from the highlands beyond the city.
Devereaux felt ill. He wondered if it was from the whisky and pills or from thinking about Hastings. He had helped trick Hastings into service for R Section: He’d never felt guilty about it, because Hastings was a greedy man. Until now. Maybe that’s why his stomach churned.
A four-story building, dour and dark.
He paid the cab and went up the steps to the entry. Beyond the outer door he could see worn carpeting on stairs leading up to an ill-lit landing.
He pushed the door. It was locked. He was puzzled by it for a moment before he inserted a thin, strong wire into the lock and twisted the tumbler. He entered the hall.
There was no sound except for his heartbeat, which he thought was thunderous.
Mr. Percy. Second floor rear.
Percy. Why did he choose that? His mother’s maiden name? A friend? A lover? An enemy?
The stairs creaked under Devereaux’s weight.
He wondered if he should be afraid. He knew his body was tense but he knew it in a disassociated way. That was the pills acting on the whisky. He thought if there was danger finally at the top of the stairs, his mind would react too slowly.
He managed the landing.
A naked bulb of low wattage burned faintly from a fixture in the ceiling. Electrical cords—painted over scores of time—ran along the wainscoting.
He had no weapon except for the garroting wire wound in the copper bracelet on his left wrist. The bracelet was the type sold as a cure for arthritis. The thin wire inside it had killed three men—quietly and quickly. The technique was quite simple: Behind the victim, over his head, turn your body and throw your shoulder into his back and then bend over, lifting the victim’s body as it dangles on the wire around his neck. Usually, death is instantaneous; in any event, the victim cannot cry out. Very neat, Hanley had said; R Section was pleased with it for its simplicity and effectiveness. And cost. The wire was indestructible and cost—Hanley had been especially proud of this—seven cents to produce.
The door to Mr. Percy’s room was ajar.
The hallway was dark; vague, dank odors of mold and heat permeated it.
Devereaux stood at the top of the stairs and waited. He tried to listen for a sound that wasn’t there. He waited two minutes for the silence to end.
He walked across the hall then and cursed the creaking of the wooden floor under the flowered carpet. He pushed open the door of Percy-Hastings’ room.
He nearly stepped into the blood.
It was everywhere.
He walk
ed around the soaking pool by the door and looked down at Hastings.
The fat older man looked like a broken doll. His face was puffed up by death, his eyes protruded comically. His swollen tongue lolled out of his mouth.
As Devereaux stood and looked at him, the first wave of nausea rose in him and then fell back. He stood perfectly still while his eyes catalogued the room:
Hastings had been stabbed. The wounds were all over his naked body. He was sprawled face up but his legs were drawn up and his hip rested on its side on the floor in a grotesque fetal position. His penis lay on the blood-soaked couch.
Devereaux squatted down, holding his raincoat off the floor so that it would not be stained.
He touched Hastings’ neck. There was a deep cut running from ear to ear. A thin cut, cruelly made. It had killed him, Devereaux decided. And it had not been made by a knife. Hastings had been garroted.
Hastings’ body smelled. There was excrement on the floor, mixed in the blood, released at the moment of death.
The room was torn up; papers were scattered on the floor; books were heaped in a corner. Everything Hastings owned had been violated, searched, torn apart, destroyed.
Devereaux stood up and took a last look at the agent and turned and retraced his steps to the door. He backed into the black hall and went to the stairs. For a moment, he stood and listened.
He thought he heard a door closing quietly.
His heart thumped; there was the beginning of a dull pain in his shoulders, spreading and warming across his upper back.
He started down the stairs.
Outside, on the empty street, the houses were all in darkness. Old-fashioned street lamps barely stabbed at the fog shrouding the buildings. Devereaux moved to the middle of the street and began to walk toward Princes Street. His mind had now surrendered to the exhaustion of his body; he felt drunk, and he knew that if they were waiting to kill him, he would die. He gave up and surrendered to any death waiting for him.
It took nearly an hour to get back to his hotel. The lift to his room seemed to take an hour as well. He pushed his legs down the corridor to his room. Opened the door. He was vaguely aware the match was still in place. He shut the door, heard the lock click.
