by Bill Granger
“And where was Denisov?”
Denisov smiled. He looked like Saint Francis of Assisi, as conceived by an Eastern religious painter. “Where was the cat? Bam, the garbage can, and the cat jumps out. Stupid Denisov banged into the can. Thank goodness there was a cat, or you would have seen me.”
“Goodness?”
“A saying in English.”
“I didn’t want you to revert on me.”
“You would like a drink?”
“Water.”
“Water of life.”
“Water, not whisky.”
Denisov shrugged and got up. He came back from the bathroom with a glass of water. Devereaux sipped it slowly. It numbed his throat but the pain lurked beneath the surface.
“Who is Blatchford?” he said at last.
Denisov smiled and shrugged.
“Don’t shrug.”
“I was following you—”
“You were following Blatchford. You knew when his plane arrived.”
“Perhaps both of you.”
“You have a problem. Professional paranoia. You’re going to have to learn to trust someone.”
“You?” asked Denisov.
“Trust me.”
Denisov smiled. “Trust me, Devereaux. I saved your life.”
“Why?”
“Because I like you.”
“You didn’t like me in Saigon.”
Denisov did not stop smiling. “Saigon was different. There were different reasons in Saigon. We could not be friends there. We can be friends now.”
“Détente.”
“Exactly. We have the same interest in this, believe me.”
He began again, as though he were the interrogator: “Who is Blatchford?”
Denisov said, “An American. I thought you knew him.”
“What happened?”
“He was behind you in a shot in the dark. I saw his hands. He was going to garrote you. I was not prepared for that, if I must tell you. There was nothing to do.”
“So you did nothing.”
“No. I mean. Another choice. There was no other choice. So I eliminated him.”
“How?”
“Professional secret.”
It was maddening. But Devereaux pursued it. “Who was Blatchford?”
“An American.”
“Why are you here?”
“To help you.”
“Really? Who was Blatchford?”
Denisov got up and went to the window. He looked out. “It is raining,” he said.
“It is always raining,” said Devereaux. He waited. Denisov seemed to reflect on the rain beyond the window.
“I thought I knew who he was,” he said at last.
Devereaux waited.
“In his wallet, he carries a card from the Department of Agriculture of the United States. Do you know what the card says on it?”
Devereaux said, “Devereaux.”
Denisov looked shocked. “You did know him.”
“A lucky guess.”
“No—”
“And what else?”
“Oh, things to carry in a pocketbook. A picture of a woman and a children.”
“Not ‘a’ children.”
“I’m sorry. And an American Express card, also with your name on it—”
Paid up, I’ll bet, thought Devereaux.
“And a great deal of money.”
“Feel free to keep it, there’s more where that came from.”
“I shall,” said Denisov solemnly.
“Buy yourself a good meal.”
They fell then into a listless silence, each warily imagining what the other would say, would want.
“Denisov. why are you here?”
“On holiday.”
“I see. It’s going to be like that.”
Denisov frowned. “No, not like that. I will start again. I am here to observe.”
“What?”
“The strange behavior of the American people.”
“You could have done that better in Columbus, Ohio, for example. Or Peoria.”
“I would like to go to Peoria, Illinois. I have heard about it.”
Devereaux tried to sit up, but felt dizzy. Somewhere, beyond the window, a boat called through the mist.
“Why are you here?” asked Denisov.
“Agricultural survey. To see if you can grow tomatoes and bombs in the same garden.”
“We have to trust each other.”
“No we don’t.”
“Our position is delicate.”
“Not our position, white man.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.” And he didn’t. Did not understand Denisov or Blatchford or the attempt on his life. Was Blatchford sent by Hanley to eliminate him? Who knew he was here? Except everyone?
“I will begin. Blatchford was not what he seemed.”
“You mean he was not me? I realized that immediately.”
Denisov frowned. “I am trying to be serious.”
“Be serious.”
“Blatchford was with your government. Why does your government wish to kill you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I voted wrong in the last election.” Devereaux suddenly felt giddy with life. He was alive, he was not dead. Denisov was there. An old enemy. Almost as good as a friend. He tried to sit up again and made it. He smiled to himself.
“Joke,” said Denisov. “Don’t tell a joke. Be serious.”
“I am.” He thought a moment. “Let me see the American Express card.”
Denisov got up and went to the desk. He came back with the card.
The card bore Devereaux’s name. And the right expiration date. He said, “Get my wallet. In the coat, there.”
Denisov brought it.
His card. The same. The same account number.
“It wasn’t Hanley’s fault,” he said.
“What?”
“Nothing. The card is the same as mine—”
“That is not impossible.”
“Nothing is. Can I see the rest of Blatchford’s wallet?”
Denisov put the contents on the coverlet of the bed. Devereaux picked them up.
The card from the Department of Agriculture.
A press accreditation from Central Press Service, made out to Devereaux. But the picture was another man, a younger man, with sandy hair and light features. The dead Blatchford.
He picked up the other cards.
Visa card. Made out to Devereaux. He knew it would be the same as his.
The carbon receipt of an airline ticket. Edinburgh to Belfast.
And the pictures.
A woman and a child standing in front of a suburban home. A Weber grill smoking in the corner of the picture. Sunlight. The child—a boy—grins into the sunlight.
He stared at the picture.
Denisov stared at him. “What do you see, Devereaux?”
He did not answer.
The woman was Elizabeth.
At that precise moment, in Hamburg, a young man with light red hair named Michael Pendurst stood in the doorway of a hotel he occupied while a man with a cigarette tried to light it against the wind.
Michael Pendurst offered him a match.
“Danke,” the man said.
“Bitte,” said Michael Pendurst.
The man lit the cigarette, puffed at it, and threw it down. Then he looked at the mild-faced young Pendurst. “The next job is in Liverpool, in a week’s time.”
“Gut,” Pendurst said. “I need the money.” His voice, though deep enough, had a curious childlike quality to it. His accent was German, sprayed with American expressions.
“There’ll be enough for this one. Twenty-five big ones.”
Even Michael Pendurst was impressed. “Who is it?”
The other man opened the paper and pointed at the photograph.
“And where will he be?”
“It’s in the story. The marked paragraph. Good luck.”
; “I don’t need luck.”
“Whatever,” said the American. And he stepped in the dark street.
8
QUEBEC CITY
In the beginning of their relationship, it had seemed to Deirdre that Lord Slough was much too shy; after all, Deirdre Monahan was not without passion, and though she was ignorant of all the techniques of lovemaking, desire could overcome those mechanical obstacles.
But perhaps it was not a matter of shyness, Deirdre had come to decide. Perhaps it was hesitancy to proceed further—Deirdre understood now that Slough wanted to proceed further than Deirdre had ever intended. And Slough might have felt he would lose her if he revealed himself too soon.
What a foolish man, she thought. It was nearly morning and the city of Quebec still slept, beyond the ornate windows of the Chateau Frontenac.
They had slept and played; then slept again; and then played his games. Now, dawn waited to crackle harshly across the half-frozen river beyond the windows. The lower city, bunched against the cliffs that divided it from the upper city, was empty and serene. Deirdre could see these things from the window where she stood, naked but not cold. And not afraid of him.
She had been sleeping when he called her again.
He now sat on the overstuffed chair at the other side of the room. He had asked her for coffee and for her nakedness. Both were little presents. If he had the sexual appetite of an adolescent, she thought, he also had a child’s gift for delight in small favors.
Going to the service bar, she poured the coffee from the silver coffeemaker provided by the hotel.
Deirdre had been frightened a little when he began to play games with her; it seemed unnatural; it seemed a little evil. Finally, she had decided it was all of that and that she desired him the more for it. Was she herself evil or unnatural?
She smiled. There was no secret too vile for the heart of a good girl, a good Catholic girl who went to Mass and wept at the Stations of the Cross and delighted in the ecstasy of sin.
She had small, round breasts and large, brown nipples and sometimes Slough would ask her to stand before him so that he could admire her. He would touch her then, touch her breasts, her vagina, reach into her womb, as though counting his pleasures.
Deirdre Monahan was thirty-one years old and looked younger even; her eyes were green and soft; she was born in the village of Innisbally, below the heights of the burren hills. Her mother was pious and her father was a drunk and her brother had gone away to live in America; Deirdre knew she was just an ordinary woman desired by a man.
Not that he loved her. In her wisdom, she even understood that he was fond of her.
He had come to her the first time at night, when Brianna was fourteen and she was twenty-five. He had come to her in her rooms at Clare House and made love so naturally that it seemed they must have made love before, at least in dreams.
He opened his silk dressing gown as she put down the coffee on the side table. Kneeling naked before him, she took his large penis into her mouth.
She loved him. She would not say that to him because it would have made him sad—to think she loved him.
He had been dressed for an hour: Black turtleneck shirt, black trousers, dark leather jacket. He wore a black beret. He sat by the door.
He looked again at the weapon in his black-gloved hand. Again, he removed the magazine from the pistol grip and reinserted it with a sharp click. Everything was going well.
Uzi, the name given to this ugly thing that appeared to be some sort of pistol. It was a small machine gun, made by the Israelis. Nine-millimeter, small recoil, very reliable. The barrel was contained so that its upward climb when firing—a common problem in all automatic weapons—was greatly reduced.
He knew the French criminal investigation division used it—it was also being made by a Belgian firm and distributed in France. He trusted the weapon as he trusted few things: forty-round magazine, SMG set to fire automatically. It was deadly at two hundred yards; devastating in a closed room.
In a hotel room.
He glanced at his watch and got up from the chair by the door. Eight A.M. Within the next fifteen minutes, the bellboy would bring up the morning papers to Lord Slough’s suite.
The bellboy would die. That bothered him. The boy did not deserve to die. He had nothing to do with what had to be done. But there was no way not to involve him.
Toolin shrugged. Perhaps he would die as well. It didn’t matter.
He entered the old, ornate corridor. He went to the elevator. The pistol—machine gun was under the leather jacket. He pressed the “up” button.
8:01.
The bell sounded. The doors clicked open.
My God, he thought, it was close.
The boy was on the elevator already.
“Up, sir,” he said. Politely. He had red cheeks and red hair and bright, clever eyes. Toolin felt pity. Walked on the elevator and turned away from the boy so as not to see him.
The boy glanced at the headlines on the front page of the New York Times he carried in his hand. He hummed to himself.
Click, click, click—the elevator glided up past the floors. The numbers flashed on the control panel.
Toolin held his hands folded together across the front of his jacket.
The bell rang, the elevator doors flashed open. The top floor.
Toolin felt sweat on his palms beneath the gloves. It had been quite simple, really; Lord Slough had dismissed the bodyguard for the night. His room was to the right, not part of the suite. Jeffries’ room was next to that. Lord Slough had wanted privacy for his tête-à-tête with the Irish bitch.
They had not expected it to be so easy. They were prepared to kill him in the dining room, but this was much better. Only the boy would be in the way.
The boy waited for him to step out. Politely.
Toolin nodded and went down the corridor. He heard the boy walk across the carpet to the door.
Knock.
“Your papers, sir,” he said.
Toolin reached for the machine pistol.
The voice on the other side of the door was muffled.
The boy said, “Very good, sir.” He placed the papers on the carpet of the hall next to the door. He turned back to the elevator bank. The door had closed. He pressed the “down” button.
Damn.
Toolin suddenly did not know what to do. He decided to walk the length of the hall, away from Lord Slough’s door and the boy waiting for the elevator. He walked slowly. He felt the weight of the Uzi inside his leather coat.
Ping. The door of the elevator opened.
He turned back. Saw the boy enter the elevator and turn at the last moment and look at him. The boy smiled. Toolin smiled in return.
Quietly. Back along the hall on the thick carpet. Now he stood opposite the door.
He unbuttoned his coat carefully. He took the machine gun from his coat, felt the folded stock, touched the bottom of the forty-round magazine wedged into the pistol grip chamber.
He held it straight out from his body, pointed to the door.
Moments of silence.
Toolin did not know what to do. When would they get the papers? Would the bodyguard come? How much time was there?
8:09 A.M.
Steps behind the door.
He heard his breath. It was too loud.
The click of the lock.
The door opened.
He saw her for a moment. She was bending to pick up the morning newspapers when she became aware of him. She looked up. She appeared amused. He never saw her eyes.
She was naked.
Because she was bent over, the bullets—which should have struck her in the belly—smashed into her face. She did not utter a sound.
Her body exploded back into the apartment. Her face was only blood and bone.
He ran forward, over her already-dead body, now sinking to the floor. Blood spattered his trouser cuffs.
Four steps in the little hall. He ran it.
L
ord Slough turned at the window. The sputter of the machine gun had reached his consciousness only a moment before. Adrenalin pumped into his blood.
The bullets burst out, smashing to the line of windows. Glass shattered. Lord Slough fell.
Toolin turned now, the gun still firing, bullets ripping into the plaster walls, smashing the television set. The picture tube exploded with a savage pop.
Behind him.
Turning, firing. Harmon, in the hall, fired three times. The bullets surged heavily into Toolin. He could not stop the trigger. The machine gun bucked in his hand, spraying up and down, splitting Harmon’s face. He saw Harmon fall back, onto the dead, naked woman.
Toolin lurched forward, the magazine—incredibly—spent of its forty rounds. He fell onto the carpet. Smelled his own blood. Felt the damp warmth of the carpet against his face. Nuzzling his cheek.
The redness filled his eyes.
At least the boy did not have to die.
There was that.
At least—
9
BELFAST
Devereaux awoke thinking of Elizabeth at the end of his sleep. He had seen her in his dream and it had startled him and he had awakened. For a moment—as always—he did not know where he was. He lay still until he remembered. A gray light broke through the square of window beyond his bed. It made the dark room look sinister in the pale, dusty shadows. Yesterday, he had been with her, felt her warmth next to him. Now there was nothing but the gray light and the cold. And pain.
He struggled up and felt dizzy. He had slept in his clothing. He felt tired and dirty. The pain in his throat made it difficult to swallow.
He fumbled to the bathroom, turned on the shower. The balm of water. He pulled his clothes off and climbed into the shower and stood still and let his mind sort out the confusion.
Elizabeth. In a picture.
Apparently, Denisov had left after Devereaux fell asleep; he could not remember.
The dining room of the hotel was immense and dismal, reflecting the nature of the hotel. It was also nearly empty. Commercial travelers, forced by mere industry to ignore war, sat at their tables alone, digesting their bits of food and bits of news from the Belfast Telegraph.
And Denisov, sitting alone. He would have to sort it out with him.
