Code Name November

by Bill Granger

“Good morning,” said Denisov. “Your neck looks terrible.”

  He gestured with his fork to the empty seat. Devereaux sat down and looked at Denisov’s plate: scrambled eggs and a tomato that had been squashed and grilled and some fatty bacon.

  He realized he was hungry. Since he had been a child, he had not taken pleasure in food; it had only been fuel, added as an afterthought, taken for social reasons or when his body demanded it. He had not eaten since Edinburgh, more than a day before. The lack of food had not made him faint.

  The thick waitress took his order and went away. Devereaux looked at the Soviet agent. Saintly eyes looked back.

  “You put my envelope back in the same place,” Devereaux said finally. Actually, he had not checked the brown envelope.

  “Yes. I am careful. You should be careful as well, Devereaux. All that American money. Why did you tear those dollars in half?”

  “Not in half. Slightly larger. So I can still cash them.”

  “Who holds the other parts of them?”

  “Who is Blatchford?”

  Denisov smiled, speared a fat piece of bacon and placed it in his mouth. He chewed slowly. “I do not understand why I am responsible for your life if I save it.”

  “Because that’s the way it is.”

  “It bothered me all night.”

  “You have the conscience of a child.”

  Pause. Chew. “Yes. It is useful. I think I understand what you say.”

  “Who is Blatchford?”

  “Was, my friend.”

  Devereaux waited. The tea came and then the plate of food. He poured milk into the tea. It tasted nearly sweet. It warmed him. Curiously, the presence of Denisov warmed him as well. He understood the Soviet agent without understanding any part of him. They had been in Asia together. Not together. A friend; an enemy; it didn’t matter.

  “I want you to trust me.”

  “And I want your respect, so I cannot trust you.”

  “I don’t understand that, Devereaux.”

  “If I trust you, you will not respect me.”

  “All right.”

  They ate silently.

  “Why are you here, Devereaux?”

  “You know.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Is that your way of saying nothing?”

  Denisov smiled. “Why are we both here? We belong in Asia. In another time.”

  Two Asia hands. Adrift in the West; the cold, unmerciful West.

  “Why are you here?”

  “To help you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m entirely serious. You should be serious, too.”

  “I cannot take you seriously when you say things like that.”

  “I will put my cards on the floor,” said Denisov. “Blatchford was an agent. Of your government.”

  “Good. Keep on.”

  “We think we know who he was but we do not understand fully.”

  Devereaux waited.

  “He was CIA.”

  He stared at the face of the Russian. It was not just the eyes but the shading of the skin and the broad, peasant’s face. Perhaps he was Saint Peter and not Saint Francis of Assisi.

  “Well, what do you think now?”

  “Nothing. I can’t think.”

  “What do you think of the young woman?”

  “What woman?”

  “The one you took to your room in London. And you made love to, I would say.”

  “Were you the one under the bed?”

  “Joke,” he said, just as Hanley would say it. “Tell me jokes. Do you think that woman finds you so beautiful she says, ‘I must have this man’?” Now Denisov smiled. “You are become vain.”

  “You have become vain.”

  “Sorry. But you are. It makes me smile, Devereaux.”

  “I can see that. Anything to provide amusement.”

  “What if I told you that woman was here.”

  “Where?”

  “Here.”

  “In the hotel?”

  “No, in Belfast. Another place.”

  “Do you ever sleep, Denisov? Or are there more than just you?”

  He shrugged. “Just me. No, you know I do not sleep. Ever. Always watching.”

  “It must be tedious.”

  “What?”

  “Your professional voyeurism. Not to mention the paranoia.”

  “You’re not interested in the young woman?”

  “Very interested.” He poured another cup of tea and dashed in the milk. “Very interested in you, Denisov. For your interest in me.”

  “Wait. Too many. Interest in me because I am interested—oh. I understand.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You said that last night.”

  “I know. It’s still true.”

  “This is not a game, Devereaux.”

  “Of course it is.”

  They were quiet again. The waitress came and asked if they wanted anything more and they said no. Devereaux took the bill absently and scrawled his name and room number on it. Denisov watched him. In an odd way, Devereaux only felt able to speak with Denisov. He could go for weeks alone, in the mountains, without speaking, without hearing another voice, without turning on the radio or TV, without going down to Front Royal for supplies. Or he could sit silently for hours and listen, absorb information, without commenting. But Denisov seemed always to probe another place within him, the place where words waited to be said. He had to speak to Denisov; in that way, the Russian seemed stronger than he.

  “Why did you come to Ireland?”

  “For the climate.”

  “Please, Devereaux—”

  “No, no goddam please. Listen, you sonofabitch, you know I was being set up. That prick you killed was going to kill me. You know about my fucking and how many times a day I shit. Well, listen, I want you to tell me why you know everything and then maybe we can talk.”

  All said quietly, with an edge of hissing menace, the language tough and from the streets. It had all been covered over by the years, by the veneer of education, of age, of distance from that kid who had been in the streets of the city and carried a knife in his boot and first killed someone by carving him with a straight razor.

  Denisov stared, appeared shocked. And then he smiled. The calm smile embraced even the ugly face Devereaux made and his words.

  “All right, my friend. It is good for you to become with emotions at last. It shows me that you are concerned.”

  “Where my life is concerned, I am concerned.”

  “Come. I don’t want to sit here. Let us take a walk. We can walk into the city. You should buy a turtle shirt so that your throat does not look ugly.”

  “Fuck you.” But said quietly again, in the old voice. Why had he spoken to Denisov like that? The voice had been pulled out of him by the Russian.

  The two men rose and left the immense dining room. Through the lobby, desolate in early morning. Into the foggy street. Devereaux wore only a sport coat of brown corduroy. They walked to the heart of the city. Around them, shop girls click-clacked in their heels along the sidewalks, bundled against the weather. There was an air of ersatz commerce to the city, as though the bombs and the deaths did not exist, as though only business were real.

  “It was a peaceful city,” said Denisov sadly. He had his arms folded behind him. He looked slightly professorial in his drab brown raincoat. He was bareheaded. His eyeglasses became damp and the wet in the fog touched his red cheeks and made it appear there were tears on them.

  Devereaux walked with him. The city did not terrify in bleak morning; perhaps that was how they stood it, stood the years of bombing and war and rubber bullets and barbed wire and soldiers on the street. The people of the city waited for morning. For a little peace.

  “I will ask you some things but only to explain. I am trying to make you trust me.”

  The fog chilled them. But it was warmer than in Edinburgh.

  “Do you know who finances the IRA now?” Denisov aske
d.

  “No.”

  “Good. An answer at least. I am not sure I believe you but at least it is an answer.”

  They turned down Royal Avenue, away from the center, toward the docks.

  “We know it is the CIA. Your CIA.”

  They walked along. Past the immense offices of the Belfast Telegraph.

  “You are not surprised?” said Denisov.

  “You’re not through.”

  “No, I am not through. You’re right. The CIA channels the legitimate funds—from the Irish in your country—through Dublin banks and then adds its own. We are not even certain that the IRA know this.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “A little mouse told me.”

  “A little bird.”

  “Are you sure? Sorry. A little bird.”

  “You’re crazy, Denisov. You’ve told me nothing. I’m going back to my hotel.”

  “I am insulted. I have told you the truth. A great truth. To make you trust me.”

  “If the CIA funds the Boys and you know this, I cannot find a plausible reason for your telling me. If the CIA funds the Boys, I cannot find a plausible reason for them to do it. Your information, then, cannot be true.”

  “Do you like opera?”

  “No.”

  “I love English opera. The Gilbert and Sullivan. Do you know the Pinafore? No? You are too badly educated, Devereaux. They have a song in this. It sings:

  “Things are seldom what they seem;

  Skim milk masquerades as cream;

  Highlows pass as patent leathers;

  Jackdaws strut in peacock feathers—”

  Devereaux was amused by the startled looks of several passersby. Denisov smiled. “You see?”

  “No.”

  “You look to something and you say, ‘I don’t understand.’ So it does not happen.”

  “Talking to you is like trying to draw a perfect circle.”

  “I am being direct, Devereaux,” said Denisov, just as mildly as before. “I do not understand why the CIA funds the Republican Army. Until now, I do not care. But now I must help you and you will not let me.”

  “Who is Blatchford?”

  “I have told you. CIA. A very bad man.”

  “We’re all bad men.”

  “He killed your friend, Hastings. Does that make him bad?”

  “Hastings was not my friend.”

  “Blatchford had a picture of this woman you sleep with. There.” He gestured to the hotel across the street. “Do you know she is there now?”

  “Now I do.”

  “Yes, because I tell you. That is Blatchford’s hotel. That is her hotel. Blatchford had her picture with him. He tries to kill you. All these things happen to you, to Blatchford. I see this. The woman meets you and makes you love her. Blatchford eliminates Hastings and then eliminates you. You go to Edinburgh to meet Hastings. Everything I have told you is true.” Denisov stepped ahead of Devereaux and turned to face him. His eyeglasses were misted so that the clear, blue eyes swam behind them. His hair was plastered wet with the mist.

  “Why are you here, Devereaux? You must tell me this.”

  “Tell you so that you will not have to kill me.”

  Denisov took off his glasses and looked at the American. “Yes. So I will not have to kill you.”

  He yearned to speak to Denisov. The words, buried in him, yearned to be articulated.

  “I don’t know. That’s the truth.”

  “That is not the truth, Devereaux.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Denisov wiped the glasses on the sleeve of his brown raincoat. “Then we cannot be friends.”

  “No.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Now you will kill me?”

  Denisov shrugged. “I do not know. I am sorry we cannot be friends.”

  “Yes.”

  The two men stood a moment longer, forming an island in the stream of pedestrian traffic along Royal Avenue. And then the island broke up and the pieces of it flowed into the stream, away from each other.

  Tatty was waiting in the back of the public house when Faolin strode in. Faolin appeared angry, his thin face twisted even more with some grievance. He had a copy of the Telegraph rolled under his arm. He saw Tatty and went to the back table and sat down.

  Tatty sipped at his Guinness and looked at the younger man.

  “Y’ve seen it, then,” said Tatty.

  “Oh, aye. I’ve bloody seen it,” said Faolin in a furious whisper. “IRA is it? Some bloody fool walks into Lord Slough’s room and tries t’kill him and nearly ruins a half a year’s plan?”

  “Who says it’s the Boys?”

  “Here. The bloody English say it.”

  Tatty did not look at the paper. He peered at Faolin as one might peer at a monkey in the zoo; or as a monkey might peer at the people watching him.

  “What fool ordered this?”

  “None that I’m aware of—”

  “Then you’re not bloody aware—”

  “Watch it, lad,” said Tatty. Mildly.

  “I want t’know the bloody fool responsible. This cuts it, finally—”

  “It cuts nothin’, Faolin.”

  The younger man glared.

  “ ’Tis almost Providential.”

  “How the bloody hell is that?”

  “D’ye think that our plot would have remained so bloody secret? Right t’the moment? This is Ireland, boyo, bloody full of fools and gossips and informers. So now if there is any suspicion that the Boys are gonna get Lord Slough, the suspicious ones suddenly have their fact t’gnaw at like dogs. And, like dogs, t’look no further—”

  Faolin stared at Tatty and then understood. His anger could not leave him so easily, but he managed silence.

  “Ach. Yer see? It’s the best thing that could have occurred. Lord Slough has been shot at and not hurt, the Boys have been blamed and all’s well—”

  “But who ordered it?”

  “Who can say? Perhaps he was on his own or had a grievance against the Great Man. Who cares now, Faolin? ’Tis done. And our plan is still in place. Stronger than ever.”

  “He’ll get another bodyguard—”

  “Oh, aye. P’raps two of them. Does it matter, lad?”

  Faolin shook his head. “I don’t like the unexpected—”

  “Woosh, lad. Y’talk foolishness. The unexpected has aided us in this. And thrown the gossips off the track. Let someone say, ‘The Boys are after Lord Slough,’ and they’ll say, ‘Yer great bloody fool, they already tried t’kill him in Canada. Now what are ya sayin’? That they’ll do it again?’ ”

  But Faolin could not feel assured. He sat with Tatty and watched the black Guinness slowly descend the pint glass and he drummed his fingers on the table until it was time for them to leave.

  The unexpected frightened him. Even if Tatty thought it was welcome news.

  10

  SHANNON

  There were three things that needed to be done; each was linked to the other like three parts of the same event.

  Devereaux was back in his room; he glanced around and everything was as it should have been—the laundry had been returned, the bed made, new towels in the bath.

  He opened his leather two-suiter that sat on the dresser and felt along the lining for the compartment. It opened without a sound and he removed the black .357 Magnum revolver and held it up to the light.

  The game was starting again: He looked at the person in the mirror—a man with a gun and a gray face and merciless eyes—and watched him like a stranger.

  There were six bullets in six chambers.

  He had refused to use automatic pistols since the time a .45 jammed on him at an awkward moment in Amsterdam. Actually, he did not like any sort of pistol. Or the death he always brought.

  He slid the pistol onto his belt, attached by a small metal clip protruding at the side of it.

  He wondered how Denisov had managed to kill Blatchford. Pistol? Knife? His hands. Probabl
y his hands; it had to be quick and sure.

  The bullets in the chambers had flattened heads which made them somewhat inaccurate beyond forty yards. But in the close game Devereaux played, they would be sufficient. They would tear at the flesh like dumb, blinded animals.

  Three things to be done before he called Hanley again.

  He slipped on his brown corduroy jacket and left the room; in a minute he stood in the hotel cocktail lounge. It was empty and a fat woman stood behind the bar.

  “I was supposed to meet a man here last night—” Devereaux began.

  The words had a cathartic effect on the woman’s speech; she began to babble: “About what time, sir? I was on late ’cause Red Boylan was ill. You’d be talkin’ to Red Boylan any other day, but he got somethin’ last night. I think it was the fish—don’t touch the fish, I tol’ him, but Boylan is fond after fish, it’s almost unnatural and—”

  No. No. No one came in. No man who looked like O’Neill. No one after eleven P.M. Business was so slow that—

  Devereaux extricated himself from the monologue and crossed the lobby again to the street.

  O’Neill had not come to the hotel; perhaps because he did not expect Devereaux to return to it either.

  His instincts were in charge now; he hailed a cab and slid inside, giving the address of the hotel on Royal Avenue. The second part of the matter involved Elizabeth.

  When he asked for her at the desk, the clerk looked carefully in box 602 for the key and then said she was not in. Devereaux nodded and went back across the lobby to the hotel bar while the clerk watched him. He ordered a vodka drink but did not sip it; when the clerk turned, he went to the elevator and took it to the sixth floor.

  All Devereaux’s movements now were contained and economical. Walking down the dark, old-fashioned corridor, he counted the numbers on the doors. Her room. He stood still and listened. The silence was as heavy as the damp, cold air; nothing was as quiet as a hotel corridor in afternoon. He removed a piece of thick wire from the copper bracelet on his wrist and inserted it into the lock. In a moment, the door sprung open as though it were surprised. Without a sound.

  The bed had been made. He closed the door behind him.

  Her suitcase was on the desk. He went to it. Opened it. Empty. Felt along the seam. Felt nothing. He took a pocketknife from his coat and flicked it open. Felt the bottom of the suitcase and slit the lining neatly with the edge of the knife. There was a compartment. He stared at it for a moment. Empty. He closed the suitcase lid.