by Bill Granger
“Devereaux.” Hanley choked; he could not conceive it. The Section was not just an agency tucked into the budget of an obscure Cabinet department; it was Hanley and part of Hanley’s being.
He finally found a voice: “If that were so, why would you tell me?”
Devereaux’s voice was mild: “Because it doesn’t matter. If you are an agent in the ghost Section, then I’m dead. I cannot come in anywhere; I’ll be hunted and killed, for whatever reason. So it doesn’t matter if you are both Hanley and the ghost Hanley.”
“Dammit, Devereaux, I’m not.”
“I know.” There was a pause. “They want to destroy the Section. Make it inoperable.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. There are two plausible answers: First, the Soviets. Denisov is here in Belfast. Why? He wants to help me. Why? He claims he killed a man trying to assassinate me. Is that true? Or did he try to kill me? Why would the KGB want to destroy R Section?”
“Because we are who we are—”
“Nonsense. The Soviets use their intelligence agency to gather information, not to set out destroying other intelligence agencies. They know that a new agency would spring up in our place. Better to control our agency than destroy it. So they may have decided to set up the ghost agency and gradually take it over. But it really is too farfetched—”
“And the second?”
“The Langley firm, as you call it. The CIA.”
“As Denisov told you—”
“Yes, but there is more. Denisov would not care… the Soviets would not be part of our internal feud if there was not another factor. And I can’t comprehend that part of it. What is there beyond this?”
The elderly bartender came to the back and placed the martini on the metal counter under the telephone. Without a thought, Hanley picked it up and sipped at it. He was thinking, trying to jog memory and logic into a coherent sequence.
“Why now?” was all Hanley could say.
“Why now. Exactly. Why in Ireland?”
“It had to do with this Lord Slough business.”
“Yes.”
“But what?”
“An attempt made on his life in Quebec,” said Devereaux slowly, following his own thoughts. “But they tried to kill me after that. And tried to kill Elizabeth—it can mean, only, that there is another event coming. Something. Another attempt on Slough’s life?”
“You mean the CIA tried to kill this guy?” The slang came out in his excitement; even Devereaux was startled to hear it—Hanley was a man of precise language.
“I don’t know. I’m not in Canada. I don’t know anything about it. But there is something else—”
“What? I can’t stand any more.”
“There’s a leak. In the Section. And you’ll have to find it quickly.”
“Why in the Section?”
“Because of everything I’ve told you. They’ve followed me, they have baited me, they probably killed Hastings… they knew about this mission before I came here and had their agents in place—the ghost Section, the ghost Devereaux, the ghost Hanley, the ghost everyone.”
Hanley was silent. “I’ll have to get the Chief.”
“Yes.”
“And we have to find out who Toolin was and how he got to Canada to kill Slough.”
“Yes.”
“Devereaux, why would they want to destroy the Section?”
But it was obvious. If it were the CIA, they had tried to destroy it before.
“No more contact, Hanley,” Devereaux said, “until I know more.”
“What about this agent of theirs, Elizabeth Campbell?”
“No problem. She’ll stay at Blake House until this is over. Then we can decide about her.” Finally Devereaux gave Hanley the message that he’d found on Johannsen’s body: ETRAYSDVERDANTYGER. “I don’t recognize the code,” Devereaux added.
“I’ll work on it.”
“Hanley?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think you have very much time.”
Hanley looked at the half-empty martini glass. “No. I understand. I don’t think there is much time either.”
O’Neill put down the pint of black beer and turned. The little boy was staring at him.
“I’m O’Neill,” he said at last. “Who’re you?”
The others in Flanagan’s pub stared at the child. The boy wore a cloth cap as did most of the men, and he had a raggedy coat pulled tight around his thin shoulders. He handed the paper to O’Neill.
O’Neill stared at it for a moment, trying to focus:
I have money. St. Anne’s Church. Now.
“Who gave you this?”
“A man.”
“I know a bloody man gave it t’ya. But what was he?”
“I think an American man.”
“Ah, d’ya? Did he wear glasses?”
“I don’t know—”
“What’d he give ya t’give me the note?”
“Ya ain’t gettin’ it,” said the boy, and the men in the pub laughed. O’Neill flushed and made to give the boy a cuff with his hand.
“Yer don’t hit the lad,” said one of those at the bar. “Go on, O’Neill. What’s the note say?”
Suddenly, O’Neill was all smiles. “Ah, nothin’. Just a bit of business, it is. With the company. I’ll have ter pop off now fer a wee bit but I’ll be back. Hold me drink, Paddy,” he said. And he placed it on the bar and went out the door.
Nearly ten at night. No rain now, though the streets were shining wet under the lamps. O’Neill trudged up the long hill to St. Anne’s Church. So the Russian had more money for him, was it?
But it wasn’t Denisov.
Devereaux stepped from the shadows of the door of the old church at the head of St. Anne Road.
“O’Neill,” he said.
O’Neill looked around him. Not a soul on the roads. Not a car. He thought of running back—
Devereaux hit him, very hard, in the belly. O’Neill doubled over and began to fall heavily onto the pavement. Devereaux kicked him squarely between the legs. The pain made him faint and he did not feel it when he fell on the sidewalk, breaking his wrist.
In a moment, O’Neill awoke to blinding pain. He felt blood on the side of his face, warm and salty.
He stared at Devereaux in terror.
Devereaux had propped him up against the cold wall of the church entrance, in the shadows, a million miles from help. He was squatting down next to him.
“Tell me about Lord Slough.”
“I told you all—”
O’Neill was not permitted to finish. Devereaux chopped at his thigh and sent a new, strange pain into his gut, to join the other pains there.
“For the love of God, don’t hit me—” O’Neill began to cry.
“Who is going to kill Lord Slough?”
“I told ya. A Captain Donovan—”
“Who else? Where is he?”
“I don’t—”
This time Devereaux hit the broken wrist with the flat of his hand. Again, O’Neill blacked out suddenly from the pain.
When he awoke, nothing had changed; hell remained. Devereaux squatted next to him still.
“You’re gonna kill me, man—”
“Yes,” said Devereaux. “Tell me your contacts in the IRA—”
“They’d kill me—”
“They can’t kill you twice—”
“Please, for the love of God—”
This time, Devereaux chopped at the bone of his shoulder. Once. Twice.
“I’ll tell ya, but don’t kill me—”
“Who are they? Where are they?”
“There’s Terry here in Belfast. He’s down at Flanagan’s. But he’ll kill me—”
“What does he look like?”
“Black hair. Curly hair.”
“And who is he?”
“He’s one of the Boys. He knew about them tryin’ t’kill Lord Slough—”
“And?”
“I can’t te
ll ya—”
Devereaux hit him again. There was no pleasure in it. It was all impersonal.
“Please, please, fer the love of God—”
“Who else?”
“Donovan himself. He. He’s a character at the docks.”
“Who else?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know—”
“When will they kill Lord Slough?”
“They already tried. Dinja read about it?”
“Was that the plan?”
“I don’t know—”
“Who knows?”
“I don’t—”
He hit him again.
“I swear t’God Almighty, I don’t know—”
“Who killed Hastings?”
“You did—”
Devereaux stared into the eyes of the frightened man. Just a man, caught up in it all. Who didn’t understand. Had a wife and family and drank too much and was too poor and got caught up in a game he couldn’t play. He stared at O’Neill for a few moments and then got up.
“You’re a dead man, O’Neill,” Devereaux said. “Go home and kiss your wife good-bye and use your money to get out of Ireland tonight if you can. Because you’re dead. You’ll never come back here and you’ll never be O’Neill again and you’ll never see your family again. You’re dead and you have to leave now.”
The words frightened him more than the blows.
“If you tell Terry that you betrayed him, he will kill you. So will the others. You have a little time. I’ll give you that. You can leave now and get out of the country by morning and go away. Go to America or Australia, but go away.”
“Me life,” said O’Neill. “Me family.” His red tie was still tightly knotted at the throat as it had been the first time they met in Edinburgh. Devereaux looked at the comic, bloated face.
“The game is over,” said Devereaux.
And then he was gone, into the silent streets.
Denisov pushed open the door of his room on the top floor of the Belfast Continental and noted, with satisfaction, that the particle of paper was still in the jamb. It fluttered to the floor. It was all right.
He turned on the lights.
Devereaux sat in the chair by the window. He held a gun in his hand.
“Close the door,” Devereaux said.
Shrugging, Denisov closed the door and went to sit on the bed.
“Good evening, Devereaux,” he said at last.
Devereaux did not speak.
“To what do we owe this business?”
Devereaux stared at him.
“Cat got your mouth?”
“Tongue,” said Devereaux.
“Yes, tongue. You’re right,” said Denisov. He sighed and got up and went to the bureau. “I am going to take off my coat—”
“I prefer you to sit down.”
“Of course.”
The Russian went back to the bed and sat down heavily. The springs made a little sound of protest.
The room was silent for a long minute. The two men stared at each other across the black gun. And then Devereaux cocked the gun with a sharp click.
Denisov smiled. His eyes were kind and forgiving. “That is really too melodramatic, Devereaux. Cocking the hammer like that. No, this is the psychological moment. You have waited for me in the darkness. I come in, surprised. You have a gun. You do not speak when I talk to you. Then you release the hammer. Ah, you have me frightened now. Is that what you want me to say? Then I am frightened. Now tell me what you want.”
“Tell me about the ghost Section.”
“Ah, now you want to talk. Before, when I offer you my help—my friendship, even—you do not want to talk to me. Now you want to talk to me. That is good. You are at least doing something.”
“Tell me about the ghost Section.”
“It is a puzzle to me—to us—as well. But I think it must be part of the CIA and part of this business in Ireland.”
“Why?”
“I do not know why. A man tries to kill you and he has a card with your name on it. He is from this ghost Section. But he is a CIA man. So they are together, this ghost Section and the CIA. But we know the CIA is giving money to the Republican Army—”
“How do you know—”
“We know this.”
“And you want to help me. Help the Section. Why?”
“Because we do not want to help the CIA.”
“I don’t understand.”
Denisov smiled and spread his hands. “I don’t understand as well. But I have a theory. Would you like to hear it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. This is good, eh, Devereaux? We are talking at last instead of playing around the garden bushes. I looked for you all day—”
“Tell me about your theory.”
“Well, who can understand the Russian mind, eh? Not even me. And I am Russian. But I think our side does not want the CIA to fund the Irish Army here. I think we want this to be exposed.”
“Why?”
“Why not? To damage the relationship between England and the Americans? After all, England is going to be a great oil power in a few years. It would be important not to make England too much a part of the American world.”
“Why not expose it yourself?”
“We do not have hard evidence, I think. Now, remember, I am just making a theory.” He winked at Devereaux. “But a good theory, I think. After all, they do not tell me everything. And they do not tell you everything.”
Devereaux waited.
Denisov grinned even wider. “So what if we go to British Intelligence and give them what we have? Is it worth anything? No. For two good reasons. We will not be believed. And if we are believed, the British Intelligence will do nothing about it.”
Devereaux stirred in the chair and leaned forward. He still held the black pistol.
“Why would they do nothing about it?”
“Because British Intelligence is nothing without the Americans. They might use the information to blackmail the CIA into keeping them in the information club, so to speak. They might try to use it to get closer to the CIA—but they would not use it to embarrass the CIA and harm their relationship. British Intelligence is a joke. You know that. They do not even know that the CIA funds the Irish Republicans. But if they knew, they would not do anything about it.”
“But if R Section told them, they would?”
Denisov chuckled. “Yes, of course. Because then they would have to act. Because the Americans had told them. They would form a relationship with you and then they would get rid of the CIA.”
Devereaux stared at the man who had the face of a bespectacled saint. What had Hanley said? About working to form a special relationship with the British Intelligence forces? Was this all it was, then? An intramural game of rival bureaucracies? Then why were people dying?
“What about Lord Slough?”
“What about Lord Slough? I know nothing. Is that why you came to Ireland? We want to help you but you won’t tell us anything. I tell you everything—I tell you about the CIA and about the man who killed Hastings and about Elizabeth—by the way, did you get rid of her?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Denisov. “It is too bad, but a Mata Hari is more dangerous than even an ordinary agent.”
“What do you know about Lord Slough?”
“He is alive and he is in Ireland. Someone tried to kill him in Canada.”
“Why would the CIA set up a ghost of R Section?”
Denisov shook his head slowly from side to side. “Devereaux, I am not a child. Do not ask me child’s questions. Why would the CIA like to destroy or discredit R Section? You know that as well as I do—”
“The ghost Section could be the invention of your people.”
“My people?”
Devereaux knew it sounded foolish but he held on. He must probe all the sides of the question to make sure it was tight and whole.
Denisov jumped up from the bed. “I am insulted. Reall
y. This is too much. If we set up the ghost Section, why would we tell you? Why would we save your life and then try to kill you? You are crazy. Why would we destroy R Section when another would spring up in its place? Better to infiltrate it, put a mole inside the organization—”
“Perhaps you have one there now.”
“Perhaps,” said Denisov. “I do not know everything. I am told so much and that is all. I am told to help you. That is all.”
“You don’t ask questions.”
“No, my dear brother, I do not ask questions. I am Denisov and I am alive. I have a three-room apartment in Moscow and a lovely wife who is maybe a little too fat. I have a dacha for summer and I go to the Black Sea for my sun. My mother still lives with us and we have enough to eat. Why would I ask questions?”
There was another silence and then Denisov broke it. “Would you put away your gun, now, Devereaux?”
Devereaux stared and nodded. Pushing the hammer back, he slipped the gun into his belt.
“Do you believe me now?” Denisov asked mildly. He took off his rimless glasses and began slowly to wipe them on his tie. It was a red tie and it reminded Devereaux of the tie around O’Neill’s neck.
“I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“Perhaps. Your favorite word to say nothing. All right, Devereaux. Say nothing. It doesn’t matter because I am here. It is where I must be.”
The horn on the great red-and-white ferry belched a sound out into the blackness of the North Channel of the Irish Sea. And then the ship slowly pulled away from the dock of Larne Harbor, outside of Belfast.
O’Neill stood at the bar and watched Ireland fade behind him.
He had taken all his clothes and stuffed them into a suitcase and he had cried when Tim, the eldest, had asked him where he was going. He had made up some lie. She had known too, his wife, and she had shared his fear and had even made him a bit of a sandwich. He would write her, he would be back soon.… But she knew and it had torn at him greater than the pain of his broken wrist.
His swollen wrist was wrapped with a hasty bandage and to ease the pain he poured down another glass of whisky.
“Yer goin’ far, is it?”
O’Neill turned and looked at the old man leaning against the bar with him. An old Irishman with a strange accent. Probably a Liverpudlian.
“Aye,” he said. “Far.”
