Code Name November

by Bill Granger

“ ’Tis farther to take a far trip beginning at night. The night makes it longer.”

  “Aye,” said O’Neill absently. He did not think on his words; the conversation continued, but somehow, he was beyond it. He could only think about the sudden horror of that night, the beating and his betrayal. He was an informer and a coward. That is what he had said to Devereaux that morning in the hotel room in Edinburgh. And Devereaux had agreed with him.

  Slowly, the great ferry moved through the darkness of the channel to Stranraer in Scotland. When the short trip was over, the two men were still at the bar, still drinking.

  Then it was down the steps, onto the dock, the few passengers routinely passed through by the customs officer. On a siding, the old train waited for them for the overnight journey to Glasgow and Edinburgh; it would make every stop along the way.

  O’Neill found an empty compartment in the second-class carriage and threw his heavy bag onto the metal rack above. The carriage was old and the worn plush seats smelled of age. There was graffiti scratched onto the finish above the seats.

  O’Neill did not look at it. His arm throbbed. As he sat down on the seat, he wondered if his wrist was broken.

  He tried to sleep but the rattle and shake of the old train would not let him.

  There was no ticket collector aboard.

  The interior of the train was lit with twenty-five-watt bulbs, which made the night beyond the cars colder and blacker. O’Neill shivered to himself.

  The door of the compartment slid open.

  The old man from the ferry came in.

  O’Neill opened his eyes and frowned in annoyance. Every bloody compartment empty and he comes in here. Probably wants a chat.

  “I just thought I’d sit down here. I have a wee bottle with me.”

  O’Neill let the frown escape. He could not sleep. At least there was whisky.

  “Sit down, sit down,” O’Neill said at last. His voice carried only a shadow of its old bonhomie.

  “Thank ye,” said the old man. He pulled a bottle of Paddy out of his coat. “Against the chill,” he said. He passed the bottle to O’Neill.

  Oh, Irishmen, thought O’Neill suddenly, with such a sense of loss. Where in the world will I go to be at home, leaving my native land? The thought made him take a large drink. He wiped the top of the bottle and passed it back to the old man.

  “Me name is—me name is Donovan,” said O’Neill at last.

  The old man looked at him with kind and shrewd eyes. “Mr. Donovan,” he said. “T’yer health.” And he took a swallow.

  O’Neill nodded and waited for him to pass back the bottle. “And who would you be?”

  “Oh, I’m called Tatty,” said the old man at last. “It’s not much of a name but it suits me.”

  “Tatty is a fine name,” said O’Neill, his eyes filled with tears. Oh, Irishmen, with your goodness and good fellowship and your ways, where will O’Neill find ye again in the wide world he must travel?

  “Tatty. T’you. To yer good health, sur,” said O’Neill. And he drank deeply.

  When they came to clean out the car in the morning, one of the British Rail sweepers found him. They thought he was asleep at first and they rudely pushed at his arm to wake him. He fell over in a heap on the floor.

  The bullet wound in O’Neill’s chest was scarcely visible through his clothing.

  15

  LONDON

  Elizabeth slept late Saturday morning, letting the last few days drain out of her in dreams. She did not sleep well, but when she awoke in the strange bed on the strange, cloudy London morning, she did not feel tired anymore. Only still alone. And afraid.

  She had not arrived at Blake House until after one A.M. She had spent a long time ringing the doorbell, a long time standing in the darkness of the street off Hyde Park. The darkness was an enemy now, as was each passing car and each pedestrian.

  Finally the door opened and she pronounced the word of entry. For a moment, the old housekeeper stared at her as though she were mad. Was it the right word? Had she forgotten? There were so many secrets, so many codes to remember.

  But, at last, the housekeeper took her to another room and made her wait for a long time. She was cold and tired, but Devereaux had said they would make her wait.

  Then the young man came into the room, wearing a robe and pajamas and slippers. She noticed the bulge in the pocket of his robe and supposed it was a gun. She was prepared for that as well.

  He seemed friendly and they talked quietly. Devereaux had told her to say as much as she had to say and no more; to only tell about Devereaux and their meeting and not to talk about the Section or the ghost Section.

  After a while, she said, “I realize you have to be satisfied about me. But couldn’t we go someplace? I’m tired and wet and dirty.”

  Then he smiled and showed her into the library. He gave her a drink and poured himself a large drink. When he poured the drinks, she realized he was a little drunk. He didn’t slur his speech and his moves seemed normal, but there was something a little out-of-focus about his behavior.

  She told him enough to satisfy him. After a while—and another drink—she was taken to a bedroom. There was a bathroom attached. She noticed her suitcase was already on the dresser and open. She supposed the housekeeper had searched it.

  The night and morning had been full of dreams about the blond man and the Section and the training school and Devereaux. And dreams about the little boy in the photograph. The last dream had been the worst of all. But all the dreams seemed to exorcise the ghosts inside her, and when she awoke, it was better.

  She felt safe.

  She took a long time dressing and finally went downstairs to the hall. The house was silent except for the steady tick-tick-tick of the grandfather clock in the hall. It was nearly eleven.

  She went into the library because it was the only room she knew. She looked out the window. There had been snow the day before, but now it was gone. The street only looked wet and miserable.

  She turned from the window; folding her arms, she stared at the bookcases lining the walls. She looked at the titles. They seemed to have been chosen without regard for anyone actually reading them, merely parts of the prop that consisted of a library. She thought someone had probably come in and ordered: One library, medium, English-style. Then a government delivery had been made. What was one library, medium… called? GI-345 stroke 7?

  Elizabeth was smiling when Green came into the room. He returned the smile.

  “Good morning,” he said. “You were tired. You slept quite late. Nearly noon. Are you hungry?”

  She realized she was.

  “Good. We’ll get the housekeeper to fix something. She’s a terrible woman—can’t stand her.” She noticed the trace of an English accent in his flat, Midwestern voice; it annoyed her and she didn’t know why.

  “But an excellent cook. And she knows it. So she’ll get something for you. I was just popping off now, have to go to the embassy. But I thought we could have a chat while we’re waiting for your breakfast.” He pulled a bell cord and the housekeeper appeared a moment later in the library door. Elizabeth did not know why, but the action made her feel uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed.

  “Will you get our guest the usual hearty Olde English breakfast,” asked Green brightly. “Be a dear. And we’ll have some tea in here while we talk.”

  “D’you want the breakfast here as well?”

  “Yes, that would be splendid.”

  “It’s nearly noon,” said the housekeeper.

  “What a dear,” said Green to Elizabeth. “Even if all the clocks broke down, she’d know the time and be willing to announce it to you.”

  The housekeeper tried out a frown and then turned from the door.

  “Dragon,” Green said, going to the leather chair by the window. He waved his hand and Elizabeth sat down.

  He looked out into the gray, wet street while he spoke: “I signaled the Section last night. They didn’t know about you.
I must talk to Hanley today. The Section was quite upset.”

  Devereaux had told her not to expect recognition from anyone in the Section. Especially Hanley.

  “Well, still. You knew the code. And Devereaux is in Belfast. At least, so we assumed. We haven’t heard from him for three days and I was under express instructions to report to Hanley the moment he made contact. And so here I am.” He smiled. “Contact has been made and I have nothing to report. Won’t you fill me in.”

  “I thought I told you. Last night—”

  “Yes, yes. That you met Devereaux in Belfast. That you were in danger there. Yes, you told me that. But I have my report. Devereaux and I are colleagues and I have to have a clearer picture before I can make my report.”

  She nodded. She did not know what to say. She tried to smile. “There’s not much to say. Because I can’t. I was involved in… well, his mission—”

  “Yes, his mission,” said Green. “Which is aborted now because the attempt has already been made on Lord Slough’s life.”

  “Well, Devereaux said…”

  Green stared, smiled, folded his hands. He waited. “Devereaux said?”

  Devereaux said. Something was wrong. Or was it? Or was it only a dream? Or part of one?

  “Devereaux said?” Green continued patiently.

  “That I really was to wait. Until he returned.”

  “When is he returning?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Today? Do you think he will show up today?”

  “Today? It’s possible. I don’t know.”

  “But Ms. Campbell, I do have a report to make—”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything.”

  Green looked at her and the smile slowly faded from his boyish features. He remained seated for a moment and then shook his head. “Well, I shall have to make my report in any case. And your refusal to fill in the station chief—”

  “I’m sorry. I was told—”

  He pasted a smile back on his face as he got up. “Not your fault. Not at all. Don’t give it a thought. It’s all Devereaux. Something of a legend in the Section, as you may well believe. Quite an independent operator. His own man. Sometimes, he bends the rules a bit, I’m afraid. He was to report to me.”

  Elizabeth tried to return the smile. “I’m sorry.”

  At that moment, the housekeeper appeared with a tray containing a teapot, cups and other dishes. She set it down on the table by the window. “Your tea,” she said, glaring at Elizabeth. Then she turned and walked out of the room.

  Green popped off the metal cover over a plate to reveal fried eggs and bacon with great chunks of fat in it and a grilled tomato.

  “Would you like breakfast?” he said.

  Elizabeth began to eat while he poured the tea.

  At a minute past noon on Saturday in the village of Innisbally, Durkin, the garda, and Cashel, his new found friend, went into MacDermott’s pub and ordered whisky.

  “I hate a funeral. I hate the time after at the house, as well. I was glad to get away, I can tell ya,” said Durkin, who reached for the glass and splashed a little water into the whisky from a bottle on the bar.

  Cashel took his glass and turned to Durkin.

  “God bless you,” said Cashel and Durkin nodded and they drank the harsh amber whisky.

  After a second glass at the bar, they retired to a bench in the corner of the pub for a little talk. Durkin had been looking forward to it ever since the slow-moving policeman from Dublin had singled him out at the funeral Mass.

  “I was surprised,” said Cashel. “By the turnout, I mean. Quite a lot of people came.”

  “Ah, well, y’know what a funeral is t’a village like that. It is all in the family, as it were. We’re small and gettin’ smaller and like they says in the school, the death of any man diminishes me.” He took a sip of the whisky. “And diminishes the village, yer might say.”

  “Indeed,” said Cashel. “Indeed.” He had been born and reared in Dublin and considered the people of the west country as much foreigners as he might consider the wild highlanders living in the Scottish hills. Dubliners, he would tell his wife, were another race of Irish; the Irish poets who wrote in a tongue that other men could understand.

  “And there’s his Lairdship comin’ down. He’s a great man t’these parts. He’s English, y’know.”

  “I know.”

  “But no one holds that against him. It’s as though he wished he was not. He named his daughter Brianna, you know; is it not a beautiful name?”

  “It is that.”

  “Oh, aye. And his wife, God rest her soul, she died when I was a lad. D’you know she came from here? She was an O’Donnell, from Ennis.”

  “Ah, from Ennis.” Cashel knew how to keep an Irish conversation going.

  “Aye, Ennis. I’ve been to Ennis.”

  “A nice enough town.”

  “Well, a bit large for me. Not as large as Galway City, but large.”

  “Large,” agreed Cashel.

  They were silent for a moment as they sipped at their whisky.

  “But Lord Slough now we was speakin’ of. A good friend to the people here, if I may say so, sir. And a friend to Ireland.”

  “So it would seem,” said Cashel. He let the other man speak.

  “If there’s not twenty men from the village is workin’ on his estate, there’s not one. And good wages, too, as good as you’ve seen around this poor land.”

  “I understand that,” said Cashel. “Tell me, were those all village people at the funeral?”

  “Oh, aye. Certainly. Save for that English secretary, the one that works for his Lairdship. I think he’s from London but yer can’t tell by his bloody way of speakin’. He might be off the telly.”

  “Aye,” said Cashel. “Jeffries.”

  “Jeffries,” repeated Durkin. “But the rest were from the village.”

  Cashel seemed disappointed. He frowned and put his glass down.

  “Except fer the fella passin’ through.”

  “Passin’ through?”

  “Oh, aye. A fella. Down from Derry, he was, in Ulster. Down to Kerry, he’s goin’ to see his aunt. Derry to Kerry.”

  “And he went t’the funeral, did he?”

  “Oh, aye. I saw him there. D’ya not see him?”

  “Was it the fella with the black, glitterin’ eyes—”

  “Oh, aye. Now what eyes those are. Fer a speaker in the Dáil t’have.”

  “A powerful speaker, is he?”

  “Powerful, sir. He come into the village last night on the road, walkin’ down it was. And we drank last night and he told us good tales about the North. About the Protestants,” continued Durkin. “They’re a bad lot. I’ve never met one, but the stories he told me.”

  “Lord Slough is a Protestant,” said Cashel gently.

  “Oh, aye. But he has to be, don’t he? I mean, he’s English. But I meant I never met an Irishman who was like that.”

  “They’re Scots-Irish,” said Cashel.

  “Who are, sir?”

  “The Northern men. The Prods. Protestants. Scots and Irish.”

  “All mixed up, is it? That might explain it, then. The Scots are English, are they not? Well, then, perhaps they can’t help being Protestants any more than the English can. But the stories this fella told, about the way they treated the Catholics and then about the civil rights march. And y’know, he says he saw Bernadette Devlin speaking herself in Derry.”

  “Did he?”

  “As close to her as this,” said Durkin. “Oh, what stories. It was wonderful to hear him, sir.”

  “I wish I had heard him,” said Cashel. “Did he say his name, then?”

  “He did,” said Durkin. “Faolin, it was. Faolin.”

  “Faolin,” said Cashel. “I knew Faolins in Cork.”

  “Cork,” said Durkin with wonder, as though Cashel were speaking of Timbuktu. “I’ve been meaning to go to Cork someday.”

  Ca
shel smiled. “Can I buy ye another?”

  Durkin grinned with his young, toothless mouth. “I won’t say no t’a policeman from Dublin City.”

  “You better not,” said Cashel. He got up and brought the glasses to the bar and waited for them to be filled.

  Faolin, he thought.

  16

  CLARE

  Cashel could not sleep well in a strange bed. They had invited him to spend another night in the great house in the burren, but he had declined Lord Slough’s invitation with work as an excuse; if the truth were known, it was because he much preferred the company of young Durkin, the local garda, and the villagers to sitting again in the presence of Slough and his daughter.

  So he had bedded down at Durkin’s in the little cottage the garda shared with his mother. Cashel and Durkin had spent the evening drinking at the two public houses in the village and they had wandered home late, a little drunk, staggering up the blind-dark country road to the old white-walled cottage.

  There they had sat a while longer in front of the gentle, hypnotic turf fire, no longer talking of the funeral or of Deirdre or of Lord Slough. They spoke instead of ghosts and wee ones and of the times of the great emigrations to the United States after the Irish civil war. Durkin brought out the poteen—he explained he had seized it from an illegal still uncovered in the burren—and they sat and drank the powerful potato whisky, and ghosts came more easily to mind, ghosts and sadness and thoughts of times past, all conjured up in the thin wisps of smoke from the pungent turf fire.

  This morning Cashel’s head hurt, and when he opened his eyes, he realized he was not home in Dublin, safe in the old bed with his wife beside him. He wished he were there.

  It was no use; he could not sleep. He rose and shaved and dressed and finally walked out into the gloomy air of a Clare morning. The hills were shrouded in smoky fog blown in from the sea.

  The chill rouged his cheeks; he stretched and told himself he felt better; he breathed deep and then filled his pipe, bending his head to light it against the breeze blowing in from Galway Bay.

  He started down the road to Innisbally.

  The fields were dry and bare for winter, as though they had donned a severe dress for the season.