Code Name November

by Bill Granger

  She believed Devereaux.

  19

  SHANNON

  Devereaux and Cashel returned to Innisbally and found Durkin at his cottage. Cashel telephoned Dublin and was granted a four-man detail to guard Clare House and its occupants; Durkin was dispatched to Clare House in the meantime, until the guards arrived.

  Finally, in the semiprivacy of the kitchen of Durkin’s cottage, while Durkin’s mother sat in the front room knitting, Cashel and Devereaux went over Lord Slough’s schedule of the next few days for a clue as to when the terrorists would strike to kill him.

  “There’s the meeting in London tomorrow.…”

  “Anything outside Clare House is a possibility,” said Devereaux. “But what is the clearest chance?”

  “The meeting in London is private. It was arranged two weeks ago—”

  “Then strike it,” said Devereaux.

  “Why?”

  “It’s not logical to believe that an elaborate plan set up to assassinate Lord Slough would depend on chance.”

  “Your President Kennedy was killed in Dallas in such a moment—”

  Devereaux glanced up. “The motorcade through Dallas was known about for more than a month before the assassination.”

  “So you’d reason that only a long-standing commitment by Slough to be someplace at a particular time would be the most logical point of assassination?”

  “Yes. Tomorrow is Monday, he’ll be in London. What follows?”

  “Tuesday in Edinburgh. For a meeting with the editors of his Scottish Daily News in the morning.…”

  “Planned when?”

  “Two weeks ago, according to his secretary, Jeffries.…”

  “And then?”

  Cashel puffed his pipe and looked at his notes carefully. “Ah. He’s t’go to Glasgow in the afternoon t’attend a benefit match of the Celtics and Rangers. Ah, now that might be the place, indeed.”

  “Why?”

  Cashel glanced at him. “Football, man. At the stadium there, there’d be fifty thousand lunatics there, even on a Tuesday afternoon.”

  “What are the Celtics and Rangers?”

  “Football teams, man.” Cashel looked closely at Devereaux to see if he understood. “Y’call it soccer. The Celtics is the Catholic team, the Rangers is the Prods team.”

  Devereaux waited.

  “Glasgow is the most dangerous football city in the world,” Cashel went on. “Football is their religion, not to make it too strong. And the Catholics in Glasgow are for the Celtics and the Prods for the Rangers. And they’re playin’ a benefit exhibition, something t’do with cancer or such, and Lord Slough is involved in it and the Scottish Daily News is sponsoring the match—”

  “And that was set up—”

  “Months ago.”

  “Catholics and Protestants. Are there many Catholics in Glasgow?”

  “Oh, aye. Oh, it’s a mad city for football, too; just the crowd for an assassin.”

  Devereaux said, “And not far from Belfast.”

  Cashel nodded. “Not far from Belfast.”

  The place seemed logical; it seemed ideal; but why were so many involved in the plot? This should be the work of a lone gunman. Unless there was more to it.

  “And then?”

  But Cashel had gotten up from the table where they sat and gone to the window and looked out, puffing furiously on his pipe. “Glasgow,” he muttered. “The place for it. I suspected it.…”

  “And then?”

  “Oh. And then on to Liverpool for a banquet that night. The next morning, he launches the Brianna.”

  Devereaux shrugged. “What does that mean?”

  “I’m sorry. His hovercraft ship, Brianna. Named for his daughter, you met her. The first hovercraft service from England to Ireland.”

  “And what will he do?”

  “Jeffries says there’s t’be speeches; the Prime Minister of Britain is to be there. Less for the importance of the launching than for the importance of Lord Slough, I’d imagine.”

  Cashel did not notice Devereaux stiffen; the involuntary movement was so slight that he could be forgiven the oversight.

  “What will happen there?”

  “Really, very little. A very small, controlled crowd is expected. The newspapers say there’s very tight police security expected because they want no harm to the craft from some anti-Irish idiots. And then, because of the Prime Minister. Let’s see, Durkin might have the paper here.…” Cashel went to a newspaper on the sideboard and opened it. “The Irish Daily News, from Dublin, Friday’s editions. Here it is.”

  He began to read: “ ‘… launch… first hovercraft service… tight police security…’ Here it is: ‘Prime Minister of Great Britain and the Taoiseach of Eire will attend the launching ceremonies Wednesday and use the occasion for talks on mutual security problems, including containment of the provisional wing of the Irish Republican Army.’ ”

  He shoved the paper across the table.

  Devereaux seemed only to glance at it briefly and then dismiss it. “And after that?”

  “Not much. The hovercraft makes its first run to Dublin and Lord Slough is to be feted at a dinner in Dublin with members of the Dáil on Wednesday night. Then, late, he returns to Clare House for the remainder of the week.”

  “And when was this planned?”

  “Well, I gather everyone’s known about the hovercraft for months. Lord Slough’s papers have seen to that. But the actual date, December first, was only set a little more than a week ago, because of the delays in launch. They ran a series of trials on her—an interesting ship, Mr. Devereaux. Built in the Clyde, in Glasgow, but with components built in Dublin and Belfast.”

  “Détente?” joked Devereaux. “And it works?”

  Cashel smiled. “So they say. They built an apron for launching hovercraft in Liverpool some years ago, along the Mersey River, but there’s never been hovercraft service on the Irish Sea. It’s a dangerous sea.”

  “Everything Irish seems dangerous,” said Devereaux.

  Cashel frowned. “Does it now?”

  “But to get back to Lord Slough’s schedule. It seems the only event set up for months has been this soccer game in Glasgow.”

  “And your theory—”

  Devereaux stood up. “It has to be more than a theory. A complex assassination plot must count on a certain routine by the subject. You start from the premise of the assassination site and time and then work backwards, bringing in as many elements as you need to effect the assassination.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Cashel.

  Devereaux made a face and spread his hands. “Kennedy is to motorcade through Dallas on November twenty-second at eleven A.M. The final route announced takes him past the Texas School Book Depository.”

  Cashel frowned.

  “Those are the known facts. That’s the assassination place and time. Now, what do you need to effect the assassination? You choose your site, the Depository. So you need to make sure you can get entry. And you choose your weapons. And you bring in as many people into the conspiracy as you need—”

  “Are you sayin’ that this fella, this Oswald, didn’t act alone to—”

  Devereaux glared. “I’m saying nothing. I am offering an example of a known assassination. And of how, logically, it would be set up.”

  “So we figure on this fella, Faolin, setting up to kill Lord Slough in the Glasgow football stadium and…”

  Right, thought Devereaux. Pursue it backwards, from the stadium. Make yourself believe it will be in the stadium and bend all you know to fit the theory.

  “I’ll have to contact British Intelligence now,” said Cashel at last.

  “To protect Slough in Glasgow.”

  “And in Edinburgh that morning. They might try to get him en route.”

  “Yes, I suppose you must,” said Devereaux.

  Cashel gave him a warning look. “There’ll be no interference.”

  “None,” said Devereaux. “I h
ave to report to my own people.”

  “I can’t stop you.”

  “And get back home.”

  “It’s early in the afternoon. If ye was to get to Shannon in time, yer might catch the flight to New York—”

  “Is it near?”

  “Oh, sure. Not twenty miles from here.”

  “Well, then,” said Devereaux. “And you? You’re going back to Dublin?”

  “I wish I could. Perhaps tomorrow, when Lord Slough is off to London.”

  “Good luck, Cashel,” said Devereaux.

  “Good luck yerself,” said Cashel. “I’d stand y’ a jar but I think you have to hurry to catch your airplane.” And Cashel began to give Devereaux elaborate directions on the way to Ireland’s western airport.

  All the way to Shannon Airport, on the curious, twisting back roads of rural Clare County, Devereaux tried to categorize the information provided him by Cashel and to fit it with the information he had obtained from Denisov and O’Neill and Terry and the dead Hastings.

  Parts of it seemed to make sense and other parts did not; that was the way of information. He would have been content usually to merely dump it in Hanley’s lap and end the mission, but there had been complications this time. Elizabeth was a complication; the attempt on his life was a complication; and even the frightened face of Brianna Devon seemed to cause problems. Devereaux was accustomed to shadows, to assignments that demanded information and not involvement.

  He found Shannon Airport as it was getting dark.

  Parking the rental car in the space next to the terminal building, he got out and went to turn in the key. Next stop was the telephone booths, where the operator patched his call into a line to Washington, D.C.

  It was nearly two P.M. in Washington.

  After a long time, he heard the telephone ring at the other end; it rang four times before he heard the voice.

  “This is a caller sendin’ the charges to you, sir,” began the operator in a lilting voice. “From Mr. Thirty.”

  He heard Hanley mumble his acceptance and the operator went off the line. Hanley sounded drunk or sleepy. “Red Sky,” he muttered at last.

  “Have you found our man?” asked Devereaux.

  “Yes. We think so. But that can wait. Can you report? Where are you? Why did it take you so long?”

  “Did you ever try to find a telephone in Ireland on Sunday?”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line. “No. I suppose it’s difficult.”

  “Who’s our man?”

  “That can wait,” Hanley said again. “Can you report?”

  “Is your line clear?”

  “Yes.”

  Devereaux hesitated. He was sure the assassination attempt would come at the launch of the Brianna and he was glad that Cashel had not understood that. Cashel had not caught his analogy—that the site of the attempt would dictate the size and makeup of those making the attempt. Captain Donovan. Cashel had not connected that with the launch of the Brianna because the football-match site seemed easier to understand.

  “Well?” said Hanley.

  Devereaux’s own information was not complete. Complete enough for Hanley perhaps, but there was something wrong with it. He needed to know more. On the one hand, he wanted to be rid of Ireland and Lord Slough and the young woman who excited pity and tenderness in him; but it wasn’t ready yet, it wasn’t time.

  “It isn’t complete,” said Devereaux at last. “If I give it to you now, it will probably be enough for British Intelligence. For the special relationship you want to develop—”

  “Yes,” said Hanley. “Now that we know the CIA is funding the IRA.”

  “We’re not certain of that.”

  “But the Russians are. How do you suppose they know?”

  Devereaux thought of Denisov and the mild, saintly eyes behind the rimless glasses. “Perhaps they never sleep,” he said.

  Hanley said, “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t either,” said Devereaux. “I don’t understand the Russian game in this.”

  “Neither do I,” said Hanley. “Report, please.”

  And Devereaux began, in the familiar, slow, methodical way. There was information from Belfast and from Cashel and about the meeting with Lord Slough at Clare House.

  Hanley interrupted peevishly: “The mission was not to warn Lord Slough but to inform Brit Intell.”

  “Don’t say that anymore.”

  “What?”

  “Your goddam jargon. Don’t worry, Hanley. I’m not going soft. But there was no way around Cashel and I needed Cashel at the moment. Fortunately for your plans, Lord Slough is a self-designated hero. He is too brave to live.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Just inform goddam British Intelligence, if you want. But the information is not clear yet. I don’t understand all the parts of it. Especially about the attempt on Slough’s life. It seems certain that the second attempt will come this week because too much is surfacing, too many people know too much. And I suppose the assassination attempt in Canada has scared them into action. They’ll have to make their move soon.”

  “Oh, yes. We have information from Canada on the matter there.” Hanley had received it less than an hour before Devereaux’s telephone call. “This Toolin was paid by an expatriate Irish socialist group in Quebec province, providing money and arms for the IRA provos in Belfast—”

  “Lovely,” said Devereaux.

  “No one suggested that the IRA source was only the Langley firm.”

  “Only the Soviets suggest Langley was involved from the beginning,” cautioned Devereaux.

  “Yes. Well, Canadian police made several arrests. Apparently, the scheme was entirely hatched in Quebec, without the knowledge of the IRA, although that’s not clear. But that’s what the Canadians are saying.”

  “For whatever that’s worth.”

  “And they had the help of the French separatists terror group in Quebec—”

  “How convenient for Ottawa.”

  “That’s sarcasm,” Hanley said.

  “Yes.”

  “Now that you’ve warned Slough—”

  “I told you. He’s not a factor.” He thought of Brianna, of that innocent face frozen with an expectation of terror. “Cashel thinks the matter we spoke of will come up in Glasgow at the benefit football match of two Glaswegian teams on Tuesday afternoon.”

  “Yes?”

  “You can tell British Intelligence that.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  The lie now was difficult; Hanley understood lies. Hanley would understand Devereaux’s lie.

  “It is a logical assumption, given certain elements.”

  “But you’re not sure.”

  Hanley invited it: “Yes,” said Devereaux. “I’m not certain.” Which was almost true.

  “And you want more time.”

  “Twelve hours at least. It will still be time to contact British Intelligence.”

  “I wish you hadn’t warned Slough.”

  “What was I supposed to do, Hanley? Tell Cashel that warning Slough was not part of my mission? That we were playing a different game?”

  “There’s no need for—”

  “Yes there is. This was a minor mission. I was merely sent to ascertain what Hastings knew and how important it was. Hastings is killed; I’m set upon by double agents from the goddam CIA and a Soviet agent suddenly befriends me. I expose myself—to the CIA and to the Soviets and to the goddam Irish police. I’m supposed to be an intelligence agent, not a policeman. This is a straightforward bit of criminal activity on the part of the IRA—why not let the goddam Irish settle it? No, we can’t because we have to develop a relationship with British Intelligence. And at the same time, we have to screw the Langley firm. And Devereaux is supposed to do it.”

  “Yes,” said Hanley.

  A moment passed as the line crackled, empty of voices.

  “You’ve found our man?”

  Hanley began
slowly: “Yes. It was in the message you found on their agent in the Belfast hotel. We went back to the files and compared the information passed on to… to the competition about the mission. And we’re certain he’s the man.”

  “The competition. What an odd way to put it,” said Devereaux.

  “Yes. Well, we know who the opposition is. But the Langley firm hardly falls into that category.”

  Devereaux did not speak.

  “You are to plug the leak.”

  “Literally, I suppose,” said Devereaux.

  “Yes,” said Hanley. He sounded distracted.

  “Who is it?”

  “Green. In London.”

  Another pause.

  Devereaux stared at the telephone box. He thought of Elizabeth; he could clearly see her in that instant.

  He swallowed. “When did you crack the message? When did you know?”

  “About twelve hours ago.”

  Twelve hours. She had been afraid at the airport in Belfast. But it was a safe house. She had no reason to be afraid.

  “You waited twelve hours?”

  “Under the Old Man’s instructions,” said Hanley. “He didn’t want to give a signal to the competition. Until we were sure. He didn’t want Green to bolt.”

  “She’s been in Blake House since Friday. You’ve known that. And they know about her. Green has had that time to eliminate her.”

  “Yes,” said Hanley. “The Chief understood the risk. I explained it. An unavoidable risk.”

  Devereaux said, “But not for you. Not for the Chief.”

  “A risk either way for the Section.”

  “Goddam the Section,” said Devereaux.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t hear.”

  “Goddam you, Hanley, you bastard.”

  The line crackled in the silence of their voices, making them aware of the futility of words over a great distance.

  “I know,” Hanley said. “I can understand—”

  “You can’t understand. Because you’re a goddam little computer clerk working in a goddam D.C. office and this is a game to you—”

  “You’re supposed to go to London,” said Hanley. “As soon as possible.”

  “I told her it was safe. I gave my word.”

  “This is not a matter of giving one’s word,” said Hanley sharply. “This is not a little gentleman’s game.”