Code Name November

by Bill Granger

  “And they killed her.”

  “No. No. That’s the part that made them end the operation. I don’t understand it; they called me an hour ago.” He looked at his watch. “They waited until eleven to call me. But she must have gotten away right away. They knew that.”

  “They didn’t kill her.”

  Devereaux repeated it flatly, not as a question.

  “No,” said Green. He grinned. He looked like a child. “She turned the tables on them. They said she killed their agent. I don’t know how. And she got away. They’re closing down the operation.”

  “The ghost Section?”

  “It was called Operation Mirror. To root out the traitors in R Section who had been disloyal to the nation.”

  “And you were their man.”

  Green looked up at the shadow in the doorway; his eyes had tears in them. “I had to. It was for my country. I had to work for them because they explained it to me, about you. You were a traitor in Vietnam; you worked for the opposition. And there was Hanley, he suppressed the Cuban report I prepared. Oh, they proved they were under the orders of the President. My country needed me and now they’ve left me to you to kill me. Mirror has failed and they’re letting the traitors live and the men who were loyal… they’re letting them die. I don’t understand it.”

  Devereaux waited.

  “Traitor,” Green suddenly cried at last. “You traitor! I served the company. I served them; I told them what I saw, what I heard. I had the transmitter tape in the scrambler and we got everything, everything you said, everything they all said, all the scheming.”

  Green got up and went to the sideboard and poured vodka on top of the remains of the warm mix left in the glass. He gulped it, like a dog drinking water on a hot day. He set the glass down hard and turned to Devereaux.

  “I was an agent. I was one of them.” He said it with defiance. “Kill me then, because I can stand to die for my country.”

  “Where is she?”

  The calm voice was counterpoint to the ringing declaration, like a cough in the middle of a speech.

  “The housekeeper? I don’t know. She’s one of yours, you know. She didn’t know a thing; I hate her and her odious breath and her stupid cow face.”

  “Where’s Elizabeth?”

  “I don’t know. They don’t know. She killed the hit man sent after her. You see how it was; you weren’t on the four o’clock train and she expected you.”

  “Who is your contact? At the company?”

  “I won’t betray my country.”

  “They have abandoned you.”

  “I won’t betray them.”

  Devereaux waited in the darkness. The rain did not cease; the clock ticked on; there were a thousand little noises and sounds in the silence.

  “You won’t make me betray them.”

  Devereaux spoke again, softly: “Green, listen to me. The CIA wasn’t after traitors. They only wanted to destroy the Section and they used you. They killed our real agents and they put the Soviets onto us so that eventually, no one would trust R Section and we would be destroyed.”

  “Why don’t you come into the light?”

  “You were the traitor, Green.”

  “But I’m not a traitor. How can I betray an agency to an agency? This is the same side, the same country.”

  “Why didn’t they take you in, then? They’ve left you. You said they left you. If it was in the interest of the nation, why didn’t they take you in?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Again silence. Green sat down and stared at the gun and then put a hand over his eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “They’re not gathering information; they’re making murder. They killed Hastings in Edinburgh; they tried twice to kill Elizabeth, once in Belfast and once here. They tried to kill me. And they expect me to kill you, Green. They left you; do you think they would have left you outside if it had been on the square?”

  Suddenly, tears formed at the corners of Green’s eyes. He reached for the glass of vodka and knocked it onto the carpet.

  Devereaux stepped into the room and put the gun in his belt, under his jacket. Green stared at him. “We are not traitors,” Devereaux said gently.

  “My God,” Green sobbed. “My God. I’ve made a mess.”

  “Yes.”

  “It wasn’t real, was it?”

  “No. It was an agency game. Agency to agency. And you were used.”

  “Those men dead.”

  “They’re not important.”

  Green wanted to cry in the presence of the calm, certain man. He wasn’t going to die.

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “Where is Elizabeth?”

  “I thought you were going to kill me,” Green babbled.

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know. I sent her to be killed. How could I do that? Was I crazy? There’s a tape transmitter in the scrambler, I—”

  “I know. We’ll get it later. Who is your contact?”

  Green looked up. The winter face was so kind, the voice so gentle. Perhaps he was forgiven. “Ruckles.”

  “Ruckles?”

  “With the CIA at the embassy in Grosvenor Square. I’ll tell you—” And Green began to tell about Operation Mirror.

  Devereaux listened without a word, prompting only when Green faltered. Green wandered in his explanation but he eventually revealed it all.

  And Devereaux watched him. Because he intended to kill him when the explanation was finished. At first.

  But the glimmer of a plan began forming as he heard Green’s words. Green was a coward and a traitor, a fool, but he was invaluable now. The CIA had revealed too much to Green in order to recruit him, and now he was useful, not to the Section but to Devereaux. And so, Green saved his life while he narrated the events that led to Operation Mirror.

  When Green finished, Devereaux sat and waited for a long time.

  “Green,” he began. “They did send me to kill you, not to get information.”

  Green shuddered.

  “But I am not going to kill you. Now, listen to me carefully: They both want you dead now. Both the Section and the CIA. And there’s no way now you can come inside. Unless you do as I say.”

  “The CIA? Why—”

  “Don’t be a fool, Green. You’re a liability to them. Ruckles warned you to make you run, so that if we had any doubts, we would eliminate you anyway. And he warned you to get rid of that bit of incriminating evidence in the scrambler box. The CIA doesn’t want anyone to know—to have proof of—another one of their sleazy little operations, this time against another government agency. So they really don’t want you around.”

  “But the Section?”

  “You were part of them. You’re a traitor to us. And I’m not convinced now the Section really intends to move against the CIA with what it knows.”

  Green shook his head. “I don’t follow—”

  “I do,” said Devereaux. “Now I do. R Section could have sent any of a half dozen men from Europe when they knew you were the traitor. And one of them would have killed you and saved Elizabeth. But they didn’t care if she was wasted; they would have cared if they had wanted to use her information to discredit the CIA. I suspect they’ve already made an accommodation with the CIA—leave us alone and we’ll leave you alone. That’s why I suspect Operation Mirror has suddenly been scrapped.”

  “And you won’t kill me.”

  “No. As long as you do as I say. Because it’s the only way you’re going to survive.” And, he did not add, the only way Elizabeth would survive if he could find her. Perhaps the only way Devereaux would survive—did Hanley even now have plans against him? A field agent was not terribly important when you placed his life against the life of the Section. An accommodation with the CIA would serve the Section well in the next few years.

  “I want you to work your way to Liverpool. I want you to be in Liverpool Tuesday night, in the Lime Street railroad station, at nine P.M.”
/>   “Why?”

  Because you are part of a surprise. “Because it is the plan,” said Devereaux.

  “All right,” said Green.

  “Pack a small bag. Now. And get out of London tonight. Hire a cab to Windsor and take the train from Windsor to Cambridge. Spend a day there, at least. And then take public transport to Liverpool. Don’t drive, don’t rent a car. And travel as though the world wanted you dead. Because they do.”

  “But why?”

  “Because both agencies will be looking for you. To kill you. And for all I know, your friends at the CIA may even pin that murder of their hit man on you. So get the hell out now.”

  “And at Lime Street?”

  “I’ll be there. Wait in the buffet. There’s always a buffet in a train station.”

  He had met Hastings in the buffet at Edinburgh Central Station. It seemed such a long time ago.

  “And if you’re not there?”

  Devereaux looked at him coldly. “I’m the only chance you have, Green. If I’m not there, you’re a dead man. And if I’m there and you don’t show up, then you’re dead. Do you understand that? If you skip, I’ll find you or the Agency will find you or the Section will find you, anywhere you go in the world. And they’ll kill you. You can’t make any more deals, Green; you have to let me handle it.”

  “I will, I will,” Green said. “I don’t want to die.”

  Devereaux thought again about him and about Elizabeth; he would have been happy to kill Green then.

  “And the house?” Green asked.

  “I’m taking care of it. I’m closing Blake House.” He paused. “It isn’t safe anymore.”

  Elizabeth cleaned up in the ladies’ room at Victoria Station and took the Circle Line tube underground to Paddington Station on the north side of Kensington Gardens. The area was one with quiet flats and inexpensive hotels. She had first stayed there when she came to London twelve years before as a student spending a “summer in Europe.” It was the only place she could think of to go to.

  By accident, she found the hotel she had first stayed in; she felt a little wave of nostalgia for it and for her schoolgirl self. But there were the usual disappointments: The hotel sported a new lounge and had suspicious new owners who demanded three days’ rent in advance and surrender of her passport.

  She locked herself in her room and removed her soiled, blood-spattered clothes. The raincoat was unmarked; she had stolen it from a parcel on the luggage rack inside the station. It didn’t fit her very well; but the hideously bloodstained raincoat she had worn on the train had to be thrown away.

  She washed in the basin and then sat down on the bed and counted her money. Three hundred and twelve pounds to get away.

  Taking the picture of her son out of the billfold, she looked at it. And she thought of Devereaux. He had returned the picture to her; he had not given it back, merely put it back on the dresser. She looked at the face of the little boy and the face of her younger self. Photographs broke your heart because they so clearly conjured up the past.

  She had to leave London but she felt so tired, so weak. She had fashioned a crude bandage around the wound on her arm with her scarf. The cut had stopped bleeding but her arm felt numb; it was bruised black.

  How could she get away? She only wanted to sleep, sleep away the pain and the hideous face of the Englishwoman. Would she dream of her if she slept?

  Would the police be looking for her?

  The CIA wanted her dead. She understood that. And now Devereaux had tried to kill her. There was no place inside. She must contact her ex-husband—but what could he do for her? And where was he? And how could she get to him?

  He had known Hanley. Or what she understood now was the “ghost” Hanley. Was he part of the CIA as well? Would he betray her? What did he owe her?

  A wave of self-pity threatened to overwhelm her.

  No. She wouldn’t let it happen; she would survive. Somehow.

  After a little while, she dressed again, buttoning the overlarge raincoat. She needed clothing and she was hungry.

  She found a street with lights and went into a little bright fish-and-chips shop that bore the sign: Frying Tonight. Inside, she stood in line with the other shabby people, waiting for the plaice and chips wrapped in newsprint. She went outside then and ate greedily until it was all gone, then walked on. Paddington Station’s immense bulk loomed ahead in the next block. It began to rain.

  Tomorrow morning, she would get clothes.

  Tomorrow, she would leave London. If no place was safe for her, then she could go anyplace. Was she so important they would look for her forever? She only needed time.

  She hurried back through the rain to the little hotel.

  The thought of sleep, of finding safety, lightened her step. She did not even notice the man across the street, watching her enter the hotel.

  21

  LIVERPOOL

  Faolin found the flat off Lightbody Street, near the Nelson dock, with some trouble. He had never been there before because Parnell had never let any of them see his living quarters.

  It was nine A.M. on Monday, forty-nine hours until the launch of the Brianna.

  With the exception of Donovan, who was working at the hovercraft apron on the waterfront some three miles down the river Mersey from there, the group was supposed to converge at 9:15 A.M. in Parnell’s flat.

  As usual, Faolin would be late, a lateness bred by his own impatience in waiting for others and by inherent caution. A caution he had betrayed once before, on Saturday, at the funeral of Deirdre Monahan.

  Faolin was on edge as he walked slowly around the block containing Parnell’s flat. He looked everywhere with little darting glances, but there was nothing to see: merely Liverpool on a Monday morning, coming to a new week and a new day with the usual displays of life.

  He shouldn’t have gone to Innisbally.

  He was certain the policeman there spotted him as a stranger.

  Madness.

  He bumped into a child rushing out from between two buildings from a narrow mews.

  “Hey, me lad,” he said.

  “Argh,” the child cried, pushing away, “fug off.” And he ran down the street.

  Not madness, really. Perhaps he understood that he would be observed at the funeral and that there would be no turning back from his purpose then, that there would never be sanctuary for him again in Ireland after they seized the Brianna.

  Which was another reason to destroy it and to destroy them all. An act of martyrdom, of incredible bravery. The policeman who’d been in the crowded church would remember Faolin after it was over; he would say he had seen Faolin, been this close to him, watched him as Faolin watched Lord Slough. At a funeral Mass.

  Around a final street corner, back to Parnell’s flat. It all looked safe enough.

  Would the copper say anything? Would he be too embarrassed to speak? That he could have prevented the coming carnage if he had seized Faolin in that simple country church?

  Faolin chuckled. A piece of newspaper blew up the street and wrapped itself around his leg. He kicked it away.

  Perhaps he should send a letter to the London Times. Or the Irish Times. Or both. Post it tomorrow, Tuesday, when it would be too late; explain the act, explain the suffering of the Irish people at the hands of English lords and English politicians and Irish who worked hand in glove with their English masters.

  None of them had contacted Parnell since the last meeting the week before. Parnell was a Liverpool policeman, big and quiet and slow-moving.

  He had been part of the movement for six years.

  Since the night British soldiers in Belfast mistook his young brother for an IRA gunman who had opened fire on them while they patrolled the Shankhill road.

  They had killed him. Nineteen bullets were in his body when they ceased shooting.

  Of course, it had been an error; there were apologies to Police Constable Parnell of the Liverpool police and there were reprimands for the frightened yo
ung soldiers, who swore they had seen a flash of gunfire and heard the whine of bullets in the air.

  But his brother was dead and that was what had mattered to him. The movement was more than revenge; though Parnell was Irish, an Ulsterman, Catholic, and he nursed a grudge against the English handed down, father to son, for generations.

  For the past six years, he merely passed along information that fell to him as a policeman. Of course, there was money, too; he had made it clear that money was not the cause of his betrayal but it was part of the price of the risk he took for the IRA.

  Now this was the first job he had taken part in; the risk, they told him, was nil.

  That was a lie, of course, and Parnell understood it; but Faolin had needed him as surely as he had needed Captain Donovan to take over the craft after they hijacked it.

  Faolin nodded to Parnell as he entered the bare little flat. Tatty was already there, sitting on the sofa.

  Parnell, who had worked the night shift Sunday, was still in uniform with his blouse unbuttoned. He held a bottle of Guinness in his hand.

  “Yer late, Faolin,” said Tatty at last when the door was closed.

  “I am,” said Faolin. He went to the remaining empty chair in the sitting room and took it.

  “It’s a beauty,” Tatty said.

  “Then you’ve seen it?” Faolin asked.

  “It ought to be a beauty. It’s a real uniform.” Parnell punctuated his statement with a belch.

  Faolin got up and went to the package on the floor beside the low couch where Tatty sat. The blue uniform was neatly packed.

  “Everything’ll fit then?” said Faolin.

  “You’ll make a smashin’ copper, Faolin,” answered Parnell.

  “Oh, aye. You’ve the stern look of the law about ye,” said Tatty, smiling.

  “Aye,” said Faolin and he returned to his chair again. He sat down and lit a cigarette and then got up and went to the window. He looked down on the empty street. In the distance, he could see the Lever towers on the docks of the river.

  “Let’s go over it again, then,” he said at last and turned from the window.

  Parnell, as a member of the special color guard, was assigned to attend the launch of the Brianna on Wednesday morning from the dock in the Aigburth Vale section, downriver from were they now sat.