Code Name November

by Bill Granger

  “No, sir,” said Hanley doggedly. “He might think it is. Devereaux was a target of them, you know. And there’s something else. He’s sort of…”

  It was not usual for Hanley to fumble for words.

  The Old Man waited without prompting.

  When Hanley looked up, he seemed embarrassed. “Devereaux came in after… after Kennedy. After he was killed.”

  The Old Man knew that. He waited.

  “Well, sir. It’s difficult to say. He had some ideals then, though a lot’s gone by the board. But he understood why the Section was formed. As a check on the Langley firm. As an honest source of information, a fulcrum to move the other agencies to deal… sir, this sounds so foolish… but he really sees it all—”

  “Don’t tell me he has ideals.”

  “No, sir. I think he did once, but not now, sir. But he wouldn’t sell out, ever. And that means to the CIA.”

  There was silence. “Do you think we sold out, Hanley?” the old man asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you think that’s any concern of a field agent?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Devereaux has become a dangerous man,” the Old Man said at last. “Send a chaser.”

  “But we don’t know where he is.…”

  “Send Lupowitz from Brussels and Bardinella from Berlin and Krepps from Barcelona. I want three top chasers in London before noon. I want them to find Devereaux, Green, and this Campbell woman. I want them eliminated. And I want you to contact Henderson at the Langley office and set their men on it.”

  “Sir—”

  “For whatever reasons, Devereaux has disobeyed his instructions. He may even be a danger not only to us but to the country.”

  Hanley spoke up again. He was surprised by the vehemence in his voice. “Devereaux would not betray us.”

  Galloway looked at him mildly. “Unless he thought we had betrayed him.”

  23

  LONDON

  Devereaux had been careful in closing Blake House.

  He had made sure Green and the housekeeper were gone before he began. He started, of course, with the scrambler box. He carefully removed the cover and took out the hidden tape transmitter. A micro-tape spool was on it. Green had shown him the other micro-tapes, secreted in the closet of his bedroom behind a movable partition.

  Devereaux burned the code books in the fireplace in the library. The ordinary papers were burned as well. Finally, Devereaux dismantled the scrambler box and destroyed it, ripping apart transistor boards and wiring.

  He had closed down safe houses before. There had been one in Hué which he had closed down during the Tet offensive; that had been difficult. And there was the safe house in Saigon, at the end. He knew what to do, how not to leave a trace; so he worked carefully and let his mind think of other things, the way a jogger does not think of running as he runs.

  Devereaux was surprised by the first traces of morning scattering gray light across the face of winter London. The light came so gradually that when he noticed it, the houses across the street were clearly visible. Time to leave.

  Still he had not solved the problem of Elizabeth or Green. Or himself. By now, the housekeeper would have reported to Hanley, probably from the air terminal. Devereaux had disobeyed instructions; Devereaux had let a mole escape with his life; Devereaux was a danger to the Section because he was playing a separate game. He knew what they would say.

  Where was Elizabeth?

  He decided he could not find her; logically, the world was large and time was short. To save his own life, he had to stop the assassination of Lord Slough—and let the British know it. Somehow trade information for his life and force R Section to renege on its deal with the CIA. If there was a deal, of course—though Devereaux was as certain of that as he was certain the IRA intended to kill Lord Slough in Liverpool on Wednesday morning.

  Where is your proof? Hanley would say.

  Hanley never understood the business. He had no feel for it. There were never proofs. You trusted instincts to bridge the gaps in the information.

  One of the gang was named Donovan. He was a dock worker of some sort. He worked with ships. The only ship looming in Lord Slough’s immediate future was the Brianna. Somehow, they were connected. Devereaux had really explained it to Cashel but Cashel had not understood—you bring as many people into the conspiracy as needed to meet the problems of the site you have chosen. If Donovan was part of the gang, then Slough’s site had been chosen—a ship site, a waterfront, on a dock. Or at the launching of a ship.

  He could have given that to Hanley on Sunday night. But there had to be more to it. Why was the CIA involved in this? And why had the CIA risked exposing Operation Mirror to take him out in Ireland? To waste three agents to stop him—Blatchford, Johannsen, and Elizabeth? What was so important beyond Operation Mirror that the CIA was afraid Hastings had tumbled to its secret?

  All these thoughts—fragments of thoughts, fragments of questions—occupied him while he closed down Blake House. And when the job was done, he was no closer to any answers.

  If Green only knew how little Devereaux knew.

  If Green had any inkling of the danger in Devereaux’s incomplete plan. Well, it didn’t matter. It was the only thing that would save Devereaux’s life.

  Devereaux put the tape transmitter and several microtapes into a brown suitcase. Then he washed and shaved, using one of Green’s electric razors (inexplicably, he had two) and changed into one of Green’s handmade shirts. The fit was not particularly good, but the shirt was clean.

  By eight Monday morning Devereaux had deposited the brown suitcase in left-luggage at the Victoria Air Terminal, and had hopped a cab to the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square.

  The usual long line of people were waiting for visas. The line stretched down one side of the building. The line was always there, in good times and bad, at times of a sinking dollar and a rising dollar, at times of oil crisis or war or peace; it was always full of the hopeful who wanted to go to America for a visit or for work or to emigrate.

  Devereaux went around the block to the side entrance of the immense building. The Great Seal of the United States, etched in stone, was above him.

  At the desk in the lobby, he asked for Mr. Ruckles. With the Central Intelligence Agency.

  “Who is calling?” the clerk asked.

  “Mr. Devereaux,” he said.

  He did not have to wait long; in a very short while, a man came into the lobby and walked over to him and extended his hand. The man was tall, thin, and relaxed. He smiled.

  “Mr. Devereaux. It is really Mr. Devereaux?”

  Devereaux did not take the extended hand and the other man let his drop naturally. He did not seem embarrassed.

  “Ruckles.” Devereaux’s voice was not polite.

  “What can I do for you?” Ruckles asked. Still pleasant, still smiling.

  “Green is safe.”

  The lobby was crowded; workers poured into the entrance… Americans with briefcases, English girls with bright lipstick and wide eyes. The lobby was noisy and voices boomed.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “You’re blown, Ruckles.” Devereaux spoke evenly, watching the Virginian for the slightest movement. There was none.

  “I still don’t—”

  “You’re a dead man, for one. I have the micro-tapes, the tape transmitter. I have Green. I don’t give a fuck what kind of sleazy deal your masters have worked out with R Section. I’m playing my own game now. I have hard proof, a lawyer’s proof. And when the fan gets hit, and your company has to do a little cleaning, I don’t see how they can let you live. I really don’t. Unless they transfer you. Maybe to Tierra del Fuego. Did you know that the CIA keeps a man there, right at the bottom of the world. They might cool you off down there until you can get back home—in four or five years.”

  Ruckles smiled. “Sorry, old stick. Can you tell me what this is all about?”

  “The man on
the rock… down at the bottom of the world… he reports on shipping going around the cape. Mostly oil freighters. It’s not too demanding.”

  “If you’d—”

  “So long, Ruckles. Old stick.”

  Without a word further, Devereaux turned and started out the lobby. He pushed through the doorway and went down the stone steps to the sidewalk and ran across the street. For a moment, he glanced in the window of a shuttered pub and saw Ruckles behind him, dodging through the traffic across the street.

  It was working.

  The point was to make it somewhat difficult for Ruckles to follow him without actually losing the CIA man.

  He reckoned Ruckles was very good at what he did.

  Devereaux suddenly hailed a cab and climbed inside and ordered the driver to Piccadilly Circus.

  The cab joined the tail-end morning rush traffic on Regent Street which inched its way finally into the Circus.

  “Go all the way around and come back up Regent to Oxford Circus and let me out,” said Devereaux. The driver shrugged; Americans were a daft lot when it came to throwing their money away.

  As the black cab circled the Circus, Devereaux looked behind him, but, in the welter of traffic, he could not be certain Ruckles was following him.

  At Oxford Circus, Devereaux jumped from the cab ran down the steps to the London underground.

  The ancient subway had a dull, damp odor of age and human neglect.

  Devereaux glanced for a moment at the scheme of the London underground on a map on a subway wall.

  A light blue line indicated the route of the Victoria Line, which intersected Oxford station and went on to Euston railroad station.

  Euston Station had trains for Liverpool.

  While he studied the map, he was aware of a man standing at the other end of the platform. He did not turn around to look at him; he was sure it was Ruckles.

  A Victoria Line train rushed into Oxford station and stopped. Without hesitation, Devereaux climbed aboard; he didn’t want Ruckles to miss the train either.

  The doors rolled shut and the train plunged into the narrow, black tunnel that led northeast through the Bloomsbury district towards St. Pancras and Euston stations. The old cars rattled and Devereaux stood by the door, pretending to be immersed in the car cards along the windows advertising marriage services and temporary-help firms.

  At Euston Station, the doors opened and Devereaux emerged; slowly, he climbed the steps to the street and then entered Euston terminal. He needed a public place that contained a large public washroom. He needed Ruckles to think he was about to bolt.

  The time was 10:24 A.M.

  Seven minutes earlier, Elizabeth Campbell and the man she knew as Mr. Dennis of British Intelligence sat in a first-class compartment of the Liverpool Express as it began to inch its way out of Euston Station, heading northwest for the port city.

  Mr. Dennis had been convincing.

  He had displayed his identity card, which said he was a duly authorized representative of Her Majesty’s government. Of course, it did not say “Secret Service” or “British Intelligence” merely “Ministry of Internal Affairs (Extraordinary).” Which, Elizabeth knew, was the current code name for the old MI5.

  Dennis had also been convincing when he explained the seriousness of her situation.

  When they were in the buffet, sipping tea, Mr. Dennis had said she was wanted for murder in Britain. He was aware of her activities in Belfast and that she had murdered—or helped murder—an American agent named Johannsen in the Royal Avenue Hotel there. Two murders.

  She listened to his voice, which was as mild as his words were harsh.

  And there was now, he added, a plot against her life. One set up by Devereaux and this R Section.

  No, don’t protest; he was also aware of her involvement in the CIA. In short, Mr. Dennis and British Intelligence knew everything about her. She had been watched from the moment she arrived in London on Friday night; she had been observed in the week before, first in London and then in Belfast.

  They knew about her and about Devereaux.

  And now they knew that the CIA and R Section had reached an agreement to cooperate and that R Section had convinced the CIA to shut down Operation Mirror. In exchange, she and Green were to be killed. Green was already dead, and both agencies were looking for her.

  Denisov watched Elizabeth. She seemed to tremble but she did not look away from him. He thought she was brave.

  “Miss Campbell. Elizabeth. It is now a matter of your survival that interests us.”

  She looked into the mild, blue eyes for a sign of a lie. But didn’t Devereaux say that eyes do not betray the truth or the lie?

  Devereaux would know. She had looked into his gray eyes and trusted what she saw. Until the moment the Englishwoman tried to kill her on a railway carriage in Victoria Station.

  She didn’t trust Dennis either. But there seemed no other way to survive. And she would survive.

  “What should I do, then?”

  “Miss Campbell,” said Mr. Dennis. “There is a way out.”

  She put down her teacup. “I suspected there was.”

  Denisov smiled and removed his glasses and wiped them on his tie. “There is always a way. You see, Miss Campbell, we are aware of many things you do not know. Even you. And one is that your CIA intends to murder one of our prominent citizens.”

  “Who?”

  “Lord Slough. He is the cousin of the Queen. And he is to be killed by the CIA.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know,” said Denisov. “That is what is puzzling to put the pieces together.”

  “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “I said it wrong. That is what the puzzle is. The pieces are not all apparent.”

  “Your English…” She didn’t finish.

  He smiled and spread his hands in a shrug. “I am not the speaker as well as I could be. You see, I am Czech by birth, though I am an English citizen now. I returned to England in 1968. After Dubcek was thrown out in my first country. Now I am an Englishman.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

  He smiled again. “No, it is correct. I must improve my English and you can help me. Don’t be afraid to be correct.”

  She didn’t smile. She was puzzled still. “What do you want?”

  “I want to know what the CIA knows. When Lord Slough is to be killed. And where.”

  “How can I—”

  “Lord Slough is to be in Glasgow tomorrow for a football match. Do you think they will kill him there?”

  “I don’t—”

  But Denisov interrupted. “No. I say no. But maybe it is yes. I say no but my… my superior says yes. So we must go to Glasgow and see. I think it wastes time but we must do what we are told. Eh?”

  She was silent.

  “I think they will kill Lord Slough on Wednesday in Liverpool. Do you know Liverpool?”

  “No,” she said. He watched her for a moment.

  “A very nice city,” said Denisov. “Not lovely like Edinburgh but nice with other things. With, with… life. Life. It is alive. It is also, unfortunately, where I think Lord Slough will die. Unless you can help me.”

  “Why?”

  “But that’s apparent,” said Denisov. “If you help me, I will help you. We are friends with the CIA, even with R Section. We can stop the hunt. For you. And give you safety.”

  There was the word again. Safe. She wanted to be safe.

  “I can’t help—”

  “No, no, you must. Do not let loyalty to your nation betray you. This is not for your country, this thing that the CIA wants to do. This is a bad thing. They want to kill Lord Slough because the IRA is their puppet. It is not for America. It is for the IRA.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “Elizabeth. You must know now that Devereaux went to Ireland for some reason. He went to find out the connection between the IRA and the CIA. The CIA is funding the Irish rebels. He thought you knew t
hat—you know he questioned you about it.”

  She nodded; this man seemed to know everything. She was frightened by him, by his nonthreatening manner and his gentle voice.

  “Good,” said Denisov. “A true answer. Now, we know that the CIA funds the rebels but we do not know to what extent.” He waited for her to accept the story but her face was expressionless. “The IRA has seriously weakened us, I admit. They command the British military budget, they have nearly destroyed the economy of Ulster, and they have created a chasm between England and the Republic… and that becomes more serious as the Republic grows economically. Do you see? And there is the problem the IRA causes us in the United States, among your Irish citizens. Britain is the old friend of America and it always is so. But the IRA clouds everything, even old friendships and mutual interests.”

  “So why is the CIA funding the IRA?”

  “I don’t know,” said Denisov.

  “It’s too absurd,” said Elizabeth.

  “Nothing is too absurd if it is the truth.”

  “And you want me to go to Liverpool and do what? Or is it Glasgow?”

  “Liverpool,” said Denisov. “On Wednesday. Glasgow, for the sake of safety—in case my superior is correct, which I doubt—on Tuesday. To help us in our security. You know the CIA. You know your CIA men. You know the people from Free The Prisoners—yes, don’t protest, we know that is a CIA front group—and we want your help in looking for them. If they are there. You will tell us and we will be able to protect Lord Slough.”

  “And what do I get?”

  “Assurance of safety,” said Denisov. “We will take the CIA assassin and trade him back to the CIA for their cooperation with us in destroying the funding for the IRA. And for letting you live.”

  “It seems generous.”

  “We are a generous people,” said Denisov. “You are not helping an enemy, Miss Campbell. You are helping a friendly nation.”

  “But if I don’t spot them. There’ll be crowds.… If I don’t see them before it’s too late?”

  Denisov permitted himself a frown. “Then, Elizabeth, you will be on your own. As you are now. I offer you a chance, nothing more. But it is a good chance.”

  “But why do they want to kill Slough?”