by Bill Granger
The American agent walked up the street, swinging his left leg before him. It was only a little tender now. The bruises were deep and they would color his flesh for a long time but the swelling was nearly all gone. He scarcely felt the pain when he stepped on the leg.
He paused at the little shrine set into the corner of a building; almost hidden. The streets were empty of traffic because it was Saturday morning and it was too early for the stores to open. The sullen sky sprinkled gray light over the shabby blocks of buildings. Toward this part of town, the Arabs settled and the men had their coffeehouses to meet in and the women had nothing but the hostile, wet climate and the frank stares of the Belgians who hated them. But now it was empty and the statue of the Mannekin-Pis smiled impishly on the world he pissed on.
Brussels has become a very sophisticated city and it is slightly embarrassed about the Mannekin-Pis, but the little naked boy with his paunchy baby fat and his perpetual bliss in pissing on the city from his fountain cannot be shut away. The story is that the city was saved from fire in medieval times by the little boy who pissed on the flames. It is a typical Belgian story because it mocks legends and heroes and times past and all that is sacred in the world.
A bell tolled in some church and a taxicab clattered over the uneven pavement on a side street. The streets were wet but it had not rained since just after midnight.
Cernan came down the hill toward the statue. His feet dragged and his button eyes focused on Devereaux from a long way off. When he got near, he did not look at the mocking statue above him.
“Your daughter is safe. She wants to go home.”
“Where is she?”
Devereaux turned from the statue. His face was the color of ashes. “Rita.”
“I have kept the bargain.”
“Where is she?”
“In a car, waiting.”
“And Miki?”
Cernan frowned at that. “Miki is not your concern.”
“I want him.”
“It is not your concern.”
“He has to be.”
“I ask you a question, Devereaux. What is the worth of Miki to you?”
“Nothing.”
“Is it so?”
“I can tell you what he is worth to other people,” Devereaux said. “To me, he was a little job. A little defection route that ran from Brussels to Zeebrugge and got hit along the way.”
“What would have happened to Miki if he had made his way to America?”
“He would have been milked,” Devereaux said.
“Of course.”
“That’s all.”
“You said I was the connection between Anna’s disappearance and Miki,” Cernan said.
Devereaux waited.
“Is it too much pain to walk a little way with me?” Cernan said.
“No,” Devereaux said. Slowly, down the shabby street, the two men strolled. They walked toward the center of the city. A police car cruised past and the policemen looked at them. For a long time, they did not speak. The street was cluttered with shops of stamp dealers and junk peddlers and little souvenir stands that sold statuettes of the Mannekin-Pis. This part of the city seemed full of odd, useless enterprises.
“I am the connection,” Cernan said. “They wish Miki dead because of all he knows. And for this, they kidnap Anna Jelinak because she is my daughter. Is she not harmed?”
“She is harmed, Cernan,” Devereaux said.
“How is she hurt?”
“In her mind,” Devereaux said. “She needs her father to talk to her.”
“Who does this to her?”
Devereaux said, “Who wants Miki dead?”
Cernan slapped his hands behind his back and walked like a policeman on patrol. His shoulders were hunched and he frowned instinctively, a frown to frighten schoolboys.
“She said her father was killed by the police long ago,” Devereaux said.
“Anna.” His voice was sad. “She is a child of dreams. How can I tell her in all those years when I would see Elena that I am her father? How can I talk to her when I am too much a coward to marry her mother? I was young in the Party and full of ideals then. I was part of the new country, the new revolution to sweep aside the caste of privilege. Were you ever so?”
Devereaux stopped. They stood at the window of a tearoom where people sat in the gloom of lush surroundings and ate delicate foods.
“Who wants you to kill Miki?”
“After you leave, I am made a visit by Colonel Ready. He wants this woman, your woman who loves you so much. I tell him he must get my daughter first. You see, I am not such a good person. I want something, I lie for it, I betray for it, it does not matter to me. I have so many ideals that I have no scruples. Do you understand me? I can see Anna from afar, I can see her stand by the Hradcany Castle, where they make a film, and I say to myself, ‘It’s all right, Cernan, you have done your best for your daughter. You have opened all the doors for her and given her privilege. If you can’t acknowledge her, well, that is just a little thing.’ It is no little thing, Devereaux.”
Devereaux saw the broken place inside the man. He decided to hurt Cernan, to make him give up Miki.
“When they had her,” Devereaux said, “they abused her. They took her clothes off and made photographs of her. She told me that much. She said no one in the world loved her. Then, after a while, she said that God loved her. I just listened to her, but she had to tell me. She said she was sure God loved her, even if God let bad things happen to her. That’s when she told me about the men who held her and made her take her clothes off.”
Cernan did not fight the tears.
He stood solid and alone and took the words like blows. But Devereaux was not through.
“I listened to her all night long, all across the ocean. We were the only two people in the passenger section. She had to tell me things. She said that she had a statue of the Infant of Prague and that she saw the statue weep for her. She told me about her father being killed by the police, she said the woman who said she was her mother was not her mother. She said her real mother would have loved her.”
“What do you want from me?”
Devereaux stopped at the cry from the man. The empty, shabby street around them seemed frozen in this time and place forever.
“I want Rita and I want Miki. I want to know about Colonel Ready.”
“I told him to go after Anna, the same I told you. He said he had many contacts in America. I didn’t trust you, I trusted no one. Except Gorkeho, who is now to be arrested. All the idealists get arrested finally, until there are no ideals left at all.”
“The man who wants to kill Miki took Anna and all the bad things that happened to her are because of him,” Devereaux said. His voice had no mercy for the other man. “When they came to take her, they killed the lady who had taken her in. She said she asked them not to kill her. One of them hit the woman with a sledgehammer and knocked her down. They took Anna down to a car and they waited for the last one left in the apartment. When he came downstairs and got in the car, she said she looked at his eyes and she knew that the woman was dead. She’s seen all this in the last four days.”
“You are a barbaric people. Americans kill and destroy and think nothing of it. Nothing is sacred to you, not even children,” Cernan said. His eyes glittered in the dull morning light because of the tears.
“Who is the barbarian? The father who does not tell his daughter who he is? The man who kills Miki for a corrupt master?”
“Proof,” Cernan said. “He said he wanted proof. He wanted Miki’s finger. He said to cut off Miki’s finger when I killed him.”
Cernan took the little jewelry box from his pocket and handed it to Devereaux.
Devereaux opened the box. The finger was waxy and the ruby ring was now too large for it.
“Miki is dead,” Devereaux said.
“So it appears,” Cernan said.
The two men looked at the finger in the box and Devereaux closed it and
handed it back to Cernan.
“The little girl is in a car in Brussels. Arrange for me to have Rita.”
“Rita is waiting,” Cernan said. “It is not so far to Zeebrugge. You know the way. You can be there in an hour. I think you know the way.”
Devereaux stared at Cernan. “This isn’t all, is it?”
“What is R Section?”
“It does not exist,” Devereaux said.
“Miki said he wanted to go out, that he did not trust CIA because CIA is involved in this matter. I said to him, ‘Why trust any of them?’ But he had to trust this agency. R Section. What is it?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t exist.”
Cernan put the box in his pocket. “I have proof now for Henkin of Miki’s death. The proof is all that is ever required. So it is in every bureaucracy. Go to Zeebrugge now, Devereaux, and when you see Rita Macklin, you make your signal and Anna is delivered to the embassy at Brussels.”
Cernan turned to go.
Devereaux spoke his name.
Cernan looked back. His face was drawn, empty.
“The little girl wants one person in the world who belongs to her,” he said. “I told her on the plane that her father was alive.”
“Why did you tell her?”
“Because she needed to know the truth. I told her that her father had been afraid for her for a long time and that now he wanted to tell her he loved her.”
Cernan made a small, wry smile. “I do not expect this of you, Devereaux.”
Devereaux did not speak.
“You said that if Rita Macklin is harmed, then you will kill Anna. It was not so, was it?”
Devereaux started at him with level, gray eyes. “Yes, Cernan. It was so. I would have killed her and then come to kill you. Don’t misjudge that. Even now, don’t misjudge that.”
The smile faded. Cernan thought a moment and shrugged, then stopped and turned back.
“You talk to her all night?”
“Yes. She fell asleep when the first light came near Ireland.”
“Then you tell me: this miracle. This was all an arrangement? Was this false, too?”
“I don’t know.”
“The men who kidnap her—”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she see a statue with tears?”
“She said she did.”
“I cannot understand.”
Devereaux said, “Neither can I.”
“It is too much for my years,” Cernan said.
“She said ‘God seized my soul.’ ”
Cernan was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness for the world. They stood apart on the sidewalk and it began to rain. They were creatures of sensibilities and they had too many years to carry around. Too many bad thoughts and bad deeds.
36
RUN
The North Sea was heaving and gray. It pounded the concrete walls of the harbor at Zeebrugge and moaned in front of the shuttered cottages and old hotels.
It was one hour by car from Brussels and the Mercedes-Benz had eaten the miles at a stately eighty-five miles an hour. The day was gray but the clouds scudded furiously across the sky. Now and then, sunlight shattered on the roadway.
Miki’s face was white with shock and pain. He sat in the backseat, next to Cernan. Rita Macklin sat in the front seat next to Karl. None of them spoke and it seemed odd to her not to hear Miki’s chatter. Miki’s left hand was wrapped in a bandage that Karl had fashioned.
She felt so tired. She stared at the grayness of the countryside and it exhausted her.
Cernan spoke once to her, in polite English: “You come to even give up your life for that man. Would that man do that for you?”
She had stared at him for a long time, and in the end she didn’t respond. What could she say? That she didn’t know?
She could explain that he loved her, that she knew it in her bones, but that when you asked her questions about him, she couldn’t answer them. He was always a stranger to her. His touch was always unexpected. When they made love, it was always for the first time. When he spoke her name, she knew it was the act of a lover, but all the other places in him were hidden. Hidden from her, perhaps hidden from himself as well.
Zeebrugge was the most savage place in the world this day. It was cold and the harbor entrance was filled with trucks and buses and cars, waiting for the next ferry to England.
The big gray car pulled down the road that ran along the beach side and Rita Macklin saw him, standing in the doorway of the café. He disappeared inside. Cernan said, “Now we wait a little while.”
They waited in the damp silence of the car. Now and then, Miki moaned. He rolled his eyes. His hand was swollen with pain.
“All right,” Cernan said to Karl.
Karl got out of the car and went into the café and made the call on the public phone. The embassy assured him the child was unharmed. He went to the window and nodded to Cernan.
“All right,” Cernan said with immense weariness. “Go now. He is waiting for you.”
She couldn’t believe it. She had adopted the guise of a prisoner killing time and now it was over. It seemed unbelievable for the gate to open.
She pushed the door open and felt the stiff wind slap her face.
She slammed the door and ran across the road to the café and he was standing in the doorway. She buried her face in his coat. She said his name.
Karl went back to the car.
The door opened again in the car and this time it was Miki who was shoved out. Miki stumbled, fell on the walk.
The Mercedes pulled away.
For a moment, Miki did not understand. Then he saw the American approach, the man who had tried to take him across once before. The American stood over him and helped him up.
“We finish the train journey now,” Devereaux said to Miki.
Mrs. Neumann and the director of National Security and the director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation sat in her office with the door closed for a long time. Hanley waited in his bare, windowless office down the corridor with the familiar feeling in his belly. He wanted to retch but that would only make him feel worse. He sat behind his desk and arranged pencils and waited. The whole bill was $112,560, not counting slush that would have to be used to pay Denisov. Devereaux never told him everything all at once.
It was just after four P.M., which meant it was night in Paris. Devereaux would be in Paris by now. He would be pumping it all out of Miki, not just the outline he had given Hanley on the telephone two hours ago.
Why did he have to take the Concorde back?
He liked to travel first class.
Why did he delay?
He wanted guarantees.
He would get them when he came home.
No. He would get them before he came home.
Didn’t he trust Hanley?
The question wasn’t answered; there was no need. Hanley had gone the extra mile for him, Hanley reminded him. Hanley’s neck was on the block, too. Hanley reminded him of loyalty and duty. Hanley realized it was pointless but it was something he had to do. When Hanley finished, Devereaux explained the guarantees he wanted. About the matter in Chicago and the illegal return of the little girl named Anna to her own country. History must be rewritten so that certain acts had never happened.
The telephone on Hanley’s desk buzzed.
He picked it up.
Mrs. Neumann said, “Come in.” Her voice was cold. She had not been pleased at all. She had told Hanley she was not pleased.
He knocked at the closed door of her office and then opened it. The director of the FBI was a thin, thoughtful man with sallow skin and dark hair. The National Security director was an Italian with an open face. He was so tough he did not have to look tough.
“Sit down,” Mrs. Neumann said.
The FBI director looked with curiosity at Hanley. Hanley sat up straight in the straight chair.
“You presented us with a problem,” the NSC director said.
“An
d an opportunity,” the FBI director said. “No one wants to cause this administration any harm, but some very strange things were done, very strange. We were interested in the domestic side, in the Hollywood connection and the skim going on at Atlantic City. We had no idea this was so much larger.”
Hanley said nothing.
The FBI director cleared his throat. “The problem is there was a crime committed in Chicago.”
“Which one?” Hanley said. The voice was civil but the question carried the edge of sarcasm that Mrs. Neumann knew. She glared at Hanley.
“Kidnapping. Four homicides. Was this sanctioned by Section?”
“Section does not sanction killing,” Mrs. Neumann said.
“Then I don’t see what we can do,” the NSC director said. He looked at Mrs. Neumann.
“Then you don’t want Miki, is that it?” Hanley said.
“I don’t think it’s a question of that,” FBI said.
“Do you want him or don’t you want him? He won’t bring him in, you know.”
“So what is he going to do then? Adopt him?” NSC said.
“Sanctions,” Hanley said.
“Well, if that’s—”
Hanley pursed his lips. They were willing to drop it, both of them. They really didn’t want a scandal thrown on their laps. He looked at Mrs. Neumann. He saw it in her eyes. She didn’t like it either. The two of them were most involved in this and they were going to drop it. Let him kill Miki or let Miki go, but they weren’t going to break the rules and regs to safe-conduct Devereaux back to the States. No sirree.
“There are no rules,” Hanley said. He said it to Mrs. Neumann. She looked at him with sad eyes. Understanding brings sadness, Hanley thought.
Hanley looked at the tough one. That would be the National Security Council director. He really had not made himself clear.
Hanley spoke. “The agent we speak of was involved because of a woman. A woman he lives with.” For once, he did not wrinkle his Protestant nose when he described their relationship. “The woman is a journalist. She is accredited with several publications.” He named a news-magazine, a prominent monthly magazine, and a newspaper on the Eastern seaboard.
The tough guy understood right away.
“Presumably, she is safe now?” His voice had dropped a notch. The John Law tone was missing.
