“Because I like you.”
“You didn’t like me in Saigon.”
Denisov did not stop smiling. “Saigon was different. There were different reasons in Saigon. We could not be friends there. We can be friends now.”
“Détente.”
“Exactly. We have the same interest in this, believe me.”
He began again, as though he were the interrogator: “Who is Blatchford?”
Denisov said, “An American. I thought you knew him.”
“What happened?”
“He was behind you in a shot in the dark. I saw his hands. He was going to garrote you. I was not prepared for that, if I must tell you. There was nothing to do.”
“So you did nothing.”
“No. I mean. Another choice. There was no other choice. So I eliminated him.”
“How?”
“Professional secret.”
It was maddening. But Devereaux pursued it. “Who was Blatchford?”
“An American.”
“Why are you here?”
“To help you.”
“Really? Who was Blatchford?”
Denisov got up and went to the window. He looked out. “It is raining,” he said.
“It is always raining,” said Devereaux. He waited. Denisov seemed to reflect on the rain beyond the window.
“I thought I knew who he was,” he said at last.
Devereaux waited.
“In his wallet, he carries a card from the Department of Agriculture of the United States. Do you know what the card says on it?”
Devereaux said, “Devereaux.”
Denisov looked shocked. “You did know him.”
“A lucky guess.”
“No—”
“And what else?”
“Oh, things to carry in a pocketbook. A picture of a woman and a children.”
“Not ‘a’ children.”
“I’m sorry. And an American Express card, also with your name on it—”
Paid up, I’ll bet, thought Devereaux.
“And a great deal of money.”
“Feel free to keep it, there’s more where that came from.”
“I shall,” said Denisov solemnly.
“Buy yourself a good meal.”
They fell then into a listless silence, each warily imagining what the other would say, would want.
“Denisov. why are you here?”
“On holiday.”
“I see. It’s going to be like that.”
Denisov frowned. “No, not like that. I will start again. I am here to observe.”
“What?”
“The strange behavior of the American people.”
“You could have done that better in Columbus, Ohio, for example. Or Peoria.”
“I would like to go to Peoria, Illinois. I have heard about it.”
Devereaux tried to sit up, but felt dizzy. Somewhere, beyond the window, a boat called through the mist.
“Why are you here?” asked Denisov.
“Agricultural survey. To see if you can grow tomatoes and bombs in the same garden.”
“We have to trust each other.”
“No we don’t.”
“Our position is delicate.”
“Not our position, white man.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.” And he didn’t. Did not understand Denisov or Blatchford or the attempt on his life. Was Blatchford sent by Hanley to eliminate him? Who knew he was here? Except everyone?
“I will begin. Blatchford was not what he seemed.”
“You mean he was not me? I realized that immediately.”
Denisov frowned. “I am trying to be serious.”
“Be serious.”
“Blatchford was with your government. Why does your government wish to kill you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I voted wrong in the last election.” Devereaux suddenly felt giddy with life. He was alive, he was not dead. Denisov was there. An old enemy. Almost as good as a friend. He tried to sit up again and made it. He smiled to himself.
“Joke,” said Denisov. “Don’t tell a joke. Be serious.”
“I am.” He thought a moment. “Let me see the American Express card.”
Denisov got up and went to the desk. He came back with the card.
The card bore Devereaux’s name. And the right expiration date. He said, “Get my wallet. In the coat, there.”
Denisov brought it.
His card. The same. The same account number.
“It wasn’t Hanley’s fault,” he said.
“What?”
“Nothing. The card is the same as mine—”
“That is not impossible.”
“Nothing is. Can I see the rest of Blatchford’s wallet?”
Denisov put the contents on the coverlet of the bed. Devereaux picked them up.
The card from the Department of Agriculture.
A press accreditation from Central Press Service, made out to Devereaux. But the picture was another man, a younger man, with sandy hair and light features. The dead Blatchford.
He picked up the other cards.
Visa card. Made out to Devereaux. He knew it would be the same as his.
The carbon receipt of an airline ticket. Edinburgh to Belfast.
And the pictures.
A woman and a child standing in front of a suburban home. A Weber grill smoking in the corner of the picture. Sunlight. The child — a boy — grins into the sunlight.
He stared at the picture.
Denisov stared at him. “What do you see, Devereaux?”
He did not answer.
The woman was Elizabeth.
At that precise moment, in Hamburg, a young man with light red hair named Michael Pendurst stood in the doorway of a hotel he occupied while a man with a cigarette tried to light it against the wind.
Michael Pendurst offered him a match.
“Danke,” the man said.
“Bitte,” said Michael Pendurst.
The man lit the cigarette, puffed at it, and threw it down. Then he looked at the mild-faced young Pendurst. “The next job is in Liverpool, in a week’s time.”
“Gut,” Pendurst said. “I need the money.” His voice, though deep enough, had a curious childlike quality to it. His accent was German, sprayed with American expressions.
“There’ll be enough for this one. Twenty-five big ones.”
Even Michael Pendurst was impressed. “Who is it?”
The other man opened the paper and pointed at the photograph.
“And where will he be?”
“It’s in the story. The marked paragraph. Good luck.”
“I don’t need luck.”
“Whatever,” said the American. And he stepped in the dark street.
8
In the beginning of their relationship, it had seemed to Deirdre that Lord Slough was much too shy; after all, Deirdre Monahan was not without passion, and though she was ignorant of all the techniques of lovemaking, desire could overcome those mechanical obstacles.
But perhaps it was not a matter of shyness, Deirdre had come to decide. Perhaps it was hesitancy to proceed further — Deirdre understood now that Slough wanted to proceed further than Deirdre had ever intended. And Slough might have felt he would lose her if he revealed himself too soon.
What a foolish man, she thought. It was nearly morning and the city of Quebec still slept, beyond the ornate windows of the Chateau Frontenac.
They had slept and played; then slept again; and then played his games. Now, dawn waited to crackle harshly across the half-frozen river beyond the windows. The lower city, bunched against the cliffs that divided it from the upper city, was empty and serene. Deirdre could see these things from the window where she stood, naked but not cold. And not afraid of him.
She had been sleeping when he called her again.
He now sat on the overstuffed chair at the other side of the room. He had asked her for coffee and for her nakedness. Both were little presents. If he had the sexual appetite of an adolescent, she thought, he also had a child’s gift for delight in small favors.