Devereaux let the shock take her. She shivered. She stared at him. He noticed that her hands were clenched.
Her dark hair was not attractive now — it was wet, pasted to her forehead. Her lipstick had faded. She stood still and looked at him and then suddenly went to the dresser as though she had to run across a narrow bridge to reach it. She looked at her strewn clothing. She picked up her underthings from the floor where he had thrown them. She put them back into a drawer and shut it.
“You bastard,” she said. The shock was past; rage gained. He waited.
She turned and went into the bathroom. There was no sound. After a moment, she came back into the bedroom. Her arms were folded now across the gentle swell of her belly as though she were sick. Her tailored suit was wet.
She could barely speak. Her eyes searched his features. “Why?”
He got up. “Sit down here.” He pointed to the straight-backed wooden chair.
She stood still and stared at him.
He took her arm quickly and twisted it; she half bent over; she did not cry out. He forced her to the chair and let her arm go. Going to the desk, he turned out the glaring light, leaving only a single soft stab of light from the nightstand beside the bed. He went to the wall by the door and turned. He had left his pistol on the desk, nearer to her than to himself. He wondered if she would reach for it. Her back was to him.
He began: “Who are you?”
“You bastard,” she replied.
“Who are you?”
She was silent.
He waited. He looked at her wet brown hair. He remembered the smell of it. He looked at her shoulders. She sat still, her arms across her breasts. He thought of the pleasure she had shared with him.
“Who are you?” Again.
She turned in the chair then and looked at him. Her eyes were dry, hard, angry. “What do you want?”
“I want to know who you are.”
“Elizabeth Campbell.”
“Who are you?” He said it again, in the same maddening voice. His voice was flat, without edge, without menace. He might have been a recording or a machine.
She repeated her name. “I’m coordinator of investigations for Free The Prisoners, an international—”
“Why are you in Belfast?”
“I came here with the detachment — we’re going to Long Kesh. Why are you here? You were going home.”
He waited.
She tugged at an earring — a gold circle — and pulled it off. Then the other. She held them in her hands and then put them on the desk. She waited.
“Who is Blatchford?”
Movement. Slight. Her eye. “Who?”
He did not repeat the name.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about—” But she knew it was too late for that lie. She had given it away.
He placed the picture on the desk next to her. It was a photograph of a younger Elizabeth and a little boy. He watched her while he did this.
She looked at the picture and then at him.
“Where did you get this? How did you get this from me?” Her voice was suddenly tired.
“Who is the child?”
“You bastard,” she said. “How did you steal this?”
“Who is Blatchford?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Tell me about you—”
“How did you get this picture? You filth. You slime.”
“Tell me about Blatchford. And this child.”
“I won’t tell you anything.” But she had, already.
Now it was time. Going to the desk, he picked up the pistol and held it loosely in his hand.
“Elizabeth,” he said. She had to understand that everything he said was true. That everything he would now threaten would happen. She had to understand that; that was the difficult part.
“Elizabeth. I want you to tell me about the people you work for. To tell the truth. If you tell me the truth, it will be better. Not all right — but better. I am in the business of information, not vengeance. Do you understand me?”
She stared at him. She shivered; she was cold.
“Blatchford tried to kill me last night, but he’s dead. I have Blatchford’s wallet. He had a number of items in it, including identity cards in my name. I was set up. By someone. By your people.”
She touched her throat. She kept staring at him.
“Blatchford had this picture of you and the child. Do you understand what I’m saying? Two nights ago, I was sitting in the bar of a London hotel. Suddenly, I met you after fifteen years. You came to me. You went to bed with me. I loved that, Elizabeth.”
For a moment his voice lost its flatness.
“I want you to understand that part, too. You’re a beautiful woman. But I did not understand it then and I don’t now. Why did we meet? And make love? And now why are you in Belfast? And why is your picture in the wallet of a man who tried to kill me? Do you understand what I’m saying? Elizabeth? Say you understand it.”
She spoke slowly: “I don’t understand.”
He shook his head. He said everything again. He said he wanted information, not vengeance. He said Blatchford had tried to kill him. He said Blatchford was dead. He told about the photograph again. He talked about her, about making love to her. He said these things slowly, carefully, as if he were a teacher going over the alphabet with a slow child.
“Do you understand now?”
She nodded.
“Say it then.”
“I understand.”
He brought up the gun in his hand. He held it on the level of her eyes. “Now, Elizabeth, think before you speak now. It’s very important. Look at me, please. This is a .357 Magnum revolver. Each bullet has been altered by the addition of a heavy charge and a flattened nose. At the distance of six feet, a bullet would tear your face apart. We are closer, much closer. I am going to kill you, Elizabeth.”
He paused.
She stared at the muzzle of the black gun.
“Or I will not kill you. I told you I wanted information, not vengeance. I want the truth. I want you to tell me everything. If you tell me, I will let you live. I will give you a day to leave Belfast. I promise that and I won’t lie to you. But if you do not tell me the truth, I will kill you. I have no choice if I’m going to survive. And I’m going to, Elizabeth.”
“You won’t kill me.”
He looked at her sadly. “This is not a game now. I have killed nine people. I don’t enjoy killing or torture; I didn’t enjoy tearing your room apart; I don’t enjoy this, any of it. But I have to know. You intruded on me; you came into my game. The game’s ended. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
She stared at the dull, black pistol.
He waited. The silence tore at both of them. A demon had seized his body and voice; it was as though he could stand outside himself and watch. He wondered if someday the demon would take his body and never return it.
“I would betray—”
He said softly, “Betrayal is nothing. Life is worth that, Elizabeth. Your life.”
He waited a moment and then spoke: “Who are you, Elizabeth?” To say her name softened the question.
She began slowly, in another voice, holding her body. Her voice was dead and empty.
“Two years ago,” she began. Paused. “I met a man. In Washington. I went to work for him.”
He watched her. Her eyes looked lost. “He was with. With. The R Section.”
The demon held Devereaux’s body perfectly still.
“His name was Hanley. Is Hanley.”
He thought to breathe, but holding his breath seemed more natural. He wondered if he could stand still for hours, for days? He knew he could.
“You know Hanley. You know all this now.” She said it flatly.
“Tell me, Elizabeth.” Was the demon losing control?