“They already tried. Dinja read about it?”
“Was that the plan?”
“I don’t know—”
“Who knows?”
“I don’t—”
He hit him again.
“I swear t’God Almighty, I don’t know—”
“Who killed Hastings?”
“You did—”
Devereaux stared into the eyes of the frightened man. Just a man, caught up in it all. Who didn’t understand. Had a wife and family and drank too much and was too poor and got caught up in a game he couldn’t play. He stared at O’Neill for a few moments and then got up.
“You’re a dead man, O’Neill,” Devereaux said. “Go home and kiss your wife good-bye and use your money to get out of Ireland tonight if you can. Because you’re dead. You’ll never come back here and you’ll never be O’Neill again and you’ll never see your family again. You’re dead and you have to leave now.”
The words frightened him more than the blows.
“If you tell Terry that you betrayed him, he will kill you. So will the others. You have a little time. I’ll give you that. You can leave now and get out of the country by morning and go away. Go to America or Australia, but go away.”
“Me life,” said O’Neill. “Me family.” His red tie was still tightly knotted at the throat as it had been the first time they met in Edinburgh. Devereaux looked at the comic, bloated face.
“The game is over,” said Devereaux.
And then he was gone, into the silent streets.
Denisov pushed open the door of his room on the top floor of the Belfast Continental and noted, with satisfaction, that the particle of paper was still in the jamb. It fluttered to the floor. It was all right.
He turned on the lights.
Devereaux sat in the chair by the window. He held a gun in his hand.
“Close the door,” Devereaux said.
Shrugging, Denisov closed the door and went to sit on the bed.
“Good evening, Devereaux,” he said at last.
Devereaux did not speak.
“To what do we owe this business?”
Devereaux stared at him.
“Cat got your mouth?”
“Tongue,” said Devereaux.
“Yes, tongue. You’re right,” said Denisov. He sighed and got up and went to the bureau. “I am going to take off my coat—”
“I prefer you to sit down.”
“Of course.”
The Russian went back to the bed and sat down heavily. The springs made a little sound of protest.
The room was silent for a long minute. The two men stared at each other across the black gun. And then Devereaux cocked the gun with a sharp click.
Denisov smiled. His eyes were kind and forgiving. “That is really too melodramatic, Devereaux. Cocking the hammer like that. No, this is the psychological moment. You have waited for me in the darkness. I come in, surprised. You have a gun. You do not speak when I talk to you. Then you release the hammer. Ah, you have me frightened now. Is that what you want me to say? Then I am frightened. Now tell me what you want.”
“Tell me about the ghost Section.”
“Ah, now you want to talk. Before, when I offer you my help — my friendship, even — you do not want to talk to me. Now you want to talk to me. That is good. You are at least doing something.”
“Tell me about the ghost Section.”
“It is a puzzle to me — to us — as well. But I think it must be part of the CIA and part of this business in Ireland.”
“Why?”
“I do not know why. A man tries to kill you and he has a card with your name on it. He is from this ghost Section. But he is a CIA man. So they are together, this ghost Section and the CIA. But we know the CIA is giving money to the Republican Army—”
“How do you know—”
“We know this.”
“And you want to help me. Help the Section. Why?”
“Because we do not want to help the CIA.”
“I don’t understand.”
Denisov smiled and spread his hands. “I don’t understand as well. But I have a theory. Would you like to hear it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. This is good, eh, Devereaux? We are talking at last instead of playing around the garden bushes. I looked for you all day—”
“Tell me about your theory.”
“Well, who can understand the Russian mind, eh? Not even me. And I am Russian. But I think our side does not want the CIA to fund the Irish Army here. I think we want this to be exposed.”
“Why?”
“Why not? To damage the relationship between England and the Americans? After all, England is going to be a great oil power in a few years. It would be important not to make England too much a part of the American world.”
“Why not expose it yourself?”
“We do not have hard evidence, I think. Now, remember, I am just making a theory.” He winked at Devereaux. “But a good theory, I think. After all, they do not tell me everything. And they do not tell you everything.”
Devereaux waited.
Denisov grinned even wider. “So what if we go to British Intelligence and give them what we have? Is it worth anything? No. For two good reasons. We will not be believed. And if we are believed, the British Intelligence will do nothing about it.”
Devereaux stirred in the chair and leaned forward. He still held the black pistol.
“Why would they do nothing about it?”
“Because British Intelligence is nothing without the Americans. They might use the information to blackmail the CIA into keeping them in the information club, so to speak. They might try to use it to get closer to the CIA — but they would not use it to embarrass the CIA and harm their relationship. British Intelligence is a joke. You know that. They do not even know that the CIA funds the Irish Republicans. But if they knew, they would not do anything about it.”
“But if R Section told them, they would?”
Denisov chuckled. “Yes, of course. Because then they would have to act. Because the Americans had told them. They would form a relationship with you and then they would get rid of the CIA.”
Devereaux stared at the man who had the face of a bespectacled saint. What had Hanley said? About working to form a special relationship with the British Intelligence forces? Was this all it was, then? An intramural game of rival bureaucracies? Then why were people dying?
“What about Lord Slough?”
“What about Lord Slough? I know nothing. Is that why you came to Ireland? We want to help you but you won’t tell us anything. I tell you everything — I tell you about the CIA and about the man who killed Hastings and about Elizabeth — by the way, did you get rid of her?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Denisov. “It is too bad, but a Mata Hari is more dangerous than even an ordinary agent.”
“What do you know about Lord Slough?”
“He is alive and he is in Ireland. Someone tried to kill him in Canada.”
“Why would the CIA set up a ghost of R Section?”
Denisov shook his head slowly from side to side. “Devereaux, I am not a child. Do not ask me child’s questions. Why would the CIA like to destroy or discredit R Section? You know that as well as I do—”
“The ghost Section could be the invention of your people.”
“My people?”
Devereaux knew it sounded foolish but he held on. He must probe all the sides of the question to make sure it was tight and whole.
Denisov jumped up from the bed. “I am insulted. Really. This is too much. If we set up the ghost Section, why would we tell you? Why would we save your life and then try to kill you? You are crazy. Why would we destroy R Section when another would spring up in its place? Better to infiltrate it, put a mole inside the organization—”
“Perhaps you have one there now.”
“Perhaps,” said Denisov. “I do not know everything. I am told so much and that is all. I am told to help you. That is all.”