“You don’t ask questions.”
“No, my dear brother, I do not ask questions. I am Denisov and I am alive. I have a three-room apartment in Moscow and a lovely wife who is maybe a little too fat. I have a dacha for summer and I go to the Black Sea for my sun. My mother still lives with us and we have enough to eat. Why would I ask questions?”
There was another silence and then Denisov broke it. “Would you put away your gun, now, Devereaux?”
Devereaux stared and nodded. Pushing the hammer back, he slipped the gun into his belt.
“Do you believe me now?” Denisov asked mildly. He took off his rimless glasses and began slowly to wipe them on his tie. It was a red tie and it reminded Devereaux of the tie around O’Neill’s neck.
“I don’t know. Perhaps.”
“Perhaps. Your favorite word to say nothing. All right, Devereaux. Say nothing. It doesn’t matter because I am here. It is where I must be.”
The horn on the great red-and-white ferry belched a sound out into the blackness of the North Channel of the Irish Sea. And then the ship slowly pulled away from the dock of Larne Harbor, outside of Belfast.
O’Neill stood at the bar and watched Ireland fade behind him.
He had taken all his clothes and stuffed them into a suitcase and he had cried when Tim, the eldest, had asked him where he was going. He had made up some lie. She had known too, his wife, and she had shared his fear and had even made him a bit of a sandwich. He would write her, he would be back soon.… But she knew and it had torn at him greater than the pain of his broken wrist.
His swollen wrist was wrapped with a hasty bandage and to ease the pain he poured down another glass of whisky.
“Yer goin’ far, is it?”
O’Neill turned and looked at the old man leaning against the bar with him. An old Irishman with a strange accent. Probably a Liverpudlian.
“Aye,” he said. “Far.”
“ ’Tis farther to take a far trip beginning at night. The night makes it longer.”
“Aye,” said O’Neill absently. He did not think on his words; the conversation continued, but somehow, he was beyond it. He could only think about the sudden horror of that night, the beating and his betrayal. He was an informer and a coward. That is what he had said to Devereaux that morning in the hotel room in Edinburgh. And Devereaux had agreed with him.
Slowly, the great ferry moved through the darkness of the channel to Stranraer in Scotland. When the short trip was over, the two men were still at the bar, still drinking.
Then it was down the steps, onto the dock, the few passengers routinely passed through by the customs officer. On a siding, the old train waited for them for the overnight journey to Glasgow and Edinburgh; it would make every stop along the way.
O’Neill found an empty compartment in the second-class carriage and threw his heavy bag onto the metal rack above. The carriage was old and the worn plush seats smelled of age. There was graffiti scratched onto the finish above the seats.
O’Neill did not look at it. His arm throbbed. As he sat down on the seat, he wondered if his wrist was broken.
He tried to sleep but the rattle and shake of the old train would not let him.
There was no ticket collector aboard.
The interior of the train was lit with twenty-five-watt bulbs, which made the night beyond the cars colder and blacker. O’Neill shivered to himself.
The door of the compartment slid open.
The old man from the ferry came in.
O’Neill opened his eyes and frowned in annoyance. Every bloody compartment empty and he comes in here. Probably wants a chat.
“I just thought I’d sit down here. I have a wee bottle with me.”
O’Neill let the frown escape. He could not sleep. At least there was whisky.
“Sit down, sit down,” O’Neill said at last. His voice carried only a shadow of its old bonhomie.
“Thank ye,” said the old man. He pulled a bottle of Paddy out of his coat. “Against the chill,” he said. He passed the bottle to O’Neill.
Oh, Irishmen, thought O’Neill suddenly, with such a sense of loss. Where in the world will I go to be at home, leaving my native land? The thought made him take a large drink. He wiped the top of the bottle and passed it back to the old man.
“Me name is — me name is Donovan,” said O’Neill at last.
The old man looked at him with kind and shrewd eyes. “Mr. Donovan,” he said. “T’yer health.” And he took a swallow.
O’Neill nodded and waited for him to pass back the bottle. “And who would you be?”
“Oh, I’m called Tatty,” said the old man at last. “It’s not much of a name but it suits me.”
“Tatty is a fine name,” said O’Neill, his eyes filled with tears. Oh, Irishmen, with your goodness and good fellowship and your ways, where will O’Neill find ye again in the wide world he must travel?
“Tatty. T’you. To yer good health, sur,” said O’Neill. And he drank deeply.
When they came to clean out the car in the morning, one of the British Rail sweepers found him. They thought he was asleep at first and they rudely pushed at his arm to wake him. He fell over in a heap on the floor.
The bullet wound in O’Neill’s chest was scarcely visible through his clothing.
15
Elizabeth slept late Saturday morning, letting the last few days drain out of her in dreams. She did not sleep well, but when she awoke in the strange bed on the strange, cloudy London morning, she did not feel tired anymore. Only still alone. And afraid.
She had not arrived at Blake House until after one A.M. She had spent a long time ringing the doorbell, a long time standing in the darkness of the street off Hyde Park. The darkness was an enemy now, as was each passing car and each pedestrian.
Finally the door opened and she pronounced the word of entry. For a moment, the old housekeeper stared at her as though she were mad. Was it the right word? Had she forgotten? There were so many secrets, so many codes to remember.
But, at last, the housekeeper took her to another room and made her wait for a long time. She was cold and tired, but Devereaux had said they would make her wait.
Then the young man came into the room, wearing a robe and pajamas and slippers. She noticed the bulge in the pocket of his robe and supposed it was a gun. She was prepared for that as well.
He seemed friendly and they talked quietly. Devereaux had told her to say as much as she had to say and no more; to only tell about Devereaux and their meeting and not to talk about the Section or the ghost Section.
After a while, she said, “I realize you have to be satisfied about me. But couldn’t we go someplace? I’m tired and wet and dirty.”
Then he smiled and showed her into the library. He gave her a drink and poured himself a large drink. When he poured the drinks, she realized he was a little drunk. He didn’t slur his speech and his moves seemed normal, but there was something a little out-of-focus about his behavior.
She told him enough to satisfy him. After a while — and another drink — she was taken to a bedroom. There was a bathroom attached. She noticed her suitcase was already on the dresser and open. She supposed the housekeeper had searched it.
The night and morning had been full of dreams about the blond man and the Section and the training school and Devereaux. And dreams about the little boy in the photograph. The last dream had been the worst of all. But all the dreams seemed to exorcise the ghosts inside her, and when she awoke, it was better.
She felt safe.
She took a long time dressing and finally went downstairs to the hall. The house was silent except for the steady tick-tick-tick of the grandfather clock in the hall. It was nearly eleven.