“A total fill-in.”
“Well, let me put it this way,” said Hastings. Improbably, he winked again. “It will be worth it all to both of us.”
“We expect that.”
“Or what?” asked Hastings playfully.
Now Devereaux smiled. Not by degrees. “Did you think I came here to kill you?”
He coughed. “Thought crossed my mind at one point, luv.”
“No.” Devereaux rose. “It’s not that simple, Hastings. You should know that.”
The gaiety forced up by fear and the restless weeks of waiting was suddenly drained out of the Englishman’s face. He felt tired. Felt like an old man.
“I know that,” he said.
There was only time for two double whiskies before the midafternoon pub closings. Hastings had reluctantly drained the last of his warm Johnnie Walker and then hurried outside into the bitter chill again, up the Royal Mile to Edinburgh Castle. Hastings’ walk resembled nothing so much as a baby’s first tentative steps on uneven ground.
He was meeting Sheffield at three.
They had been schoolboys and then friends and now they were business agents, dealing in information. As far as Hastings knew, Sheffield was the only man in British Intelligence who knew Hastings’ real masters.
The wild morning storm from the Atlantic had blown away across the Firth of Forth outside Edinburgh, dancing on into the icy, roiling mass of the North Sea. A gentle rain, as welcome as sunshine, fell on the city.
Hastings huffed up the hilly street. He was cold again, the whisky in him perfidiously chilling. Without looking, he passed warm shops of tailors and curio sellers and tobacconists; shops decorated with tartans and shops that promised to trace your clan lines for two quid.
Sheffield was supposed to wait for him at the edge of the broad square that fronted the grim, gray stone gates of the castle. Below the square was the expanse of the New City, stretching to the Firth.
The square was empty. Fog rolled in the light wind crawling across the bricks.
Sheffield appeared quite suddenly from the doorway of an office building. Hastings was startled; he felt a pain in his chest.
“You startled me,” he complained. His voice carried annoyance; sweat formed at his thin hairline. Sheffield was the younger man and Hastings held a sort of dominance over him in their friendship. They had been at Cambridge together; Hastings had been quite brilliant and there had developed a trace of deference in the younger man’s manner which had never left him. It was as though Hastings might, reasonably, insist Sheffield fetch his boots from the cobbler or go on an errand to the Rose pub in Rose Crescent.
Sheffield was a thin man, shy and pinched in face and manner. But at the moment there was something like amusement in the simple brown eyes as he regarded Hastings.
“Sorry, Hastings,” Sheffield said. His eyes carefully swept the empty square as they talked.
“I should say,” huffed the older man, who was feeling very foolish indeed today. First Devereaux and now Sheffield. Hang on, old luv.
“We have the documents,” Sheffield said in the manner of royalty.
“And I have our American friend.”
“And the money?”
“As good as gotten,” the older man replied. “Let’s have them then, Sheff.”
“My dear fellow,” Sheffield began. “I rather think it might be protocol if you handed over the agreed sum first—”
“I ain’t got the bloody swag yet,” Hastings cried, changing the accent to Australian. There were so damned many obstacles and now this bleeding pouf bastard—
“Dear me,” said Sheffield. He glanced down the Royal Mile to the center of the Old City.
“Don’t be a bloody fool, Sheff,” he said. “He has the money but he’s not going to turn over a bloody farthing unless he’s convinced, and I need those papers to convince him.”
“Well, let’s both go to meet him, then, darling,” said Sheffield.
“No, we’re not both bloody meeting him, darling,” Hastings snapped. He made an effort to choke off his anger. “Ye don’t start changin’ yer bleedin’ rules midway in the match—” Unaccountably, the rougher Australian accent had settled in. “Everything is as we agreed, me bucko, and as we agreed it’ll stay.”
Sheffield altered his tone as welclass="underline" “ ‘Me bucko’ me all you want, old darling, but I have rather a stake in all this. It’s my neck on Her Majesty’s block. I’m the one who took the risks—”
“And I’m the one what showed you what the risks were worth, you bleedin’ poufter!”
Hastings suddenly pressed his fat body against the younger man and both disappeared into the shadows of the doorway. Sheffield found his arms pinned by the door and wall and his life’s breath being choked out of him by Hastings’ big hands. Amazing, he thought dreamily as he began to die. Really quite extraordinary that old Hastings could move so quickly.… Never would believe—
Sheffield would have died, if Hastings had not ceased. The breath came back in burning jerks into his lungs and he could not speak. He coughed and gobbled more of the cold, damp air into his mouth.
“Now, my luv,” said Hastings softly.
“I had only meant—” Sheffield tried to begin.
“I know, I know,” Hastings said in a soothing, motherly voice. “Don’t blame you, Sheff. But I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep. You understand.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” said Sheffield, joyous that his life was returned and the other had forgiven him. He almost felt like crying.
“Now the papers, dear Sheff,” said Hastings in the same croon.
“Of course,” said Sheffield. He almost gurgled as he removed the photostats from inside his shirt. They had been taped to his chest.
Hastings did not glance at them but stuffed them quickly into his mackintosh.
“I know you’ll do right by me,” Sheffield said.
“Ain’t I always, Sheff? Of course I will. Trust your old pal, luv. There’s no need to worry. It’s all complete now, all the parts—”
Sheffield nearly missed the slip.
“What other parts?”
“Never mind.”
Sheffield was silent.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Hastings said gravely.
Sheffield touched his neck. He knew there would be bruises. Without another word, the fat man turned away and began to toddle down the Royal Mile, back to the center of the old part of the city. Sheffield stood in the shadow of the office block for a few more moments until Hastings was lost in the fog beneath the hill.
Sheffield promised to kill him.
The tiredness had felled him. First a shower, and the hot, slashing water soothed the ache out of his arms and back; then a giddy wave of nausea was replaced by this utter sense of exhaustion. Devereaux did not even pull back the covers but fell asleep, naked, across the bed.
It seemed only a moment later when the telephone rang.
The ring repeated several times before Devereaux could even comprehend the sound. He did not know where he was. The room was black but a silver of light came from the bath. Hotel room. He always awoke the same, never sure of himself or of where he was. He picked up the receiver and a heavily burred voice said, “Five o’clock, surr.”
It did not mean anything.
He fell back on the bed, only wanting sleep; but the voice had started his thoughts up again and he would not sleep. Suddenly, he pushed his forty-three-year-old body upwards and staggered again into the ornate, old-fashioned bathroom where the tub had clawed legs. He splashed icy water on his face and shivered. Then he looked at the gray, drawn face in the mirror.