“Yes.”
“It wasn’t real, was it?”
“No. It was an agency game. Agency to agency. And you were used.”
“Those men dead.”
“They’re not important.”
Green wanted to cry in the presence of the calm, certain man. He wasn’t going to die.
“What’s going to happen?”
“Where is Elizabeth?”
“I thought you were going to kill me,” Green babbled.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. I sent her to be killed. How could I do that? Was I crazy? There’s a tape transmitter in the scrambler, I—”
“I know. We’ll get it later. Who is your contact?”
Green looked up. The winter face was so kind, the voice so gentle. Perhaps he was forgiven. “Ruckles.”
“Ruckles?”
“With the CIA at the embassy in Grosvenor Square. I’ll tell you—” And Green began to tell about Operation Mirror.
Devereaux listened without a word, prompting only when Green faltered. Green wandered in his explanation but he eventually revealed it all.
And Devereaux watched him. Because he intended to kill him when the explanation was finished. At first.
But the glimmer of a plan began forming as he heard Green’s words. Green was a coward and a traitor, a fool, but he was invaluable now. The CIA had revealed too much to Green in order to recruit him, and now he was useful, not to the Section but to Devereaux. And so, Green saved his life while he narrated the events that led to Operation Mirror.
When Green finished, Devereaux sat and waited for a long time.
“Green,” he began. “They did send me to kill you, not to get information.”
Green shuddered.
“But I am not going to kill you. Now, listen to me carefully: They both want you dead now. Both the Section and the CIA. And there’s no way now you can come inside. Unless you do as I say.”
“The CIA? Why—”
“Don’t be a fool, Green. You’re a liability to them. Ruckles warned you to make you run, so that if we had any doubts, we would eliminate you anyway. And he warned you to get rid of that bit of incriminating evidence in the scrambler box. The CIA doesn’t want anyone to know — to have proof of — another one of their sleazy little operations, this time against another government agency. So they really don’t want you around.”
“But the Section?”
“You were part of them. You’re a traitor to us. And I’m not convinced now the Section really intends to move against the CIA with what it knows.”
Green shook his head. “I don’t follow—”
“I do,” said Devereaux. “Now I do. R Section could have sent any of a half dozen men from Europe when they knew you were the traitor. And one of them would have killed you and saved Elizabeth. But they didn’t care if she was wasted; they would have cared if they had wanted to use her information to discredit the CIA. I suspect they’ve already made an accommodation with the CIA — leave us alone and we’ll leave you alone. That’s why I suspect Operation Mirror has suddenly been scrapped.”
“And you won’t kill me.”
“No. As long as you do as I say. Because it’s the only way you’re going to survive.” And, he did not add, the only way Elizabeth would survive if he could find her. Perhaps the only way Devereaux would survive — did Hanley even now have plans against him? A field agent was not terribly important when you placed his life against the life of the Section. An accommodation with the CIA would serve the Section well in the next few years.
“I want you to work your way to Liverpool. I want you to be in Liverpool Tuesday night, in the Lime Street railroad station, at nine P.M.”
“Why?”
Because you are part of a surprise. “Because it is the plan,” said Devereaux.
“All right,” said Green.
“Pack a small bag. Now. And get out of London tonight. Hire a cab to Windsor and take the train from Windsor to Cambridge. Spend a day there, at least. And then take public transport to Liverpool. Don’t drive, don’t rent a car. And travel as though the world wanted you dead. Because they do.”
“But why?”
“Because both agencies will be looking for you. To kill you. And for all I know, your friends at the CIA may even pin that murder of their hit man on you. So get the hell out now.”
“And at Lime Street?”
“I’ll be there. Wait in the buffet. There’s always a buffet in a train station.”
He had met Hastings in the buffet at Edinburgh Central Station. It seemed such a long time ago.
“And if you’re not there?”
Devereaux looked at him coldly. “I’m the only chance you have, Green. If I’m not there, you’re a dead man. And if I’m there and you don’t show up, then you’re dead. Do you understand that? If you skip, I’ll find you or the Agency will find you or the Section will find you, anywhere you go in the world. And they’ll kill you. You can’t make any more deals, Green; you have to let me handle it.”
“I will, I will,” Green said. “I don’t want to die.”
Devereaux thought again about him and about Elizabeth; he would have been happy to kill Green then.
“And the house?” Green asked.
“I’m taking care of it. I’m closing Blake House.” He paused. “It isn’t safe anymore.”
Elizabeth cleaned up in the ladies’ room at Victoria Station and took the Circle Line tube underground to Paddington Station on the north side of Kensington Gardens. The area was one with quiet flats and inexpensive hotels. She had first stayed there when she came to London twelve years before as a student spending a “summer in Europe.” It was the only place she could think of to go to.
By accident, she found the hotel she had first stayed in; she felt a little wave of nostalgia for it and for her schoolgirl self. But there were the usual disappointments: The hotel sported a new lounge and had suspicious new owners who demanded three days’ rent in advance and surrender of her passport.
She locked herself in her room and removed her soiled, blood-spattered clothes. The raincoat was unmarked; she had stolen it from a parcel on the luggage rack inside the station. It didn’t fit her very well; but the hideously bloodstained raincoat she had worn on the train had to be thrown away.
She washed in the basin and then sat down on the bed and counted her money. Three hundred and twelve pounds to get away.
Taking the picture of her son out of the billfold, she looked at it. And she thought of Devereaux. He had returned the picture to her; he had not given it back, merely put it back on the dresser. She looked at the face of the little boy and the face of her younger self. Photographs broke your heart because they so clearly conjured up the past.
She had to leave London but she felt so tired, so weak. She had fashioned a crude bandage around the wound on her arm with her scarf. The cut had stopped bleeding but her arm felt numb; it was bruised black.
How could she get away? She only wanted to sleep, sleep away the pain and the hideous face of the Englishwoman. Would she dream of her if she slept?
Would the police be looking for her?
The CIA wanted her dead. She understood that. And now Devereaux had tried to kill her. There was no place inside. She must contact her ex-husband — but what could he do for her? And where was he? And how could she get to him?
He had known Hanley. Or what she understood now was the “ghost” Hanley. Was he part of the CIA as well? Would he betray her? What did he owe her?
A wave of self-pity threatened to overwhelm her.
No. She wouldn’t let it happen; she would survive. Somehow.
After a little while, she dressed again, buttoning the overlarge raincoat. She needed clothing and she was hungry.
She found a street with lights and went into a little bright fish-and-chips shop that bore the sign: Frying Tonight. Inside, she stood in line with the other shabby people, waiting for the plaice and chips wrapped in newsprint. She went outside then and ate greedily until it was all gone, then walked on. Paddington Station’s immense bulk loomed ahead in the next block. It began to rain.