The angry moment had passed. The Old Man sat calmly again, sipping his black coffee. “For what?”
“I don’t know. I suspect he doesn’t trust us.”
“Why not?”
Hanley knew why; he understood that much about Devereaux. “He promised this Campbell woman safety; we permitted her to be the target of another assassination attempt. That’s one. Second, he realizes we have reached an accommodation with Langley because Operation Mirror is suddenly quashed. That must be the reason he didn’t eliminate Green. Someone from the CIA warned Green that Mirror was blown and Green told Devereaux. So he knows that we’re… well, letting the CIA off the hook.”
“And that’s none of his business.”
“No, sir,” said Hanley doggedly. “He might think it is. Devereaux was a target of them, you know. And there’s something else. He’s sort of…”
It was not usual for Hanley to fumble for words.
The Old Man waited without prompting.
When Hanley looked up, he seemed embarrassed. “Devereaux came in after… after Kennedy. After he was killed.”
The Old Man knew that. He waited.
“Well, sir. It’s difficult to say. He had some ideals then, though a lot’s gone by the board. But he understood why the Section was formed. As a check on the Langley firm. As an honest source of information, a fulcrum to move the other agencies to deal… sir, this sounds so foolish… but he really sees it all—”
“Don’t tell me he has ideals.”
“No, sir. I think he did once, but not now, sir. But he wouldn’t sell out, ever. And that means to the CIA.”
There was silence. “Do you think we sold out, Hanley?” the old man asked.
“No, sir.”
“Do you think that’s any concern of a field agent?”
“No, sir.”
“Devereaux has become a dangerous man,” the Old Man said at last. “Send a chaser.”
“But we don’t know where he is.…”
“Send Lupowitz from Brussels and Bardinella from Berlin and Krepps from Barcelona. I want three top chasers in London before noon. I want them to find Devereaux, Green, and this Campbell woman. I want them eliminated. And I want you to contact Henderson at the Langley office and set their men on it.”
“Sir—”
“For whatever reasons, Devereaux has disobeyed his instructions. He may even be a danger not only to us but to the country.”
Hanley spoke up again. He was surprised by the vehemence in his voice. “Devereaux would not betray us.”
Galloway looked at him mildly. “Unless he thought we had betrayed him.”
23
Devereaux had been careful in closing Blake House.
He had made sure Green and the housekeeper were gone before he began. He started, of course, with the scrambler box. He carefully removed the cover and took out the hidden tape transmitter. A micro-tape spool was on it. Green had shown him the other micro-tapes, secreted in the closet of his bedroom behind a movable partition.
Devereaux burned the code books in the fireplace in the library. The ordinary papers were burned as well. Finally, Devereaux dismantled the scrambler box and destroyed it, ripping apart transistor boards and wiring.
He had closed down safe houses before. There had been one in Hué which he had closed down during the Tet offensive; that had been difficult. And there was the safe house in Saigon, at the end. He knew what to do, how not to leave a trace; so he worked carefully and let his mind think of other things, the way a jogger does not think of running as he runs.
Devereaux was surprised by the first traces of morning scattering gray light across the face of winter London. The light came so gradually that when he noticed it, the houses across the street were clearly visible. Time to leave.
Still he had not solved the problem of Elizabeth or Green. Or himself. By now, the housekeeper would have reported to Hanley, probably from the air terminal. Devereaux had disobeyed instructions; Devereaux had let a mole escape with his life; Devereaux was a danger to the Section because he was playing a separate game. He knew what they would say.
Where was Elizabeth?
He decided he could not find her; logically, the world was large and time was short. To save his own life, he had to stop the assassination of Lord Slough — and let the British know it. Somehow trade information for his life and force R Section to renege on its deal with the CIA. If there was a deal, of course — though Devereaux was as certain of that as he was certain the IRA intended to kill Lord Slough in Liverpool on Wednesday morning.
Where is your proof? Hanley would say.
Hanley never understood the business. He had no feel for it. There were never proofs. You trusted instincts to bridge the gaps in the information.
One of the gang was named Donovan. He was a dock worker of some sort. He worked with ships. The only ship looming in Lord Slough’s immediate future was the Brianna. Somehow, they were connected. Devereaux had really explained it to Cashel but Cashel had not understood — you bring as many people into the conspiracy as needed to meet the problems of the site you have chosen. If Donovan was part of the gang, then Slough’s site had been chosen — a ship site, a waterfront, on a dock. Or at the launching of a ship.
He could have given that to Hanley on Sunday night. But there had to be more to it. Why was the CIA involved in this? And why had the CIA risked exposing Operation Mirror to take him out in Ireland? To waste three agents to stop him — Blatchford, Johannsen, and Elizabeth? What was so important beyond Operation Mirror that the CIA was afraid Hastings had tumbled to its secret?
All these thoughts — fragments of thoughts, fragments of questions — occupied him while he closed down Blake House. And when the job was done, he was no closer to any answers.
If Green only knew how little Devereaux knew.
If Green had any inkling of the danger in Devereaux’s incomplete plan. Well, it didn’t matter. It was the only thing that would save Devereaux’s life.
Devereaux put the tape transmitter and several microtapes into a brown suitcase. Then he washed and shaved, using one of Green’s electric razors (inexplicably, he had two) and changed into one of Green’s handmade shirts. The fit was not particularly good, but the shirt was clean.
By eight Monday morning Devereaux had deposited the brown suitcase in left-luggage at the Victoria Air Terminal, and had hopped a cab to the American Embassy on Grosvenor Square.
The usual long line of people were waiting for visas. The line stretched down one side of the building. The line was always there, in good times and bad, at times of a sinking dollar and a rising dollar, at times of oil crisis or war or peace; it was always full of the hopeful who wanted to go to America for a visit or for work or to emigrate.
Devereaux went around the block to the side entrance of the immense building. The Great Seal of the United States, etched in stone, was above him.
At the desk in the lobby, he asked for Mr. Ruckles. With the Central Intelligence Agency.
“Who is calling?” the clerk asked.
“Mr. Devereaux,” he said.
He did not have to wait long; in a very short while, a man came into the lobby and walked over to him and extended his hand. The man was tall, thin, and relaxed. He smiled.
“Mr. Devereaux. It is really Mr. Devereaux?”
Devereaux did not take the extended hand and the other man let his drop naturally. He did not seem embarrassed.
“Ruckles.” Devereaux’s voice was not polite.
“What can I do for you?” Ruckles asked. Still pleasant, still smiling.
“Green is safe.”
The lobby was crowded; workers poured into the entrance… Americans with briefcases, English girls with bright lipstick and wide eyes. The lobby was noisy and voices boomed.