“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“You’re blown, Ruckles.” Devereaux spoke evenly, watching the Virginian for the slightest movement. There was none.
“I still don’t—”
“You’re a dead man, for one. I have the micro-tapes, the tape transmitter. I have Green. I don’t give a fuck what kind of sleazy deal your masters have worked out with R Section. I’m playing my own game now. I have hard proof, a lawyer’s proof. And when the fan gets hit, and your company has to do a little cleaning, I don’t see how they can let you live. I really don’t. Unless they transfer you. Maybe to Tierra del Fuego. Did you know that the CIA keeps a man there, right at the bottom of the world. They might cool you off down there until you can get back home — in four or five years.”
Ruckles smiled. “Sorry, old stick. Can you tell me what this is all about?”
“The man on the rock… down at the bottom of the world… he reports on shipping going around the cape. Mostly oil freighters. It’s not too demanding.”
“If you’d—”
“So long, Ruckles. Old stick.”
Without a word further, Devereaux turned and started out the lobby. He pushed through the doorway and went down the stone steps to the sidewalk and ran across the street. For a moment, he glanced in the window of a shuttered pub and saw Ruckles behind him, dodging through the traffic across the street.
It was working.
The point was to make it somewhat difficult for Ruckles to follow him without actually losing the CIA man.
He reckoned Ruckles was very good at what he did.
Devereaux suddenly hailed a cab and climbed inside and ordered the driver to Piccadilly Circus.
The cab joined the tail-end morning rush traffic on Regent Street which inched its way finally into the Circus.
“Go all the way around and come back up Regent to Oxford Circus and let me out,” said Devereaux. The driver shrugged; Americans were a daft lot when it came to throwing their money away.
As the black cab circled the Circus, Devereaux looked behind him, but, in the welter of traffic, he could not be certain Ruckles was following him.
At Oxford Circus, Devereaux jumped from the cab ran down the steps to the London underground.
The ancient subway had a dull, damp odor of age and human neglect.
Devereaux glanced for a moment at the scheme of the London underground on a map on a subway wall.
A light blue line indicated the route of the Victoria Line, which intersected Oxford station and went on to Euston railroad station.
Euston Station had trains for Liverpool.
While he studied the map, he was aware of a man standing at the other end of the platform. He did not turn around to look at him; he was sure it was Ruckles.
A Victoria Line train rushed into Oxford station and stopped. Without hesitation, Devereaux climbed aboard; he didn’t want Ruckles to miss the train either.
The doors rolled shut and the train plunged into the narrow, black tunnel that led northeast through the Bloomsbury district towards St. Pancras and Euston stations. The old cars rattled and Devereaux stood by the door, pretending to be immersed in the car cards along the windows advertising marriage services and temporary-help firms.
At Euston Station, the doors opened and Devereaux emerged; slowly, he climbed the steps to the street and then entered Euston terminal. He needed a public place that contained a large public washroom. He needed Ruckles to think he was about to bolt.
The time was 10:24 A.M.
Seven minutes earlier, Elizabeth Campbell and the man she knew as Mr. Dennis of British Intelligence sat in a first-class compartment of the Liverpool Express as it began to inch its way out of Euston Station, heading northwest for the port city.
Mr. Dennis had been convincing.
He had displayed his identity card, which said he was a duly authorized representative of Her Majesty’s government. Of course, it did not say “Secret Service” or “British Intelligence” merely “Ministry of Internal Affairs (Extraordinary).” Which, Elizabeth knew, was the current code name for the old MI5.
Dennis had also been convincing when he explained the seriousness of her situation.
When they were in the buffet, sipping tea, Mr. Dennis had said she was wanted for murder in Britain. He was aware of her activities in Belfast and that she had murdered — or helped murder — an American agent named Johannsen in the Royal Avenue Hotel there. Two murders.
She listened to his voice, which was as mild as his words were harsh.
And there was now, he added, a plot against her life. One set up by Devereaux and this R Section.
No, don’t protest; he was also aware of her involvement in the CIA. In short, Mr. Dennis and British Intelligence knew everything about her. She had been watched from the moment she arrived in London on Friday night; she had been observed in the week before, first in London and then in Belfast.
They knew about her and about Devereaux.
And now they knew that the CIA and R Section had reached an agreement to cooperate and that R Section had convinced the CIA to shut down Operation Mirror. In exchange, she and Green were to be killed. Green was already dead, and both agencies were looking for her.
Denisov watched Elizabeth. She seemed to tremble but she did not look away from him. He thought she was brave.
“Miss Campbell. Elizabeth. It is now a matter of your survival that interests us.”
She looked into the mild, blue eyes for a sign of a lie. But didn’t Devereaux say that eyes do not betray the truth or the lie?
Devereaux would know. She had looked into his gray eyes and trusted what she saw. Until the moment the Englishwoman tried to kill her on a railway carriage in Victoria Station.
She didn’t trust Dennis either. But there seemed no other way to survive. And she would survive.
“What should I do, then?”
“Miss Campbell,” said Mr. Dennis. “There is a way out.”
She put down her teacup. “I suspected there was.”
Denisov smiled and removed his glasses and wiped them on his tie. “There is always a way. You see, Miss Campbell, we are aware of many things you do not know. Even you. And one is that your CIA intends to murder one of our prominent citizens.”
“Who?”
“Lord Slough. He is the cousin of the Queen. And he is to be killed by the CIA.”
“When?”
“I don’t know,” said Denisov. “That is what is puzzling to put the pieces together.”
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I said it wrong. That is what the puzzle is. The pieces are not all apparent.”
“Your English…” She didn’t finish.
He smiled and spread his hands in a shrug. “I am not the speaker as well as I could be. You see, I am Czech by birth, though I am an English citizen now. I returned to England in 1968. After Dubcek was thrown out in my first country. Now I am an Englishman.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
He smiled again. “No, it is correct. I must improve my English and you can help me. Don’t be afraid to be correct.”
She didn’t smile. She was puzzled still. “What do you want?”
“I want to know what the CIA knows. When Lord Slough is to be killed. And where.”
“How can I—”
“Lord Slough is to be in Glasgow tomorrow for a football match. Do you think they will kill him there?”
“I don’t—”
But Denisov interrupted. “No. I say no. But maybe it is yes. I say no but my… my superior says yes. So we must go to Glasgow and see. I think it wastes time but we must do what we are told. Eh?”
She was silent.
“I think they will kill Lord Slough on Wednesday in Liverpool. Do you know Liverpool?”
“No,” she said. He watched her for a moment.