“A very nice city,” said Denisov. “Not lovely like Edinburgh but nice with other things. With, with… life. Life. It is alive. It is also, unfortunately, where I think Lord Slough will die. Unless you can help me.”
“Why?”
“But that’s apparent,” said Denisov. “If you help me, I will help you. We are friends with the CIA, even with R Section. We can stop the hunt. For you. And give you safety.”
There was the word again. Safe. She wanted to be safe.
“I can’t help—”
“No, no, you must. Do not let loyalty to your nation betray you. This is not for your country, this thing that the CIA wants to do. This is a bad thing. They want to kill Lord Slough because the IRA is their puppet. It is not for America. It is for the IRA.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“Elizabeth. You must know now that Devereaux went to Ireland for some reason. He went to find out the connection between the IRA and the CIA. The CIA is funding the Irish rebels. He thought you knew that — you know he questioned you about it.”
She nodded; this man seemed to know everything. She was frightened by him, by his nonthreatening manner and his gentle voice.
“Good,” said Denisov. “A true answer. Now, we know that the CIA funds the rebels but we do not know to what extent.” He waited for her to accept the story but her face was expressionless. “The IRA has seriously weakened us, I admit. They command the British military budget, they have nearly destroyed the economy of Ulster, and they have created a chasm between England and the Republic… and that becomes more serious as the Republic grows economically. Do you see? And there is the problem the IRA causes us in the United States, among your Irish citizens. Britain is the old friend of America and it always is so. But the IRA clouds everything, even old friendships and mutual interests.”
“So why is the CIA funding the IRA?”
“I don’t know,” said Denisov.
“It’s too absurd,” said Elizabeth.
“Nothing is too absurd if it is the truth.”
“And you want me to go to Liverpool and do what? Or is it Glasgow?”
“Liverpool,” said Denisov. “On Wednesday. Glasgow, for the sake of safety — in case my superior is correct, which I doubt — on Tuesday. To help us in our security. You know the CIA. You know your CIA men. You know the people from Free The Prisoners — yes, don’t protest, we know that is a CIA front group — and we want your help in looking for them. If they are there. You will tell us and we will be able to protect Lord Slough.”
“And what do I get?”
“Assurance of safety,” said Denisov. “We will take the CIA assassin and trade him back to the CIA for their cooperation with us in destroying the funding for the IRA. And for letting you live.”
“It seems generous.”
“We are a generous people,” said Denisov. “You are not helping an enemy, Miss Campbell. You are helping a friendly nation.”
“But if I don’t spot them. There’ll be crowds.… If I don’t see them before it’s too late?”
Denisov permitted himself a frown. “Then, Elizabeth, you will be on your own. As you are now. I offer you a chance, nothing more. But it is a good chance.”
“But why do they want to kill Slough?”
“Slough is not important to the CIA. He is important to the IRA, and the CIA must help them. Their gunmen are too well known by us to get into the country, let alone get close to Lord Slough. So we reason they will have a man from your agency to do the job. A killer from the CIA.”
It was mad, she thought; but what choice did she have?
“What do we do then?”
“Good,” said Mr. Dennis. “Good for you, Elizabeth. You choose a chance. You do not give up. We go to Euston Station now and take the train to Liverpool and we see the place where Lord Slough will be. And then we go to Glasgow for tomorrow. And we see a football match-up.”
She sat for a moment and considered it. She felt cornered — by all the man had said and by all she knew was true.
This wasn’t a matter of being a traitor.
It was a matter of survival.
Devereaux purchased a ticket for Liverpool at the counter and heard the agent say he had just missed the Liverpool express. The next train left in two hours.
Devereaux put the ticket stub in his pocket and slowly walked across the crowded concourse towards the sign marked Gentlemen.
He pushed through the door and went inside. One middle-aged man in a heavy coat stood at the end of a line of urinals. Beyond, there were six water closets. Casually, Devereaux walked along the six closets, gently pushing at the doors. They were all empty.
Devereaux opened the door of the last closet and went inside and closed it and locked it. He sat down on the closed toilet lid.
He removed the black gun from his belt and let the safety fall.
He heard water flushing in the urinals and then the door to the concourse opened. He heard a public-address announcement as the door to the concourse swung shut.
There was a step on the tiles. A cautious step.
Devereaux noisily flushed the toilet and stood up. He could not see over the top of the compartment. He turned his back on the door and put one foot and then the other on the toilet lid.
He peered over the top of the door.
Ruckles was about ten feet away, staring at the closed door with a gun in his hand.
“I’ll blow the top of your head off,” Devereaux began quietly. “Don’t look up — keep staring at the door. Now put the gun in your pocket and walk to the door slowly. Slowly, Ruckles. Keep your hands away from your body.”
Devereaux flicked off the door lock with the toe of his foot.
“Now push into the stall,” said Devereaux.
It was a comic sight: Ruckles stood in the compartment, staring at Devereaux perched on the toilet lid, who was, in turn, staring down at him. The black gun was pointed at the top of Ruckles’ head.
“It’s crowded, old stick,” said Ruckles.
Devereaux suddenly jumped down, striking Ruckles a glancing blow on the side of the head. Ruckles fell back against the door, blood on his ear.
Devereaux grabbed the lapel of his suit and spun Ruckles around, throwing him down on the toilet lid. He pushed the barrel of the black gun to the ridge between the agent’s eyes.
“Why do you want to kill Lord Slough—”
“There’s—”
With a slight movement, Devereaux slapped the bridge of Ruckles’ nose with the gun barrel. He heard the bone crunch and blood welled at the nostrils. Ruckles instinctively moved to protect his face.
“Get your goddam hands down.”
“You broke my nose.”
Devereaux slapped the gun barrel at the back of one of Ruckles’ hands. Again, he heard a bone break. Ruckles cried out then and tried to reach for the gun barrel. Devereaux flicked it again, this time smashing the barrel across Ruckles’ mouth. Teeth cracked.
“Why does the Agency want Slough dead?”
“We don’t.…”
“You killed Hastings, you followed me to Ireland, you sent three agents after me — you bastards know about the plot on Slough. Now I want to know—”
“I don’t know.…”
Devereaux hit him again with the gun barrel, bringing it sharply down on the cheekbone below the right eye. This time, Ruckles could not keep from crying out.
“You have five seconds to live, Ruckles,” said Devereaux. “Four. Three.”
“The Prime Minister—”
Devereaux stopped counting.
“Tell me again.”
Ruckles was crying; tears mixed with the blood ran down his face. His voice was drowned in blood.
“The Prime Minister—”
“When—”
“With Slough… blame the IRA… I—”
Wednesday. At the launch of the Brianna from Liverpool. The target wasn’t the English lord, it was the Prime Minister of Great Britain.