They were a mile away when Jimmy MacLaughlin, a supporter of the Rangers for all of his sixteen years, was beaten blind by nine young men wearing the green and white of the Celtics.
Actually, the violence was very mild and there was some discussion in the Glasgow police department about instituting a weapons search as a regular feature of Celtics — Rangers match-ups.
In the evening, in the dining room of the Glasgow Grand Hotel, Denisov glanced again at his watch. “I really think we must to be in Liverpool tonight. The next train is in forty minutes.”
“This is hopeless,” Elizabeth said for the fourth time during the meal. Actually, she felt far from hopeless: Mr. Dennis had arranged to have her arm treated, and, though she still felt the pain of the wound, she could move it and color had returned to her fingers. She had eaten well and slept well.
“Not hopeless,” said Denisov. He and Elizabeth had both been stunned by the size, noise, and general fury of the football crowd during the afternoon game. When he had dutifully asked Elizabeth to search the crowd for faces, she had even laughed.
But there had been no attempt on Lord Slough, just as Denisov predicted.
Elizabeth repeated the word “hopeless” and it was beginning to annoy him. From the start — from the moment he had followed Blatchford to Belfast — Denisov had not liked the mission. It went against everything in his nature, as though he had become Alice through the looking glass and everything had been turned upside down.
“Will there be a large crowd tomorrow morning?”
He didn’t know; they had told him nothing about it. Only “complete the mission.” But it was a mission incapable of completion: Devereaux had given him the slip in Belfast and no one knew where he was — though this morning the embassy had reported that three R Section agents had been dispatched from European bases to chase down Devereaux in London. If only they had been more open with him in the beginning, had given him more authority to deal with Devereaux as he wanted.
Angrily, he bit a piece of bread. His blue eyes clouded. Stupid bureaucrats. What did they know about the field? About conducting a mission where the rules changed moment by moment?
“Aren’t you ever going to speak, Mr. Dennis?”
Looking up, Denisov regarded the pale woman across the white table from him. Mata Hari. If the worst thing happened — if the IRA assassinated Slough and the others — then Mata Hari would die, too. And be found, complete with her identity as an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency, as evidence of their involvement.
“I am thinking about tomorrow, Elizabeth. You must not fail.” He took his glass of wine and sipped at it and looked at her.
They had put him in this position. He did not want to harm Elizabeth. Wasn’t she like Nasha, his younger sister? Why did they want Denisov to kill women? Even a spy.
He made a face.
Bureaucrats. They had botched it at the embassy from the beginning. Now they tell him they knew about the mirror operation from the first. How typical of the Russian mind not to trust anyone, even one’s own agent. And so Denisov had blundered in his contacts with Devereaux and O’Neill; they had wandered around Belfast like blind sheep, playing at a game none of them understood.
Denisov threw his bread down on the tablecloth. “There will not be too many people, Elizabeth. It is for the press. Who wants to see a boat go in the water? That is what boats always do. Very much in Liverpool.”
“Perhaps they won’t kill him. There,” she finished it. “Perhaps you’re wrong.”
No, Elizabeth. No more perhaps. They had been very specific about that at the embassy. The assassination of Lord Slough and the Prime Minister was set for tomorrow morning by the CIA; somehow, it must be prevented, and at the same time, blame still placed on the CIA. How was Denisov to do that? They didn’t know, but he must.
So there would be shots. Perhaps. And Elizabeth Campbell would die, too, and when they found her, with the pistol, they would know she had come to kill Lord Slough and there would be a problem for the Central Intelligence Agency.
Did they think Denisov was a tightrope walker?
Prevent the assassination. If you cannot prevent it, be certain the CIA is blamed.
He could not prevent it, he was sure of that. One cannot prevent such things.
But the CIA would be blamed and perhaps that would be enough for them at the embassy.
He glanced at his watch again. They would be late for the train. He looked up and Elizabeth was now hurriedly sipping her coffee.
His eyes looked on her softly, almost fondly.
“No, Elizabeth,” he said in a gentle voice. “I am sorry to be rude. Do not hurry. Enjoy your meal. Have wine. Here, let me pour another glass for you. There will be another train. We will get to Liverpool.”
It was the least he could do.
At nine P.M., Devereaux — certain that Green was alone — made a signal to him by tapping at the glass window of the buffet.
Green had changed in two days on the run. His face was thinner, his hair wildly combed, his eyes staring and frightened. He grabbed his small valise and left the buffet.
For a moment, the two men stood on the grimy concourse of Lime Street Station and confronted each other in silence. Devereaux gazed steadily at Green until the latter’s eyes looked away.
“Did you talk to anyone?”
“No.”
“No one?”
Green looked again at him. “No.”
“All right, then. There’s still a chance.”
“For what? I didn’t think you’d be here. I—”
“Shut up.” Devereaux glanced up and down the nearly empty concourse. “There’s a room registered in the name of Andrew Cummings in the Adelphi Hotel. I want you to go there and wait. Sleep if you can. You’ll have visitors before morning.”
“Who?”
“None of your goddam business,” said Devereaux. “When they come, they’ll introduce themselves. You’re to tell them everything. About the recruitment, about the CIA, about Operation Mirror. When they’re satisfied, they’re going to take you—”
“Who are they? What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Except save your miserable life. Do exactly as I tell you.”
“Is there anything not to tell them?”
“No,” said Devereaux steadily. “Tell them about Elizabeth, about the safe house, about the four o’clock train to Dover. If you lie to them, they will kill you. If you tell them the truth, you’ll live.”
“Who are they?”
“Agents.”
“From where?”
“British Intelligence. We have a deal with them.”
“What kind of a deal?”
“A deal that gives you your life.”
“You didn’t do this for me—”
“I did it for myself, you little shit,” said Devereaux. “But to save my skin, I have to save yours. Now do what I told you.”
“But what will they do to me?”
“Take you someplace. Debrief you. And let you go. The difference being that you’ll be safe.”
“How?”
“Because I’m taking care of it. I told you there was a deal. Now go. And wait. The Adelphi is at the end of Lime Street, about a long block up the road.”
“What was the name?”
Devereaux looked at him as though he were looking at an insect; his contempt was no longer concealed. Two days on the run had convinced Green that he was not cut out for the spy’s game, that only Devereaux would save him.
“Andrew Cummings,” said Devereaux. “Now get out of here.”
Obediently, Green disappeared into the street beyond the concourse entrance.
Brianna Devon awoke at midnight and cried out. Of course no one heard her; her room was dark and soundproof and she was alone. Her father slept in a suite down the hallway; the hallway itself was patrolled by six Liverpool policemen and three men from Special Branch, CID, Scotland Yard. But no one heard her.