He had already put the card into the pocket of her coat — the one from Free The Prisoners. Even the English would be able to guess that she was a CIA agent.
Last night, Elizabeth had finished all her wine; that made Denisov feel better about the task that lay ahead. She had seemed even relaxed and had smiled at him once, on the train to Liverpool, when she had awakened from her nap and saw him watching her.
It was true. Denisov never slept. Two hours last night, one hour the night before. They had diagnosed it at the Lenin Institute as chronic insomnia and explained it was not curable; but they had reassured him that their research on sleep patterns indicated a great number of people were like Denisov, and those people — once freed from feelings of guilt about their insomnia — managed to function normally and keep their health.
He looked at Elizabeth, still searching the crowd. He liked her.
Denisov wanted to sleep. He yearned for it as a child yearns for an unobtainable toy. But there were too many matters to think about and too much to keep sleep at bay. Now there was the matter with Elizabeth, whom he did not hate or even know very well.
He suddenly thought of Devereaux. Why had he lied to Denisov about her? Why had he said he’d killed her? Why did Devereaux care for her? It complicated the matter.
The speeches were finished at last.
The bottle of champagne — Moet Brut 1948—swung on the rope away from Brianna’s hand and traveled a lazy arc in the wind to the prow of the immense hovercraft.
“I name thee Brianna,” she said in a thin, emotional voice.
The bottle struck the prow and bounced back, unbroken, dangling at the end of the rope. There was laughter from the crowd of spectators and first-class passengers. Even the Taoiseach, a man of great gravity, managed a smile.
P. C. Parnell broke ranks, went to the bottle dangling over the edge of the platform, and brought it back and handed it to Brianna Devon. She smiled at him pleasantly.
The arrest of the gunman in the warehouse had frightened her at first and then calmed her; maybe the threat against her father was past. Now, exposed on the platform, in the shivering wind, she felt afraid again.
Brianna launched the bottle again and it flew on the arc dictated by the length of rope and this time it crashed solidly against the short prow of the ungainly craft, smashing with a pop and clatter of broken glass on the concrete apron where the ship rested. Again there was applause, but even as it died, the dignitaries began to descend the platform slowly. At the same moment, the first of the passengers were led to the narrow hatch at the side of the hull. In ten minutes, the Brianna would be underway.
Brianna Devon took her father’s arm as he led her down the rickety steps of the platform. Soon they would be safe at sea, on their way home back to Ireland.
Denisov was in panic. He did not understand.
For a moment, he stood stupidly staring at the first passengers moving towards the craft.
The ceremony was over and nothing had happened; there had been no shots. What must he do now?
He reached for the pistol in his pocket.
There had been no instructions but he understood the alternative.
He must kill Elizabeth and get away. It was botched by someone but he had to separate himself from her.
Why kill her?
He looked again at her face.
Think clearly, you have the gun. Kill her or let her go?
The crowd of passengers around him began to surge forward. Now. He must move now.
“What should we do?” asked Elizabeth.
At that moment, two men neatly separated them. Denisov’s arm fell from hers. He looked up, bewildered.
“Pardon, sir,” the pleasant man said. He was dressed in a dark coat and hat. “Would you come this way, sir?”
“I?” It was stupid. He felt he was stuttering. “I am a passenger—”
“Won’t take a minute, sir, come this way—”
“I—” It was absurd.
“Those gentlemen would like to speak to you for a moment, please,” the pleasant man said. They had pinned Denisov neatly between them.
Denisov and Elizabeth glanced away to the edge of the apron. They both saw Devereaux in the same instant.
Elizabeth quietly broke away. The two men ignored her. “You’re to come with us, sir,” the pleasant one said. His grip tightened and Denisov felt pain. Elizabeth moved away in the sea of people. Of course, he thought. She fears Devereaux; she thinks Devereaux wants to kill her.
Denisov suddenly smiled and allowed the two men to lead him across the apron. At least it was resolved; they couldn’t blame him. The stupid business was over and he did not have to kill the woman.
He saw Elizabeth disappear through the hatch into the hovercraft. Now she was safe, he thought. It’s just as well.
Five feet from Devereaux and the waiting men from British Intelligence, Denisov smiled. “Hello, Devereaux.”
Devereaux did not return the smile. “This is Denisov. The Soviet agent in this. He’s attached to their embassy in London but he’s with the KGB.”
“Really, Devereaux, this is not like a sport,” said Denisov. He raised his arms while they patted him down. They removed the pistol. He felt relieved.
“Unsportsmanlike,” said Devereaux.
“Yes. Sorry. Unsportsmanlike.”
“Where’s Elizabeth Campbell?” Devereaux asked.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Denisov. “I am a member of the Soviet Embassy and my government shall protest my treatment.”
“Shut it off, Denisov,” said the man next to Devereaux. He might have been Devereaux’s brother — his face shared the same cold, pale quality — but his accent was staunchly London.
“I refuse to speak further,” Denisov said.
“Where’s Elizabeth?” Devereaux said.
“Is she another agent?” the Russian asked.
“There was a woman near him sir,” said the pleasant man. “We didn’t know about her — we didn’t—”
“Where did she go?”
“She was with the other passengers, sir—”
Devereaux started across the apron for the hovercraft hatchway.
Journalists now crowded the entrance to the hovercraft, snapping photos of the Taoiseach and Prime Minister shaking hands. There were also photos of Brianna Devon at the door, and the man from the Daily Mirror asked her to show more leg. She politely refused and the man from the Sunday People got his leg shot by lying flat on the ground at her feet.
Cashel stood by the platform and watched it all. It had not happened, all he feared.
Spray damped his pipe.
Damned wind. He reached in his pocket absently for a box of matches and then realized he had been matchless all morning. Nothing seemed to work out right. Had to ask three people to get a light.
The immense propellers began to run, slowly. The draft of wind behind them created little waves on the rain of the pavement. The turbines whined hideously. The Brianna began to shake.
Cashel knocked his pipe out against the platform. It was hopeless now to think of lighting it. No one had a match and in all this wind—
“My God,” he cried.
He opened his mouth and he dropped his pipe at the same time and the pipe clattered on the apron, shattering into a dozen pieces.
Cashel saw the young constable with dark eyes under the helmet and he saw again the narrow chin and lantern jaw and—
Faolin.
He was vaguely aware another man was rushing across the empty apron.
The Prime Minister had disappeared through the hatch door and the ground crew was closing it.
“No, no,” he cried against the wind but he could not be heard. He began to run.
Suddenly, he pulled his silver pistol from the pocket of his coat and fired into the air. The shot sounded like a light bulb exploding, short and sharp. One of the crew members turned and shouted at him. Another fell to the pavement and put his hands over his head.