“She’s an American citizen.”
“Yes.”
“There’s not much we can do. She’s a journalist.”
“We can do an S job,” Hanley said. He was very calm. They had never spoken of such things to each other.
“That would only be partly effective.”
“Slander, Mrs. Neumann. It doesn’t kill anyone. We’ll put the FBI on her and follow her publicly and let it leak that she is a spy and has always been a spy and that she sold secrets to the Russians at the embassy in Mexico. She was there in March and she did go to the embassy. We even have a photograph of her entering the embassy from our permanent watcher. She went to the embassy for an interview but that’s neither here nor there. We can follow her. We can investigate her. And we can ruin her. It’s been done before.”
“The hounds of hell. Follow her and slander her and let the slander build its own case against her.”
“Yes. We can limit damage if we have to.”
Mrs. Neumann put her thumb and index finger over the bridge of her nose and covered her eyes while she squinted. She might have been in pain. Hanley understood the pain.
“If we have to, S,” Mrs. Neumann said. “We can also support Devereaux, can’t we?”
“No. Whatever is happening is happening now and it is very close to being over and I don’t know how we can send in support at this late date. I have an open line to London Station but he hasn’t made contact. You know how he works in black. He’s not going to make contact because he doesn’t want to involve anyone else. I don’t even know exactly where Devereaux is at this moment—”
“Hanley. This was the wrong thing.”
Hanley nodded. “But it was necessary because this was the time for wrong things.”
42
Trevor Armstrong stood before the fireplace and stoked the oaks that Dwyer had ignited. It was a damned nuisance not to have staff at the moment. Dwyer had to be general factotum.
A glass of whiskey rested on a marble coaster on the sideboard. He went to it, picked it up, and tasted the Laphroaig.
Dwyer had disappeared up the stairs for his bedroom at the back of the house where he had his telly and VCR and his own stock of whiskey. Sometimes he had a girl there but only on nights when the staff and the boss were gone.
“Please don’t make a sound, Mr. Armstrong,” Devereaux said.
He stepped into the room from the entry hall. He held a pistol in his right hand. The pistol and all the other things he needed had been waiting for him at the Hilton Hotel when he arrived. They were packaged by the safe house in Fleet Street and included the standard pharmacopoeia as well as items of trickery like lighters filled with gas. And a pistol, a standard 9-millimeter Beretta.
“Who are you? How did you get in here?”
“You brought me in. I was in the trunk. Or boot. You and your friend drove into the garage and past the police guards.”
“Who are you?”
“Sit down.”
Trevor thought to make reply for a moment and then thought better of it. He chose the leather wing chair closest to the fire. He sat down and waited, his hands joined in a casual gesture, his head tilted toward the man with the gun.
The gunman sat on the hearth bricks, his back to the crackling flames. He stared at Trevor’s face for a moment, studying it. Then he reached in his inside jacket pocket and removed a photograph. He handed the picture to Trevor.
Trevor studied the front view and profile of Henry McGee. The picture was the last taken of him, three years earlier, when he had been arrested for espionage.
Trevor held the photograph for the proper length of time and then handed it back to the man with the gun.
Devereaux said, “I know you’ve seen him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I want to know what he wants from you.”
“I’ve never seen that man before.”
Devereaux studied the lie. He was certain it was a lie and he wondered why. People lie out of terror sometimes, but terror replaces terror and he was the man with the gun at the moment. That should have been enough.
“What does he want from you? What’s the threat?”
“I don’t know who you are or what you want,” Trevor said. “This house has police around it, as you know. How do you propose to get out of here? I think you should be concerned with that more than anything else.”
“I didn’t expect you to lie,” Devereaux said. It was the truth. Something here went beyond the fact of Henry McGee and the fact that Henry was a terrorist.
He wasn’t prepared to do anything about it. There were police outside. He had hidden in the car to get close to Trevor, to see him alone, to let him know he had a gun and had managed to penetrate the security around the house. But what could he do now?
“Henry McGee is his name,” Devereaux said. “Did you know that? He’s wanted by the United States government. He broke out of prison nearly two years ago. He’s wanted for espionage against the government. He’s a terrorist and a killer.”
“And who are you?”
“My name is Devereaux. I’m a field intelligence agent for R Section.”
“I never heard of it.”
“It doesn’t matter. It exists. I’m sorry I didn’t have business cards printed up.”
“Even if I believe you, I can’t help you. I mean, I never saw that man before in my life.” It was easier now; the other man had a name, shape, form, and purpose. He was nothing but a cop of some sort.
“Tell me why you deny you know Henry.” Quietly.
The sound of full Westminster echoed into the dark room. Sixteen notes in solemn procession followed by the tolling of the chimes. Nine chimes for the hours.
Devereaux said, “You should tell me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a citizen of the United States.”
“I know. The government appreciates your cooperation.”
“The government has no right to break into my house and violate my privacy. Will you put that pistol away?”
Devereaux did. He still waited and stared at the other man.
Trevor said, “If I had any information, I’d help you.”
“Four people were killed in this house. Why do you suppose it would matter to Henry if you were one more? You can’t deal with terrorism the way you want to deal with it.”
“I don’t know anything about ‘terrorism,’ as you put it.”
“Except for Flight One forty-seven.”
“The authorities are investigating that. The British have narrowed the circle of suspects. You must know all this. What did you call this fellow? Henry McGee? Is he one of the suspects? I don’t recall that name or that face.”
“Will Henry blow up one of your aircraft if you don’t pay him? How much does he want?”
It was very close and it began to worry Trevor. The worry began to show in the eyes because the pupils moved back and forth, trying to find focus either on the man in the shadows or in the flames behind him.
“How much does he want?” Devereaux said again.
“I really don’t think I can help you,” Trevor said. “I’m sorry. Obviously something — some person or persons — has attempted some sort of terrorism here in my home but I don’t honestly know for what purpose. It’s the reason the police are following me everywhere—”
“Yes. Everywhere,” Devereaux said. He decided then and sighed. He stood up. “Good night, Mr. Armstrong.”
“You needn’t have hidden yourself in my automobile to see me. I’m in the offices every day. My door is open.”