“Contact between the agencies is only at the official level. In usual times,” Hanley continued. The voice was so odd, so strained. Devereaux tried to read the hint of emotion in it. What was wrong with Hanley?
“These are not usual times,” Hanley continued. “I told you this was a matter of some delicacy.”
“How did he know we were here?”
“Presumably Rice is in as much contact with his control as you are with me. Or more. Rice saw you.”
“We didn’t see each other,” Devereaux said. “I told you, that was the game. We agreed that neither of us was here.”
“If there was a time for levity, it has passed. The gist of the talk is this: We’re called off.”
Devereaux waited. He thought of Denisov and of the “proofs” still hidden in his room. And of Rita. He was close to the journal now, he had betrayed one spy and betrayed one friendship. What was Hanley saying?
“Called off,” Hanley reported because there had been no answer. “Come home.”
Devereaux opened his eyes and stared at the telephone receiver. “What was the authorization? Do we take the A.D’s word for it?”
“We don’t take orders from the Central Intelligence Agency,” Hanley said sharply, trying to muster indignation for the first time. “The National Security Adviser passed along the word.” Hanley rarely used full titles and nomenclature. Was this part of his indignation?
“So we leave the field to the Agency?”
“No. Both of us. We’re both called off. Section and Langley.”
“Why?”
Again, an uncharacteristic hesitation. Devereaux waited to read the voice.
“The Adviser. He passed the word. He doesn’t want to have our agencies muddied by the press, he says that this business with the alleged miracle… well, he says that Tunney is not that important, that he’s reviewed the whole file on the matter.”
“He was important enough two weeks ago.”
“Yes. I brought that up. I didn’t talk to the Adviser directly, you understand. The Adviser told the A.D. that the Langley Firm overreacted in boxing Tunney in the first place.”
“How perceptive of him.”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe him?”
“The A.D.? That the Adviser passed the order? Yes, I checked it back through channels.”
“Do you believe the Adviser?”
Hanley paused. The long-distance line clicked and hummed. Their voices echoed strangely as they passed through the electronic scrambler filter.
“No, Devereaux. Not at all.”
“Another element of the bizarre,” Devereaux said.
“Yes. I agree.” Hanley’s voice was flat and defeated now.
“The Adviser isn’t concerned about the press,” Devereaux said.
“No. That’s such an obvious lie. I wonder why he offered it.”
“What about the A.D.?”
“What about him?”
“You saw him. What was his reaction?”
“The A.D. isn’t a man to show his emotions.”
“Neither are you.”
“Yes. I know what you mean. The A.D. seemed flat telling me. He seemed knocked out. Just knocked out.”
“What the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember anything like this happening before. I don’t know.”
“This is bullshit, Hanley.” The voice came low and hard, like a knife thrust into the soft fabric of the conversation.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Devereaux.” Hanley hesitated. “I don’t understand, I haven’t understood from the beginning. If we’re called off, why didn’t it come down through channels? From the National Security Council, right through the Old Man to us? Why from the A.D. to me to you? On a park bench, for Christ’s sake.” Because he rarely swore, the mild phrase gave weight to Hanley’s frustration.
“Devereaux,” Hanley said after a minute. “Do you know what is going on here? In the Section, I mean?”
Devereaux waited.
“This Administration. Pushing, pushing, pushing. All the time. The Old Man has been before the budget council of the Cabinet three times in the past month. The Adviser keeps talking about further centralization of the intelligence effort, he says there is too much wastage—”
“I’m not interested in politics,” Devereaux said.
“You should be,” Hanley said. His voice was bitter. “This time, you should be. They’re putting together a reorganization plan for the next fiscal year. I don’t see a place for the Section in it. They want to tie up the loose ends, that’s what they call us. There will be two super-agencies left, one at Langley, one under the State Department. One for operations, one for intelligence and analysis.”
“The Section has a congressional charter.”
“Congress is frightened, everyone is frightened.”
“So why did you risk me on this? To get the Adviser pissed off?”
He knew Hanley would wince at the crudity of the language. “It was our mission.”
“It was never our mission.”
“Something was going on—”
“You wanted to make them have to accept R Section. To leave it alone.”
“To leave us alone. A calculated risk.”
“It was all just politics, interagency bickering.”
“Not all of it.”
Devereaux thought of the dead priest. And of Rita Macklin whom he would betray at the right moment. He thought it all didn’t matter to Hanley, except to save the Section from a budget cut. Goddam them, he thought.
And then he thought of Denisov.
It was not a game.
“Hanley.”
No sound from the other end but he knew Control was waiting.
“A Soviet is here.”
Still no sound, only the faint humming on the long-distance lines.
Then: “Who is it?”
“Do you remember our friend from Liverpool? In the Hastings matter?”
“Here? In Florida?”
“Yes.”
“On this? Are you sure?”
“Of course. He told me so.”
“He told you? He told you?” Hanley’s voice was rising. He knew the little man would be getting out of his chair now, tightly holding the receiver, walking around the big gray government-issue desk with agitated steps and spastic nervous jerks of his hands. “How did he tell you? When? What are you going to do?”
“You told me to come home.”
“Yes.”
They waited. Devereaux didn’t mention the proof that Denisov had given him. He didn’t know why he held back. It was his instinct to do so.
“A conversation with a fucking Soviet agent, Hanley.”
“Yes.”
Carefully, Hanley spoke now: “When was this?”
“Four days ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then? We could have used it today, to call off the Adviser’s order—”
“And have him give it to the Agency to handle.”
“You’re showing loyalty to the Section, Devereaux. That is uncharacteristic.”
“No. Not the Section. Something doesn’t smell right, not from the Adviser, not from the Agency itself.”
“You should have given it to me.”
“There didn’t seem any point in it then.”
“You always hold back.”
Devereaux did not admit it.
“This presents a different problem, doesn’t it? I mean, does the Competition have any awareness of the KGB here?”
“I don’t know. But it doesn’t sound like it, does it? Wouldn’t the A.D. have put up a fight not to be called off?”
“Yes. The problem is, so would we.”
“Would it have made any difference?”
“Telling us when you should have? Why—”
“Would it have made any difference to the Adviser?”
“I see.” Hanley, in his dull, insulated sense of the bureaucracy, was not stupid or unaware of nuance. He understood. “That might be the question after all.”